Every morning at 4:30 a.m., the alarm clocks sound a battle cry, waking the people of the working class up.

Before the sun even hits the cracked asphalt of Metro Manila, millions of Filipinos are already on their feet. There is no time for a slow cup of coffee. Instead, there is the immediate, crushing anxiety of the commute. You stand on the curb, breathing in diesel fumes, watching packed jeepneys hurtle past. You squeeze into a train so tightly packed you sniff strangers’ odors, to get to a job that pays barely enough to buy the food you need for the energy to do it all over again tomorrow.

For the average Pinoy, this is his daily math. You subtract the fare and the cost of a meager lunch, and stare at what’s left. It is a terrifyingly small amount meant to cover rent, utilities and the schooling of children who dream of a life better than this one.

At work, the indignities pile up. The supervisor talks down to you because he knows you cannot afford to quit. It is the casual discrimination based on where you live, how you speak, or what degree you don’t have. You swallow the disrespect, suppress the exhaustion, and soldier on. Why? Because pride is a luxury the poor cannot afford. The daily wage is a lifeline. If you cut it, your family starves.

There is an undeniable, heartbreaking bravery in this. There is absolutely no shame in the struggle, nor in the temporary defeats when the money runs out three days before payday. But look closely at the eyes of the people sitting across from you on the bus tonight. They aren’t staring at anything. They are hollow.

Because we have to ask ourselves: Is this really all there is to being a Filipino? Are we born merely to survive? Are we meant to live our entire lives in a state of perpetual panic, just one medical emergency away from total ruin?

We are constantly praised for our “resilience.” It is a beautiful word used by the comfortable to romanticize the suffering of the poor. It turns a systemic failure into a compliment. We are told we can smile through floods, that we can endure anything. But resilience has become a trap. It has normalized a life of scraps.

When do we get to actually live, and not just exist? When will Filipinos get to enjoy the fruits of a lifetime of labor — to be more, to have more?

It angers me that the bare minimum — safe public transport, a living wage, affordable healthcare — feels like a distant, utopian dream. We look at our leaders, insulated in their air-conditioned homes and SUVs, completely detached from the reality of the people they claim to serve. And we wonder: Do we have to earn a proper, honest government? Is decency a reward we haven’t worked hard enough for yet? No. We have already paid for it with our youth, our health, and our dignity.

To relate to the everyday struggle is to feel this collective heartbreak. We are a nation of survivalists, but we are tired. We shouldn’t have to be heroes just to make ends meet. It is time to stop romanticizing our endurance and start questioning why we are forced to endure so much in the first place.