I started working when I was 20, in 2009.
Bright-eyed and hopeful, I entered the workforce through one of the biggest scholastic publishing houses in the Philippines, in its corporate social responsibility arm that focused on the arts and free digital resources (including the country’s version of Wikipedia, where I got my start, and a news website).
The world wasn’t my oyster, but it felt like I was on the right path. A job in publishing for someone who’s wanted to be a writer since they were 10? I was basically Andy Sachs at Runway magazine — minus the designer clothes. (I did have a version of Miranda Priestly, arguably worse — not to me specifically, but still.) I enjoyed the early morning commutes. Riding a jeepney with earphones in, listening to Y2K R&B or Wave 89.1 is an elite experience that can’t be replicated. I still miss it sometimes.
It’s one of the best jobs I’ve had, despite everything. The projects were great, the bosses not so much. I heard too much shouting — at people, to be clear — and just didn’t want to be there anymore after almost two years.
Working remotely — before it was a thing
So I started looking for work online. That was almost 15 years ago. Virtual assistants didn’t exist (or that name wasn’t attached yet to anyone who worked remotely). Onlinejobs.ph wasn’t a thing. It was just good ol’ (er, bad) Craigslist and some odd gigs.
Despite the scarcity in long-term opportunities, I managed to snag writing-related jobs, from making travel listings to devising craft DIY guides. The pay was low. Negotiation has never been my strongest suit. So I didn’t know how to price my services. I couldn’t seem to find where the good-paying jobs were either. But I was just happy to be writing and earning from it.
I remember getting a gig where one task would pay enough for me and my husband to buy two orders of Shakey’s Bunch of Lunch. I took the job because we didn’t have cash and they paid via PayPal, and at the time Shakey’s already accepted PayPal payments. I was quite literally writing for food.
There was also one gig, I don’t remember if it was mine or my husband’s. We bought an electric kettle from the dollars made from it; the kettle had a Hello Kitty print. I can’t recall if it was from eBay.
Somewhere in between I got pregnant and had to pause for a month or so. But I was back in front of a laptop, looking for ways to earn at home while taking care of a newborn pretty quickly after that.
There’s one job I helped my husband with that I’ll never forget: We “helped” (read: did the work for) American students who were taking college courses online, mostly with essays. Was it illegal? I don’t know. I do wonder how they’ve been faring in the real world after graduating thanks to the labor of people from the third world.
A year or so later, a brief return to a physical office happened. But it was an awful experience, partly because traffic was awful and we lived so far from where we worked, and another part because I was awful. I’d like to never speak of it again. I assure you that I’ve learned my lesson, though.
And then there was a stint as a social media manager for a local restaurant chain. We’d go to malls where they had stalls so we could take photos of products to post. I learned a few years ago that the company had to be sold because the owner passed away.
I was doing that while writing seven articles a day for a news website. Yes, seven. When you’re paid per article and the pay isn’t much, you’re gonna want to write, write, write as much as you could. It felt like five years of writing experience condensed into two. I learned a lot, and had time to play with my daughter in the afternoon. It was tiring but it worked out fine.
A step up in my career, a decline in my mental health
We were okay, but society dictated we needed more. The dream to work at a magazine was still alive too, so I took the plunge. I applied to be an editor at a digital publication. The hiring lady, who I later learned was the company’s CEO’s wife, told me before ending my first interview that I might want to look at the chief editor’s Instagram page and see what common interests I could bring up during my second interview. I still don’t know why she gave me that tip or if she told other candidates to do it too.
But I got the job, and the life I was so accustomed to changed. It was a dream come true, after all! It was equal parts glossy and messy. Truly a rollercoaster of experiences. By then we were residing three to four hours away from Metro Manila, having moved back to my hometown, and I had to attend and cover events, sometimes for two consecutive days. That’s on top of the actual editing work.
There were lots of tears here and there. A lot of frustration about not being seen and appreciated and regarded and rewarded. But I did stay for almost seven years.
Before I quit, an opportunity presented itself via a LinkedIn message. The role was tailor-made for me. Or so I thought. I’ve since worn many hats, most of which I’m unsure fit me. It’s been alright for the most part, but some days are rough and tough as hell.
Last year, with my husband’s help and a misplaced belief that the mental load would not be too heavy, I accepted a part-time role while working full-time. I don’t have the gig anymore, but I still carry the exhaustion. (There’s also the added side-effect of disliking Japan.)
I was looking for a job and then I found a job, and heaven knows I’m miserable now.
The Smiths
B is for burnout
My husband has asked me several times if I need to see a psychologist, but I always refuse. I keep thinking the heaviness would go away if I just let it. Bad news for me: The dark cloud won’t move. I dread getting up in the morning. I’m angrier than I’ve ever been in the past three years. I fear I’ve run out of grace under pressure.
Am I exhausted? Yes. Am I turning cynical? Yes. Am I feeling useless? Yes. Does everything get under my skin? Yes. I have most, if not all, the symptoms listed by WebMD.
Burnout has caught up to me and I can’t wriggle my way out of its suffocating hold.
There is no consolation in the fact that I am not alone in this predicament. Millennials have been dubbed the burnout generation. We’re done. Earning money is still a major motivator but it’s not the only thing we’re looking for in a job anymore. We’re looking for purpose, clarity, balance.
Me? I’m looking for room to breathe. A moment (a month? a year?) to pause and think and be. The feeling that I’m running out of time smothers me. It truly feels like the world is crumbling and we’ve only got some more years left before the decisions of technocrats kill us all.
“I just want to spend as much time as I can with you and Cades,” I tell my husband maybe once every month or so, with tears rushing down my face. That’s my only dream right now. To be with them. To return to a version of myself that’s whole and present and not always anxious about and angered by KPIs and what step to take next.
What now?
You know how when a tire is worn out, almost showing its interior, but the shop is 11 kilometers away, so you have no choice but to keep driving so you can get it fixed? I’m the tire. And I am tired.
The Mayo Clinic says I just need better coping strategies. I will come out of this better than ever as long as I sleep more, exercise more, eat well, meditate, journal, speak out, look for support, shift my perspective.
A self-proclaimed coach might say I just need to optimize and automate every single facet of my life — have a capsule collection of dull-coloured clothes so I don’t get “decision fatigue,” keep my to-do list short, have a change in pace or space.
You might say I just need God.
Yeah, I don’t know. But maybe finally admitting that I’m not in an ideal phase — that this is only a phase, if I choose it to be — is good enough for now.