The days melted into each other like candle wax, slow and unrelenting, dripping with the weight of uncertainty and quiet desperation. Every morning, I forced myself out of bed, not because I was ready to conquer the day, but because staying under the covers felt like surrender. I didn't know what lay ahead, but I knew doing nothing wasn't an option. The hope I once carried with me like a torch now flickered, barely holding against the wind of daily disappointments.
Becoming the version of myself I dreamed of, the one with a successful remote software engineering job—was starting to feel like a fading illusion. The pressure was real. The doubts were loud. I kept thinking, What if I'm not cut out for this? What if I'm wasting my time? I couldn't return to the hub. My laptop had given up on me when I needed it most, my tuition fee was still incomplete, and now I was back home, where the weight felt even heavier.
Home was supposed to be a safe space. A place of comfort and support. But this time, it felt like a cage. Every passing moment reminded me that I wasn't where I was supposed to be. The disappointment in my parents' eyes, even when they said nothing, was deafening. I couldn't blame them. All they saw was a grown man coming home every night without any visible progress. No job. No income. No clarity. Just fatigue and excuses.
I would leave the house early, trying to escape the questions, the silence, the looks. At least outside, I could pretend I was building something. And in a way, I was.
After weeks of isolation and uncertainty, a conversation with someone I'd met led to an unexpected opportunity. He was a site supervisor handling some small-scale construction projects and asked if I could lend a hand, knowing I was a civil engineering graduate. I didn't hesitate. I said yes before I even thought it through.
It wasn't a job. There was no salary, no contract, just transport fare and the occasional tip if things went well. But it was something. And when you're drowning, even a plank of wood feels like a lifeboat.
So I started working on-site, wearing my faded engineering dreams like a hard hat, hoping to survive the storm in my head.
But nothing prepared me for how difficult it would be.
The construction sites were hot, chaotic, and demanding. I was the junior in every sense of the word—doing the heavy lifting, running errands, standing for hours under the unforgiving sun. There were days when the dust got into my eyes so badly I could barely see. My hands ached, my back throbbed, and still, I showed up. Day after day. Because not showing up would mean giving up, and I wasn't ready for that.
After the long hours of physical labor, I still had to brave the city traffic. I often found myself stuck in endless lines of honking cars and impatient bus drivers, my body slouched from exhaustion, my mind lost in thought. By the time I got home, it was usually past 10 p.m.
Each night, I would drag myself in quietly, hoping no one would be awake to ask me questions I had no answers to. If they were, I'd offer a tired smile, mumble something about the day, and head straight to my room. Most nights, I didn't eat. I just lay there, fully clothed, staring at the ceiling, praying that maybe—just maybe—tomorrow would be better.
But better never came.
There were moments in the silence when I'd catch my reflection in the mirror and not recognize the person staring back. My skin had grown pale, my eyes sunken, my spirit dimmed. I was tired in a way that sleep couldn't fix. Emotionally drained. Spiritually lost.
The pressure at home wasn't helping either. The unspoken expectations were louder than words. My parents tried to be kind, but I knew they were worried, confused, even. They had invested so much into my education, into my future. And now? Their son was out every day, coming back with nothing to show. The shame stung more than the physical pain.
Sometimes, I found myself wondering if chasing this tech dream was foolish. Maybe I should've just stuck to construction or found something "stable." But then I'd remember how alive I felt learning code, building small projects, dreaming of a different life. I missed it. Badly. But life had a way of cornering you, stripping you of joy, and replacing it with survival.
The worst part wasn't even the struggle. It was the loneliness.
No one really knew what I was going through. I smiled when I had to, nodded when people asked how I was doing, and cracked jokes to hide the chaos. But deep inside, I was screaming. I was angry at life, at my circumstances, at myself. Angry that I had tried so hard and still wasn't getting anywhere. Angry that I felt like a burden in my own home. Angry that the world kept moving, and I was stuck.
There were nights I sat in the dark, the only light coming from the streetlamps outside, and let the silence consume me. I didn't cry anymore—not because I didn't want to, but because I had run out of tears. My heart was heavy, my hope bruised, and my mind a battlefield of conflicting thoughts.
I began to question everything—my choices, my future, my identity. I wondered what it would feel like to stop trying. To just let go. To vanish. Maybe that would be easier.
But somewhere beneath the wreckage of my spirit, a small voice refused to go silent. It whispered things like:
You've come too far to quit now.
There's something on the other side of this.
Hold on a little longer.
And so I did.
I held on, not because I was strong, but because I had nothing else. I clung to the little faith I had left, to the memory of the person I used to be before life knocked me down. I reminded myself that growth hurts. Becoming hurts. But maybe, just maybe, I was being shaped into something greater.
The days kept coming, and I kept moving even if slowly. I wasn't okay, but I was still here. Because deep down, a part of me still believed that this was just a phase. A chapter. Not the end.
And if I could endure this storm, maybe—just maybe, I will find the sun again.