who takes care of ate?
I don’t know how to grow up.
That’s the hardest truth I’ve had to admit to myself.
I’ve spent most of my life inside a cocoon my parents built around me, telling me it was protection, telling me it was love. And maybe it was. Maybe they really were only trying to keep me safe.
But sometimes I wonder —
what happens when the protection becomes the prison?
What happens when the girl they’ve spent years shielding from the world suddenly has to face it, only to realize she was never taught how?
I’m the eldest daughter. The one who was expected to know better, to be responsible, to look after everyone else. I’ve been handed responsibilities since I was young, always reminded to think of others before myself.
But what happens when I become tired of being the strong one?
Paano naman ako?
Don’t I deserve a place to fall apart, too?
Don’t I deserve someone to lean on when I can no longer carry everything by myself?
Or are Ate’s simply expected to carry their own weight — and everyone else’s — without ever asking for help?
I’ve tried to talk to my parents about freedom. I’ve rehearsed the words in my head countless times. I’ve imagined myself finally saying everything I’ve been holding inside.
But when the moment comes, my throat closes.
My chest tightens.
My eyes fill with tears.
And suddenly, all the courage I had disappears.
I’ve never been good at confrontation. Not because I have nothing to say, but because I have too much to say, and I don’t know how to say it without crying.
And crying has never been welcomed here.
“Wag kang maarte.”
“Walang mental health, mental health dito sa bahay.”
“Nag-uusap naman tayong lahat.”
But that’s the thing.
We talk. We just don’t talk about the things that hurt.
We talk about school.
We talk about chores.
We talk about responsibilities.
We talk about everything except the things that keep me awake at night.
So I learned to swallow my words.
I learned to wipe my own tears.
I learned that if I couldn’t explain how I felt without crying, then maybe I shouldn’t explain it at all.
And eventually, I became good at disappearing into myself.
I bottle everything up until three in the morning on some random Tuesday, when the silence finally becomes too loud and I break into a puddle of tears.
Sometimes, I wish I had someone I could tell everything to.
Every problem.
Every disappointment.
Every little victory.
Every thought that keeps circling inside my head.
But somewhere along the way, I learned to believe that my feelings were a burden.
“It doesn’t concern them.”
“They have their own problems.”
“I can handle it myself.”
So I keep things to myself.
Not because I don’t want to be understood.
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But because keeping quiet became the safest way I knew how to survive.
And maybe that’s why growing up scares me.
Because I don’t know what freedom looks like when you’ve spent your entire life being protected from it.
I don’t know how to make my own decisions without wondering if I’m making the wrong one.
I don’t know how to speak up without feeling guilty.
I don’t know how to ask for help without feeling like I’m asking for too much.
I don’t know how to become an adult when a part of me is still that little girl waiting to be told that it’s okay to cry.
But maybe growing up isn’t about suddenly knowing everything.
Maybe it’s about slowly learning the things no one ever taught you.
How to speak.
How to choose.
How to leave.
How to stay.
How to love yourself without feeling selfish.
Maybe one day, I’ll finally find the courage to open the door of the cocoon I’ve lived in for so long.
And maybe when I step outside, I’ll be scared.
Maybe I’ll stumble.
Maybe I’ll make mistakes.
But at least I’ll finally be living a life that belongs to me.
So to every eldest daughter, every only daughter, every daughter who grew up being protected so fiercely that the world outside feels terrifying —
I see you.
To the girls who were taught to be strong before they were ever taught how to be vulnerable.
To the girls who learned to take care of everyone else while quietly wondering who would take care of them.
To the girls who cry in silence because they’ve been made to believe that tears are weakness.
Kayanin natin.
Not because we were taught to endure everything.
But because someday, we deserve to learn that survival isn’t the only thing we’re capable of.
We deserve a life beyond the walls that kept us safe.
We deserve softness.
We deserve freedom.
We deserve to make mistakes without being called difficult.
We deserve to speak without our voices shaking.
And most importantly —
we deserve to meet the person we could have become if we had been allowed to grow.
Maybe we aren’t difficult.
Maybe we were just never given enough room to breathe.
Maybe we aren’t immature.
Maybe we’re simply learning, for the first time, how to live without someone else deciding what the world should look like for us.
And maybe one day —
we’ll make it out.
Not as the daughter they were afraid to let go of,
but as the woman we were always meant to become.
