“I am just like my country

I am young, scrappy, and hungry

and I'm not throwing away my shot.”

I used to think that was the kind of person I wanted to be.

Someone who never stopped. Someone who grabbed every opportunity, made every minute count, and refused to let their past decide their future. I admired the idea that you could keep moving forward. That you could make something of yourself if you were willing to work for it.

I admired Hamilton’s hunger. Maybe because I knew what it felt like to have something you wanted badly enough to chase.

Then, I'd look at myself.

“Maging kontento ba ako sa buhay na bubuuin ko?”

I asked that more often than I would like to admit.

Everyone keeps saying that “being young is a blessing.” That this is the time to try things, take risks, and take every opportunity because it only comes once. And I believed them. I wanted to believe them because the alternative scared me.

I was scared of living a life filled with regret. Scared that years from now, I'd look back and wonder what would have happened if I'd just said yes. If I'd tried. If I'd worked harder. If I'd taken the opportunity when it was right in front of me.

I didn't want to look back and wonder if I could have done more.

I didn't want a meaningless future.

Every night, when the house would go quiet and the hour hand would point at 10:00 PM, I guarantee you that my 12-year-old self would still be in my room awake—staring at the same blank ceiling over, and over, and over again as if it was part of my nighttime routine. Body in bed, eyes looking straight ahead.

Would I be happy?

Would I be enough?

Would I look at my life and be satisfied?

We never had our own house, nor did we have our own fully paid car. I remember my mom kept staying up late to sort through month-old receipts and bills while my dad would arrive home tired and eat his dinner cold. They worked. They provided. They kept going.

I didn't want that.

Not for me.

Not for them.

I wanted a house of our own. I wanted Dad to come home and actually have time to sit down. I wanted Mom to stop counting our family's “utang” before bed. I wanted all of us at the same table, eating while the food was still hot.

I made a promise, back then. I used to recite it every night before I went to sleep. It’d be midnight at that point.

“I'll be better, Ma.

I'll start now, Pa.

I'll make sure I won't miss my shot at making our lives better.

I'll do everything I can.

Everything for my future. Our future.

That's my plan.

Just you wait.”

Now I might not be Alexander Hamilton, but there are a million things that I haven't done too, and I don't want to run out of time. Everyone says you have to start early—build your resume, join organizations, enter competitions, collect experiences—because by the time college comes around, you’re supposed to have something to show for it.

I didn't have a revolution to join or a ten-dollar Founding Father waiting for me in a big city. I had school. So I studied.

Grades first. Hobbies later.

So when it came to the student government, I ran for Grade 7 representative after my adviser told me to.

“Sure, I'll try,” I told her.

I won. And suddenly, I had proof that saying yes got me somewhere.

So I said yes again.

“Sure, I'll join the debate club.”

“Sure, I'll join the Red Cross Youth.”

“Sure, I'll join journalism.”

Another competition, seminar, and leader role?

Sure, sure, and sure.

I never really asked whether every shot was mine to take.

I wasn't certain about the career I wanted.

Engineering sounded good.

Maybe I'd become an engineer.

But what if I became a lawyer?

What if I became a doctor?

What if I wanted something else entirely?

I didn't know. I tried to prepare for all of it.

If I couldn't decide what my future looked like, I could at least make sure I didn't take away my freedom to choose in it.

And for a while, it felt good.

Fridays became my regular online club meetings.

I kept pushing my hobbies to next week.

I remember someone asking me to hang out with them, but I had to finish an article.

I never got around to watching the sequel to my favorite movie.

I kept moving my dinner to my cramped room so I could multitask.

Then another competition proposal landed in my inbox.

I already had enough on my plate. I knew that.

I accepted it anyway.

Every time I added something to the list, I felt like I was getting closer to the person I wanted to become.

It looked good on paper. I grabbed every opportunity. Learned every skill. But it became harder to tell which ones I could confidently say I liked.

Sometimes I was already exhausted.

Sometimes I already had more than three things due.

Sometimes I genuinely did not want to do it.

Then again... what if this was my one and only shot? What if I was building my legacy? Saying no felt like throwing something important away. So I continued saying yes, again, and again, and again.

A few years passed. Everything was the same. I'm a year shy of graduating. Mom's still counting numbers in the living room, and my dad just arrived home. I usually eat dinner in my room now.

Last week, Mom started mentioning that we were going somewhere together this weekend.

“Libre ka ba?” she asked.

I looked at my calendar.

We already agreed to change the club meeting schedule the other day because no one was free that Friday.

“I'll see, Ma.”

She nodded and went back to what she was doing.

I didn't think much about it.

I would figure it out later.

I had things to do.

Then, Friday arrived. At 9:43 PM, a message pinged me.

“Reminder @officers, attendance will be checked!

What: club meeting

Where: school

When: tomorrow”

I stared at it.

My notes were open in front of me. Half of my assignment was still unfinished. My dinner sat beside the laptop, untouched.

Tomorrow was supposed to be our family day.

Mom had been talking about it all week.

I was tired.

I knew I was tired. Time with my family sounded nice. I could skip the meeting...

But I was an officer. Attendance was required. People were counting on me.

I couldn't be the person who backed out after everyone else had already adjusted their schedules.

And besides, I'd already agreed.

How could I suddenly say that I couldn't go on with it?

I put my phone down and went back to work.

11:06 PM.

I finished my notes.

11:35 PM.

I was trying to rearrange the schedules of two different clubs so I could make everything fit.

12:00 AM.

Midnight, and I was still at my desk.

My meal was still beside me.

I looked at it for a second. Cold.

I picked up my plate, stared at it, and placed it back down.

There was still more to do, and I lost my appetite.

The house had been quiet for more than an hour.

I thought about being twelve again.

I remembered what I used to want.

A house of our own.

Mom not having to worry about every peso.

Dad coming home early enough to eat dinner while it was still hot.

All of us eating at the same table.

That was supposed to be the point.

I had spent years telling myself to work harder, join more, learn more, achieve more.

For them.

For me.

For our future.

I looked at my dinner again.

Still cold. I went to the fridge and placed it there, planning to reheat it for breakfast tomorrow. I couldn't help but laugh. It felt stupid.

I wanted to build a future where my family had more time together.

And now I was spending my time prioritizing other things except them.

I wanted to stand for something.

I wanted to fall for something.

But was this really the shot I was supposed to take? What was I even aiming at?

What was that 'something' that I so badly wanted?

I wanted to know that all the hours I spent studying, working, joining, competing, and trying were leading somewhere. I didn't ask myself if I knew where I was going.

I kept telling myself there would be time later to find that out.

Later, when the project was finished.

Later, when the competition was over.

Later, when I had enough experience.

Later, when I finally got into college.

Later, when I finally became successful.

Later.

Later.

Later.

But Mom was still getting older.

Dad was still coming home tired.

And tomorrow was still tomorrow.

Time really doesn't discriminate, does it?

I had spent years afraid of throwing away my shot.

So I took every one I could find—that’s what I thought Hamilton did.

I stopped asking whether I actually wanted them. I just kept saying yes, because that's what I thought it took to build a better future.

I thought that working hard enough would give my family more time together.

Yet I was the one spending that time away.

I looked at the clock. 12:17 AM.

Tomorrow, Mom and Dad will go on a trip.

Tomorrow, the club meeting will start.

And for once, I chose my family.

I reclined my head towards my chair and looked back at the ceiling.

The same question from years ago was still there.

“Maging kontento pa ba ako sa buhay na bubuuin ko?”

I know I can't keep saying yes to everything. I know that eventually, I’d have to give something up. But knowing that doesn't make saying no any easier.

That's the difficult part for a lot of us. We grow up believing that every opportunity matters. That every offer we turn down is something we might regret later. So we keep taking them, even when our schedules are full, even when we barely have any time for ourselves and for our families.

Maybe the problem isn't that we want too much. It's that we've been taught to measure our success by how much we can fit into our lives. Another organization, another competition, another award. Each one feels like proof that we're getting somewhere.

But a future isn't built from a list of everything we managed to join or say yes to, and leaving some opportunities behind doesn't mean we're falling behind. Hamilton taught me not to throw away my shot, but I forgot to check where I was aiming.

Sometimes, getting to where we want to be means not losing sight of why we wanted to get there in the first place. Satisfaction doesn't come from doing everything. It comes from knowing that what we chose was worth the time we gave it.

The Frontman