Published by: Reiven Presbetero
Date Published: August 12, 2025
Time Published: 9:15 am
πππ§πππ’π₯π¬: Prose
π§πππ π: Academic burnout and the loss of personal passion due to the burden of carrying others’ expectations
Why does it suddenly feel like I'm climbing a mountain I'd chosen for myself?
The air was piercing, but it filled my lungs with a kind of purpose that made every step meritorious. The books on the shelves were my compass; they were the lessons and my footholds, and every achievement I earned throughout was a flag planted in the stone. I've always thought I was chasing a zenith that belonged to me. I've always thought what I was doing was truly meant for me. But why is it that somewhere along the way, the path I've been going through for years stopped being mine?
I didn't notice it at first, because how could I? I was too focused on moving forward—to prove my name and to everyone watching from behind that I could keep ascending. Their voices kept echoing up the slopes and calling my name, telling me they believed in me. It was the impetus that kept the fire ablaze, and it kept me warm—only until it didn't.
One day, I realized the mountain had gone silent inside me. My feet still kept moving, but the climb felt like stopping would mean treachery. My hands were gripping the rocks on the path because letting go would mean letting down every face that had ever looked up at me with pride.
The pages of my notebooks began to feel like withered leaves, brittle and disintegrating if held on to for too long. The ink of my pen bled on the lines, but none of the words I was writing resonated. My grades came back high, but they tasted like stale bread that is nourishing, yet void.
If I were alone, I would have stepped off this path long ago. I'd have let the wind carry me somewhere softer and more breathable without the constant encumbrance on my shoulders. Though I am bound to the mountain by the rope of others' expectations. Every knot tied with their faith in me, every thread woven from the pride in their voices. And so, I kept climbing. Climbing not toward my horizon, but toward the one they've always imagined for me.
Some days, I dream of standing still. Of letting go and feeling the rope go slack. Of telling them, "I can't do this anymore; it's not what I want." But then I keep seeing their faces and hearing their words of how they've built altars out of my achievements, how they've told the world it would be possible for me to reach the top. Afraid of letting other people down, I keep moving, even as the air grows rarer and it gets harder to breathe.
The truth is, my passion didn't vanish in a single gust of wind. It slowly eroded, like the edges of a stair made out of stone, worn down by years of footsteps taken without question. And now, all that's left is the ritual of climbing—a continuous cycle of taking steps and trying to keep breathing.
One day, maybe I'll reach the top, and maybe they'll cheer for me, and maybe I'll raise my arms in pride because that's what you're supposed to do when you "make it." But deep down, I know the view won't eventually belong to me, and it will just belong to them. And when I look up at the clouds, I think I'll feel the vacuity of standing somewhere you never truly wanted to be.
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