17/11/2025
𝐑𝐞𝐟𝐥𝐞𝐜𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧: 𝐖𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐒𝐭𝐫𝐞𝐬𝐬 𝐓𝐚𝐮𝐠𝐡𝐭 𝐌𝐞
𝙄 𝙡𝙚𝙖𝙧𝙣𝙚𝙙 𝙩𝙝𝙚 𝙝𝙖𝙧𝙙 𝙬𝙖𝙮: 𝙮𝙤𝙪 𝙘𝙖𝙣'𝙩 𝙥𝙤𝙪𝙧 𝙛𝙧𝙤𝙢 𝙖𝙣 𝙚𝙢𝙥𝙩𝙮 𝙥𝙧𝙚𝙨𝙚𝙣𝙘𝙚.
For years, I believed stress was just part of the deal.
The cost of ambition. The price of responsibility. The badge you wear when you're building something that matters.
"Kaya mo yan," people would say. (You can handle it.)
"Ikaw pa?" (You of all people?)
So I carried it. Quietly. Alone.
Because that's what you do when you've been taught that strength means never breaking. That maturity means never complaining. That being valuable means being endlessly available.
𝙒𝙝𝙖𝙩 𝙎𝙩𝙧𝙚𝙨𝙨 𝙇𝙤𝙤𝙠𝙚𝙙 𝙇𝙞𝙠𝙚
Stress, for me, wasn't dramatic.
It was the 𝘴𝘭𝘰𝘸 𝘦𝘳𝘰𝘴𝘪𝘰𝘯 𝘰𝘧 𝘮𝘺 𝘤𝘢𝘱𝘢𝘤𝘪𝘵𝘺 𝘵𝘰 𝘣𝘦 𝘱𝘳𝘦𝘴𝘦𝘯𝘵.
It was waking up tired—not from lack of sleep, but from the weight of unfinished proving.
It was saying yes when my body was screaming no.
It was performing competence so convincingly that no one—including myself—noticed 𝘐 𝘸𝘢𝘴 𝘥𝘳𝘰𝘸𝘯𝘪𝘯𝘨.
And the worst part?
𝙄 𝙬𝙤𝙧𝙚 𝙞𝙩 𝙡𝙞𝙠𝙚 𝙖𝙧𝙢𝙤𝙧.
I told myself I was resilient. Disciplined. Built for this.
But 𝘳𝘦𝘴𝘪𝘭𝘪𝘦𝘯𝘤𝘦 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘳𝘦𝘲𝘶𝘪𝘳𝘦𝘴 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘵𝘰 𝘯𝘶𝘮𝘣 𝘺𝘰𝘶𝘳𝘴𝘦𝘭𝘧 𝘪𝘴𝘯'𝘵 𝘳𝘦𝘴𝘪𝘭𝘪𝘦𝘯𝘤𝘦.
It's survival.
And survival is not the same as living.
𝙏𝙝𝙚 𝘽𝙧𝙚𝙖𝙠𝙞𝙣𝙜 𝙋𝙤𝙞𝙣𝙩
There was no single collapse.
Just… a gradual disappearance.
I stopped tasting my food. I stopped hearing music. I stopped feeling joy in the things that used to light me up.
Everything became a task. Every conversation is a transaction. Every moment, something to optimize or endure.
I wasn't burned out in the way you see in movies—crying in the office, quitting dramatically.
I was burned out in the quietest way possible:
𝙄 𝙬𝙖𝙨 𝙨𝙩𝙞𝙡𝙡 𝙛𝙪𝙣𝙘𝙩𝙞𝙤𝙣𝙞𝙣𝙜, 𝙗𝙪𝙩 𝙄 𝙬𝙖𝙨 𝙣𝙤 𝙡𝙤𝙣𝙜𝙚𝙧 𝙥𝙧𝙚𝙨𝙚𝙣𝙩.
And that terrified me more than any breakdown ever could.
Because I realized I had become efficient at everything except being alive.
𝙒𝙝𝙖𝙩 𝙄 𝙏𝙧𝙞𝙚𝙙 (𝙏𝙝𝙖𝙩 𝘿𝙞𝙙𝙣'𝙩 𝙒𝙤𝙧𝙠)
At first, I did what the culture tells you to do:
●︎ 𝘐 𝘵𝘳𝘪𝘦𝘥 𝘵𝘰 𝘮𝘢𝘯𝘢𝘨𝘦 𝘮𝘺 𝘵𝘪𝘮𝘦 𝘣𝘦𝘵𝘵𝘦𝘳. (𝘈𝘴 𝘪𝘧 𝘵𝘪𝘮𝘦 𝘸𝘢𝘴 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘱𝘳𝘰𝘣𝘭𝘦𝘮.)
●︎ 𝘐 𝘵𝘳𝘪𝘦𝘥 𝘵𝘰 𝘩𝘶𝘴𝘵𝘭𝘦 𝘴𝘮𝘢𝘳𝘵𝘦𝘳. (𝘈𝘴 𝘪𝘧 𝘮𝘰𝘳𝘦 𝘴𝘵𝘳𝘢𝘵𝘦𝘨𝘺 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘢𝘶𝘵𝘰𝘮𝘢𝘵𝘪𝘰𝘯 𝘸𝘰𝘶𝘭𝘥 𝘴𝘢𝘷𝘦 𝘮𝘦.)
●︎ 𝘐 𝘵𝘳𝘪𝘦𝘥 𝘵𝘰 𝘳𝘦𝘴𝘵—𝘣𝘶𝘵 𝘰𝘯𝘭𝘺 𝘦𝘯𝘰𝘶𝘨𝘩 𝘵𝘰 𝘨𝘦𝘵 𝘣𝘢𝘤𝘬 𝘵𝘰 𝘱𝘳𝘰𝘥𝘶𝘤𝘪𝘯𝘨. (𝘈𝘴 𝘪𝘧 𝘳𝘦𝘴𝘵 𝘸𝘢𝘴 𝘫𝘶𝘴𝘵 𝘧𝘶𝘦𝘭 𝘧𝘰𝘳 𝘮𝘰𝘳𝘦 𝘱𝘦𝘳𝘧𝘰𝘳𝘮𝘢𝘯𝘤𝘦.)
None of it worked.
Because I was still operating from the same belief:
𝙏𝙝𝙖𝙩 𝙢𝙮 𝙬𝙤𝙧𝙩𝙝 𝙬𝙖𝙨 𝙩𝙞𝙚𝙙 𝙩𝙤 𝙬𝙝𝙖𝙩 𝙄 𝙘𝙤𝙪𝙡𝙙 𝙖𝙘𝙝𝙞𝙚𝙫𝙚.
That stress was something to overcome, not something to listen to.
That if I could push a little harder, be a little better, and optimize a little more—I would finally arrive at some mythical place called "balance."
But balance is not a destination.
And stress was not the enemy.
Stress was a messenger.
𝙒𝙝𝙖𝙩 𝙎𝙩𝙧𝙚𝙨𝙨 𝘼𝙘𝙩𝙪𝙖𝙡𝙡𝙮 𝙏𝙖𝙪𝙜𝙝𝙩 𝙈𝙚
It took me longer than I'd like to admit to hear what stress was trying to say:
"𝙔𝙤𝙪 𝙖𝙧𝙚 𝙡𝙞𝙫𝙞𝙣𝙜 𝙖 𝙡𝙞𝙛𝙚 𝙙𝙚𝙨𝙞𝙜𝙣𝙚𝙙 𝙛𝙤𝙧 𝙨𝙤𝙢𝙚𝙤𝙣𝙚 𝙚𝙡𝙨𝙚'𝙨 𝙖𝙥𝙥𝙧𝙤𝙫𝙖𝙡."
Every expectation I carried. Every role I performed. Every standard I exhausted myself trying to meet—none of it was mine.
I was chasing a version of success that looked impressive from the outside but felt hollow on the inside.
And stress wasn't punishing me for failing.
𝙎𝙩𝙧𝙚𝙨𝙨 𝙬𝙖𝙨 𝙥𝙧𝙤𝙩𝙚𝙘𝙩𝙞𝙣𝙜 𝙢𝙚 𝙛𝙧𝙤𝙢 𝙨𝙪𝙘𝙘𝙚𝙚𝙙𝙞𝙣𝙜 𝙞𝙣 𝙩𝙝𝙚 𝙬𝙧𝙤𝙣𝙜 𝙡𝙞𝙛𝙚.
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𝙏𝙝𝙚 𝙎𝙝𝙞𝙛𝙩: 𝙁𝙧𝙤𝙢 𝘿𝙤𝙞𝙣𝙜 𝙩𝙤 𝘽𝙚𝙞𝙣𝙜
The turning point wasn't a strategy.
It was a surrender.
I stopped asking, "How do I manage this stress?"
And started asking, "What is this stress protecting me from?"
And the answer was terrifying:
𝙄𝙩 𝙬𝙖𝙨 𝙥𝙧𝙤𝙩𝙚𝙘𝙩𝙞𝙣𝙜 𝙢𝙚 𝙛𝙧𝙤𝙢 𝙖 𝙡𝙞𝙛𝙚 𝙬𝙝𝙚𝙧𝙚 𝙄 𝙬𝙖𝙨 𝙫𝙖𝙡𝙪𝙚𝙙 𝙛𝙤𝙧 𝙬𝙝𝙖𝙩 𝙄 𝙥𝙧𝙤𝙙𝙪𝙘𝙚𝙙, 𝙣𝙤𝙩 𝙛𝙤𝙧 𝙬𝙝𝙤 𝙄 𝙬𝙖𝙨.
So I made a choice.
Not to fix the stress. Not to overcome it. Not to win some battle against burnout.
But to let it teach me.
To let it slow me down. To let it strip away everything that wasn't essential.
And what remained?
𝐏𝐫𝐞𝐬𝐞𝐧𝐜𝐞.
𝙒𝙝𝙖𝙩 𝘾𝙝𝙖𝙣𝙜𝙚𝙙
I stopped filling every silence with productivity.
I stopped measuring my worth by how much I accomplished in a day.
I stopped performing strength and started practicing honesty.
I learned that rest is not the opposite of performance—it's the root.
I learned that saying no is not selfish—it's self-preserving.
I learned that being "unproductive" for a day doesn't make me useless. It makes me human.
And most radically:
𝙄 𝙡𝙚𝙖𝙧𝙣𝙚𝙙 𝙩𝙝𝙖𝙩 𝙄 𝙙𝙤𝙣'𝙩 𝙝𝙖𝙫𝙚 𝙩𝙤 𝙚𝙖𝙧𝙣 𝙩𝙝𝙚 𝙧𝙞𝙜𝙝𝙩 𝙩𝙤 𝙚𝙭𝙞𝙨𝙩 𝙥𝙚𝙖𝙘𝙚𝙛𝙪𝙡𝙡𝙮.
Not through achievement. Not through service. Not through being helpful, impressive, or indispensable.
I can just… be.
And that is enough.
𝙒𝙝𝙮 Our Movement 𝙀𝙭𝙞𝙨𝙩𝙨
This is why I created a quiet movement.
Not because I mastered stress. But because I finally stopped fighting it.
Not because I have all the answers. But because I learned to sit with the questions.
For the people who are where I was:
🌬️ 𝘊𝘢𝘳𝘳𝘺𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘸𝘦𝘪𝘨𝘩𝘵 𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘺 𝘯𝘦𝘷𝘦𝘳 𝘤𝘩𝘰𝘴𝘦
🌬️ 𝘗𝘦𝘳𝘧𝘰𝘳𝘮𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘴𝘵𝘳𝘦𝘯𝘨𝘵𝘩, 𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘺 𝘥𝘰𝘯'𝘵 𝘧𝘦𝘦𝘭
🌬️ 𝘞𝘰𝘯𝘥𝘦𝘳𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘪𝘧 𝘳𝘦𝘴𝘵 𝘮𝘢𝘬𝘦𝘴 𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘮 𝘸𝘦𝘢𝘬
🌬️ 𝘉𝘦𝘭𝘪𝘦𝘷𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘺 𝘩𝘢𝘷𝘦 𝘵𝘰 𝘦𝘢𝘳𝘯 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘳𝘪𝘨𝘩𝘵 𝘵𝘰 𝘣𝘦 𝘤𝘢𝘳𝘦𝘥 𝘧𝘰𝘳
𝙔𝙤𝙪 𝙙𝙤𝙣'𝙩.
You don't have to be okay to deserve your presence.
You don't have to be productive to deserve rest.
You don't have to prove anything to be worthy of care.
𝙒𝙝𝙖𝙩 𝙄 𝙆𝙣𝙤𝙬 𝙉𝙤𝙬
Stress will return. It always does.
But now, I see it differently.
Not as an enemy to defeat. Not as a failure to fix.
But as a signal. A teacher. A reminder.
A reminder that:
●︎ 𝘐 𝘢𝘮 𝘢𝘭𝘭𝘰𝘸𝘦𝘥 𝘵𝘰 𝘱𝘢𝘶𝘴𝘦.
●︎ 𝘐 𝘢𝘮 𝘢𝘭𝘭𝘰𝘸𝘦𝘥 𝘵𝘰 𝘢𝘴𝘬 𝘧𝘰𝘳 𝘩𝘦𝘭𝘱.
●︎ 𝘐 𝘢𝘮 𝘢𝘭𝘭𝘰𝘸𝘦𝘥 𝘵𝘰 𝘴𝘵𝘰𝘱 𝘱𝘦𝘳𝘧𝘰𝘳𝘮𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘫𝘶𝘴𝘵… 𝘣𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘵𝘩𝘦.
𝘼𝙣𝙙 𝙨𝙤 𝙖𝙧𝙚 𝙮𝙤𝙪.
𝘼 𝙌𝙪𝙚𝙨𝙩𝙞𝙤𝙣 𝙛𝙤𝙧 𝙔𝙤𝙪
What is your stress trying to tell you?
Not the surface answer—"I have too much to do."
But the deeper one.
The one that asks:
"Am I living a life that feels like mine?
Or am I living a life designed to meet someone else's expectations?"
Sit with that.
Not to fix it. Not to solve it.
Just to hear it.
Because presence begins when we stop running from what we feel—and start listening.
𝙎𝙩𝙧𝙚𝙨𝙨 𝙩𝙖𝙪𝙜𝙝𝙩 𝙢𝙚 𝙩𝙝𝙞𝙨:
𝙔𝙤𝙪 𝙘𝙖𝙣'𝙩 𝙥𝙤𝙪𝙧 𝙛𝙧𝙤𝙢 𝙖𝙣 𝙚𝙢𝙥𝙩𝙮 𝙥𝙧𝙚𝙨𝙚𝙣𝙘𝙚.
𝘽𝙪𝙩 𝙬𝙝𝙚𝙣 𝙮𝙤𝙪 𝙡𝙚𝙖𝙧𝙣 𝙩𝙤 𝙛𝙞𝙡𝙡 𝙮𝙤𝙪𝙧 𝙤𝙬𝙣 𝙘𝙪𝙥—𝙣𝙤𝙩 𝙬𝙞𝙩𝙝 𝙖𝙘𝙝𝙞𝙚𝙫𝙚𝙢𝙚𝙣𝙩, 𝙗𝙪𝙩 𝙬𝙞𝙩𝙝 𝙨𝙩𝙞𝙡𝙡𝙣𝙚𝙨𝙨—𝙮𝙤𝙪 𝙙𝙞𝙨𝙘𝙤𝙫𝙚𝙧 𝙩𝙝𝙖𝙩 𝙮𝙤𝙪'𝙫𝙚 𝙗𝙚𝙚𝙣 𝙚𝙣𝙤𝙪𝙜𝙝 𝙖𝙡𝙡 𝙖𝙡𝙤𝙣𝙜.
𝘞𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘥𝘪𝘥 𝘴𝘵𝘳𝘦𝘴𝘴 𝘵𝘦𝘢𝘤𝘩 𝘺𝘰𝘶? 🌿
