In trying to be everything, I lost the one thing that mattered—myself—somehow ending up on a road that led nowhere.

They say I’m a jack of all trades—as if that phrase is a compliment, as if my hands gathered these skills out of abundance instead of fear. But if they knew the truth, they would understand that I never collected talents; I collected lifelines. Every contest I joined, every speech I delivered, every role I took, every achievement I got—they were all attempts to outrun a silence inside me that kept asking: Kung magaling ako sa lahat, bakit hindi ko mahanap ang sarili ko?

Because every victory only made the question louder. Every medal only made the emptiness clearer.

I learned skills the way others learn survival—out of necessity, not desire. While everyone thought I was building a future, I was simply patching up the holes in an identity I never figured out. I kept saying yes because no one teaches you how to say “I’m lost” without disappointing the people who already decided who you should become. And the scariest part? I started believing the roles they assigned me. I started confusing their expectations with my personality.

People think being multitalented is a blessing. “Ang swerte mo,” they say, as if I didn’t bleed for every skill they praise. They see me as this girl who could do everything—a girl who is smart, can write, draw, sing, dance, speak, lead, perform—but little did they know that these talents lead me to questions running in my head: Kung kaya ko lahat, bakit wala akong gustong gawin? Why does being good at everything feel like being wanted by nothing? Why does every talent feel like another layer covering the real me?

And now that graduation is crawling toward me like a deadline I’m not ready to meet, every course, every path, every decision feels like a trap. How do I choose a future when every option feels like a lie? How do I step forward when the road in front of me only widens into nothingness? I never see myself in a medical field but that's the course I will take. Others say I should pursue architecture because they see me as a great artist, or even engineering—because they assume I ace mathematics.

It’s ironic how people see so many versions of me, yet I can’t even see one.

They say identity comes naturally. Mine never did. Mine felt like a borrowed coat—ill-fitting, temporary, always slipping off no matter how tightly I held on. I became the student who excelled in everything not because I wanted to, but because I didn’t want to disappoint anyone. I became the achiever because it was easier to be remarkable than to admit I had no idea who I was beneath all the medals. It was easier to be bright for others than to sit alone with the darkness inside me.

People say I shine, but they don’t see how blinding it feels on the inside.

A memory came to my mind when I was still in grade level. Even my classmates’ parents have something to say about me. “Ay naku, siya na naman.” “Kaya ka hindi napipili, siya lagi nauuna.” “Ano ba naman ’yan, masyadong pabida!” They turn my efforts into threats, my achievements into weapons. I remember thinking and asking myself as a kid: parang kasalanan kong may kakayahan ako?

I was too young to understand why adults were angry at a child who simply tried.

I was too young to bear the weight of outshining someone who only wanted to be seen too.

But no one sees the truth: I never wanted to shine.

I only wanted to be found.

I only wanted to feel like I wasn’t a mistake wrapped in achievements.

And yet the more I did, the more I achieved, the more I pushed myself beyond exhaustion—the emptier I felt. Skills piled up like trophies in a room with no light, and every one of them asked the same question: Does any of this even belong to me? Or am I just borrowing identities to survive?

Sometimes I wonder if I learned these talents because I was good at them, or because I was terrified of the silence when I stopped trying. I fear that if I pause, if I rest, if I finally breathe, everything will collapse—the expectations, the labels, the pride people place on my shoulders like armor I never asked for. Sometimes I think: if I stop performing, will anyone still know who I am? Will I?

Because the truth is— I am talented, but uncertain.

Skilled, but directionless.

Achieving, but lost.

And the worst part? No one notices. Because people don’t look at the cracks when the trophy is shining.

I walk this road that people assume leads to greatness, but deep down, I know it leads to a place I’ve been avoiding all along— the truth that I still don’t know who I am.

And maybe that’s why it hurts so much.

Maybe that’s why every step weighs me down.

Maybe that’s why the road feels endless.

Because nothing is more tormenting than becoming everything except yourself.

Because identity is supposed to guide you. Mine only haunts me.

Still, I walk.

Still, I try.

Still, I gather pieces—even the ones that don’t feel like mine—hoping that somewhere along this path of confusion, pressure, and quiet desperation, I will finally find the version of myself that wasn’t built from expectations.

The version who doesn’t have to pretend she’s okay just because she’s capable.

The version who exists even without achievements.

The version who is enough even without applause.

The version who doesn’t have to collect trades just to feel real.

The version who doesn’t feel guilty for being good.

And maybe one day, I will find her.

Maybe one day, the road that leads to nowhere will finally lead to me.

Maybe one day, I’ll stop running from myself and I can finally breathe.

But for now, I walk—unfinished, uncertain, and painfully human—carrying every skill I never asked for, every expectation I never wanted, and every question I am still terrified to answer.

Because even if I don’t know who I am yet, I’m still trying.

And maybe trying is the only thing keeping me alive.

Because this is the path I take, even when I don’t know where it goes, even when the weight threatens to break me—the road that leads to nowhere, but still, somehow, I keep walking.

The Frontman