November 5th, 2025
began like any other dayordinary, unassuming, and wrapped in the quiet rhythm of routine. I woke up, stretched, maybe muttered something incoherent to no one in particular, and went about my usual motions. At first, nothing felt out of place. No alarms, no urgency, just the familiar drag of another Wednesday in a life that often feels like it's running on borrowed time and dwindling energy. But then, like a delayed thunderclap, it hit me: today was my mom's birthday.
The realization didn't come with fanfare or dramatic musicjust a quiet, sinking feeling in my chest. A sharp, cold twist of guilt. Of all the days to remember, this one mattered most, and I had forgotten. Again. Or maybe not againmaybe this was the first time, but it felt like the hundredth. "Useless child," I thought, the words bitter on my tongue. I couldn't even hold onto something as basic as the date my own mother was born. And yet, she's the one who carried me, raised me, stayed up nights worrying about meabout the pills I swallow every morning, about the shadows behind my eyes she can't quite name but senses deeply.
I was already in college when it struck me. There was no grand gesture I could makenot then, not there. All I could manage was a rushed text, a quick call between lectures, a "Happy Birthday, Ma," mumbled with more shame than joy. I wished her well, yes, but it felt hollow. Like offering a paper cup when someone's thirsty for an ocean. "Tsk tsk tsk," I muttered under my breath afterward. Not out loudnever out loudbut loud enough in my head to echo all day.
College, today, was its usual paradox of responsibility and futility. My attendance stands at 89%a number that should, by all logic, exempt me from anxiety over missing a day. But logic rarely governs administrative bureaucracy or the invisible expectations hoisted onto the Class Representative. That's me, by the way: the CR. The one who volunteers (or is voluntold) to do everything no one else wants to do. Take attendance? That's me. Chase lazy classmates for signatures? Still me. Be the bridge between indifferent faculty and perpetually absent students? Yep, me again.
And for what? "You're the CR," they say, as if that title magically erases my humanity. As if I don't get tired, don't feel frustrated, don't also have assignments to complete, thoughts to sort through, and a mom whose birthday I just forgot. "Aren't you responsible for everything?" they ask, with a tone that suggests I signed a contract surrendering my right to be a person first and a representative second. But I was a student long before I became a CR. And studentsreal oneshave feelings, limitations, bad days, and birthdays they sometimes miss.
Ironically, they didn't even take attendance today. After all that internal monologue about obligation and duty, it turned out to be unnecessary. The system remains absurd: we're called "workers" for doing unpaid emotional and administrative labor, while the people who actually should be doing it delegate it down like hot potatoes. Still, I didn't complainnot out loud. What's the point? They wouldn't care. And maybe, deep down, I'm used to not being cared for in return. It's easier that way.
Later in the day, I met up with a few close friends at a quiet café near campus. Nothing fancyjust mismatched chairs, dim lighting, and the comforting hum of background chatter. We ordered cheap drinks and snacks, and what started as casual banter slowly unfurled into something deeper. Secrets came outquiet confessions about fears, regrets, dreams we're too afraid to voice elsewhere. There was something sacred in that space, in the way we allowed ourselves to be seen without judgment. For a few hours, I wasn't the forgetful son, the overburdened CR, or the "strong but not in heart" person I often describe myself as. I was just me, sitting with people who accepted me as I am.
That conversation lifted a small weight off my shoulders. Not everythingnever everythingbut enough to breathe a little easier. Enough to remember that connection still exists, even on days when guilt tries to suffocate you.
Eventually, we went our separate ways, and I returned home. My mom's birthday still lingered in the back of my mind, a quiet ache. We ordered foodsomething simpleand ate in a silence that wasn't uncomfortable, just tired. And then, mercifully, sleep came. Not the restless, pill-induced kind, but a deep, almost healing slumber. Maybe my body finally decided it had carried enough for one day.
So here I am now, reflecting on a day that was both mundane and emotionally loaded. I forgot my mom's birthday. I resented my responsibilities. I shared secrets with friends. I felt guilty. I felt seen. I slept well. Life, in all its messy contradiction, went on.
And maybe that's okay. Not idealbut okay. Because "where there is life, there is hope." I still believe that. Even on days when I feel like a failure, even when the guilt claws at me, I hold onto that small truth. My mom knows my heart, even if my memory fails. And tomorrow, I'll try to do betternot because I have to, but because I want to.
But for tonight, I rest.
Content Warning: The following narrative contains themes of self-criticism, guilt, emotional exhaustion, and references to mental health struggles. Reader discretion is advised. If you're feeling overwhelmed, please consider reaching out to someone you trust or a mental health professional.