Lately, life feels like a constant uphill climb, and I’m not sure when—or if—it gets easier.

Financially, I’ve been stretched thin. I work seven days a week, balancing my regular job with a part-time job on the side—not because I want to, but because I have to. What I earn from my main job isn’t enough to support my family in the Philippines and still take care of myself. So I keep going, even when my body is exhausted and my mind is begging for rest. Stopping doesn’t feel like an option when so many people depend on me.

Work has become another heavy burden. Managing the people under me comes with pressure that never seems to ease. Their problems, their expectations, their frustrations—it all piles up until it feels like it’s pressing down on my chest. I’ve started thinking about changing jobs, not because I’m chasing something better, but because the stress is slowly affecting my mental and physical health. Some days, I barely recognize the person I’ve become.

What makes this even harder is the loneliness that comes with it. There are moments when I wish someone would simply stand beside me—without arguing, without correcting, without questioning my thoughts or feelings. Just someone who listens and understands. I don’t always need advice. Sometimes, I just need to be heard.

I’m trying my best to stay strong. I tell myself to endure, to be patient, to keep pushing forward. But there are days when it feels like I’m drowning quietly. I don’t talk about it much. I don’t complain. I just keep moving, even when the weight feels unbearable.

I don’t have answers right now. I don’t know how long this season will last or how things will eventually turn out. But even in this exhaustion, I’m still here. Still showing up. Still holding on to a quiet hope that one day the load will feel lighter, that I’ll finally be able to breathe again.

And maybe—for now—that small, fragile hope is enough.