They say hard work always pays off. That if you just keep pushing, one day, just one day. life will reward you. But then I ask you, when people say this…especially towards the word "reward". "fruits of your labor" there, I say it, what exactly do they mean? What should I do if the "fruits of my labor" gotten from all my hard work is not enough? Well, that is probably the greed in me talking.
Well, I ask you: what happens if I work hard and my reward isn't enough, bigger or better than my competition's, or let's say my friend's, or even selfishly put my siblings'?
We are comparison creatures, after all. Our happiness is therefore measured by how many we see people have, regardless.
What then do I do?
I ask you, motivational speakers...
Speak now!!!
I realized something a few days ago when I saw an uncle of mine Mr. Williams. He was someone I had admired deeply as a child. The man my mother constantly told me to look up to for his discipline, for his tireless work ethic. But there he was, standing in front of me, asking for money just to buy food for the weekend. No family of his own. No one to lean on. Just him… and all those years of working…working…working.
It felt wrong. It felt downright bad for a man his age to not have a single penny to his name after all that effort. Sure, you could say he made his fair share of poor decisions along the way, and maybe that's what got him into this mess. But still he was already old, at an age where he couldn't "work hard" anymore.
Now, I know what you're probably thinking: That can't happen to me. And hey, maybe that's true. Maybe thats false . Schrödinger's cat, right?
Where was I? Oh yeah. I gave him the money, of course. But I couldn't shake the thought: Could that be me one day?Could I grind my whole life, give everything I've got… and still end up broke?
Then I remembered a moment from university, an argument during a school debate. The topic was talent versus hard work. Naturally, I was on the side of hard work. In fact, my team cleared the floor that day there, I said it. We worked damn hard, and it felt good.
But one of my opponents said something that stuck with me, something that had een echoing ever since.
"You could work hard," he said, "and still end up poor."
That line hit me hard. Back then, I didn't know I'd live long enough to see that truth wear the face of a man I once admired, Mr. Williams too.
Now I'm twenty-eight. Fresh out of university broke, burnt out, yet somehow still hopeful. I looked in the mirror one morning: eyes hollow, shoulders slumped, still wearing the same faded shirt from yesterday. And I whispered to myself,
"Am I really ready for adulthood?"
Honestly, if you asked me, the only thing adults seemed to universally enjoy was sex and even that came with its own set of restrictions. Sigh.
I started doing everything I could. Two jobs. No oversleeping six hours max, the recommended minimum. I sacrificed every hobby, every weekend, every birthday celebration overspending. I was grinding myself too hard, while others, at least from where I stood, seemed to float past me effortlessly.
I had always been the hardworking one.
The responsible child.
My mother's favorite.
And maybe... that was the problem.
My siblings had always hated me growing up together. Not because I did anything to hurt them directly but because my mother never hid how much she adored me. Every little success of mine became her measuring stick for them.
"Look at your brother! He's so hardworking. Always helping. Always mature."
For me Personally, I didn't even like the praise.
I knew it hurt them. I could feel it in their eyes, see it in the way they whispered behind my back or smirked just a little too hard when I failed a test.
But what was I supposed to do? Be less helpful? Work less? Let my mother stop bragging just to keep the peace at home?
How was I, as a kid, supposed to handle that?
We didn't have much.
My father was... absent.
My mother worked at the local market, rain or shine so I worked too.
By the time I was ten, I knew how to bargain with adults, carry sacks twice my weight, and smile through aching feet.
I matured faster than my siblings. Not because I wanted to, but because I had to.
Or maybe… because I had the brain cells to think beyond childish things. Tsk.
It was the only logical thing to do.
We needed food.
We needed money.
We needed someone to help my mother around the house because no outsider would.
And really… Why should they?
In school, I became a class Rep. Then a prefect. Then head of this, top of that. blah. Blah. Blah.
It felt like progress… like maybe, just maybe, my hard work was paying off. But looking back now, I realize it was all within a controlled environment built to reward effort, it seemed like hard work always won.
But then the real world came, and everything changed.
University hit me like a train. I was no longer the best. Hell, I was barely average. Surrounded by people sharper, faster, more articulate. People with better connections. Better accents. Better clothes. Better everything.
I kept telling myself to work harder. That maybe they were ahead now, but I'd catch up if I pushed myself. But it never felt like enough because they also knew how to work hard. That's the irony, not only you are working hard after all you simply realize your not the main character as you once thought as a child
After graduation, my siblings had finally caught up too. They'd grown. Even after puberty, they clung to old grudges and in some twisted irony, it brought them closer.
They bonded. Helped each other. Leaned on one another.
And eventually, they left.
Left me and Mom behind.
In the end, I guess she just wanted to motivate them.
Well… she definitely succeeded.
They moved out without a second glance.
I didn't even feel betrayed. Just… knew it was coming.
I kept grinding. Kept telling myself the world owed me something for all the sacrifices. Third job, fourth rejection, fifth night of walking home hungry. I was tired. Not just in the body, but in the soul.
That's when it happened.
One rainy evening, after a grueling double shift, I walked to a new school. I'd applied to a private institution that hired tutors for international students. I'd submitted my resume weeks ago, with no response yet. I thought maybe I'd just check in, just to... see.
As I waited outside the school gates, a man stepped out of a tinted black car. Expensive suit. Confidence in every step.
A teacher, apparently. Rumors said he was close to the director and got hired without a single interview.
I watched him laugh with the guards, shake hands with a parent, then disappear inside like he owned the place.
And just like that, all sense of logic went out the window.
What replaced it was something deeper than an ache rose from the pit of my stomach. Dissatisfaction. Envy.
I stood there, drenched, clutching my cheap umbrella. Something in me cracked.
My carefully buried feelings of entitlement clawed their way to the surface.
" that should havebeen mine."
What was I doing?
What was the point of working this hard or sacrificing so much if someone else could just walk into the life I was killing myself to earn?
I found a bench nearby and sat down.
I just needed a moment to catch my breath, to gather my thoughts.
Was I overreacting? Overthinking? Self-inserting myself into someone else's life, like I always did when reading webnovels?
Second, I saw myself stepping out of that car. Wearing that suit. Owning that confidence. Sigh.
The rain kept falling.
Indifferent.
It didn't care about my worries, my hopes, or my dreams.
That's when I noticed the kid.
Couldn't have been older than fifteen. Crying quietly into his sleeves. His backpack was soaked through, and his shoelaces were dragging along the mud.
I walked over.
"Why are you crying?" I asked. "Shouldn't you be at home?"
He looked up, startled. "I'm crying?" he echoed, like it hadn't even occurred to him.
He asked me the same question I had just asked him.
Definitely not the brightest, I thought with a quiet tsk.
So I asked again louder this time, clearer. I hated repeating myself.
"Yes, kid. Why are you sitting out here, crying under the rain, when you should be home with your family, hmm?"
The boy shrank a little. Like someone used to fading into the background an NPC in his own story.
Harsh? Maybe.
Accurate? Absolutely.
Still, after a few seconds of hesitation, he finally found the courage to speak. His voice trembled, but at least it was audible.
"I keep trying," he said. "I keep trying, sir. But nothing works for me. There's always someone smarter… faster… stronger… in my school."
I paused.
His words hit too close.
"Even when I try my best," he continued, "it's not enough. What do you do when the bar's already too high, sir? I got moved to the advanced class, and honestly… I'm struggling just to keep up."
He said all that to me Maybe it was societal programming. Maybe instinct. I wasn't sure.
But all I could think to say in that moment sadly was:
"Don't cry. You're going to be a man soon. Crying shouldn't be your default. Learn to face the issue head on."
And what else could I say, really?
I also added the usual scripted line:
"Keep going. You'll find your way. Don't give up."
Even though I didn't believe it.
Not at the moment.
Now I understand why people said those words in the first place. It wasn't because they always worked, but because it felt worse to say nothing. Because hope was always better than hopelessness.
I realized, in that moment, that maybe I needed to hear those words too.
Sure, I had my complaints about effort, success, how unfair life felt. But if I was being honest, hard work had rewarded me in some ways.
I could buy my own food.
Pay my bills.
Support the authors who wrote the books I escaped into.
Maybe I wasn't satisfied, but I wasn't drowning either.
The boy stared at me, his eyes glassy. "Mister… are you okay?" he sniffled.
A large glob of yellowish mucus ran down his nose like a waterfall.
I sighed, and patted his head, feeling strangely like the father figure I never had.
"Listen, kid. There'll always be someone better than you," I said. "Just like you'll always be better than someone else. It's a cycle. That's life. But what matters is you don't forget how far you've already come."
He blinked up at me, still sniffling.
"In the end, we're all just trying to make it. So keep trying. What's the alternative? Giving up? Think that'll fix anything?" I chuckled. "Hell no."
I finished with something I hadn't expected to say:
"Enjoy your life too. Take time for yourself. If all you do is chase some dream and forget to actually live, you'll start believing you're not good enough even when you are."
I paused.
Did I just… advise myself?
The kid just stared, eyes wide like I'd fried his brain with philosophy.
But at least he wasn't crying anymore.
"Alright, kid. Get a move on," I said.waving him off
He stood from the bench, slung his soaked backpack over one shoulder, and walked toward the zebra crossing
I sat back down, watching the rain let up just a little.
Something inside me… loosened.
Felt a little lighter.
I pulled out my phone to check if my favorite author Koipen had dropped a new chapter of his new novel.The cracked screen barely responded, but whatever. It was enough.
Then I heard it. Screeching tires heading my way. My above-average hearing picked up more shouting voices. Simultaneously, I saw a blur of red and blue close to the ground beneath my feet, just within my downward line of sight.
Looking up at the boy.
The same kid I once patted on the head, acted like a father figure to, was about to be hit by a speeding truck.
A truck being chased by cops.
He didn't see it.
But unfortunately, I was right about the boy, he wasn't even self-aware enough.
I didn't think so. I lunged in.
"Kid!" I shouted
My hand grabbed the back of his soaked hoodie and yanked it, making him move out of the way.
He tumbled onto the pavement.
He lived.
I was relieved but I also wasn't quick enough to move out of the way after the heroics had been done.
I didn't move fast enough.
The truck hit me full force.
My body stretched like rubber against the hard frame of the truck bumper as my brain rattled so hard inside my skull, it made a jelly-like sound I never knew was possible. I felt a sharp headache and, simultaneously, multiple sensations of pain that overwhelmed my skin's ability to transmit pain across my entire body, pain only possible if my spine was still intact, after all.
And then, like a computer screen when the power goes out…
Everything went black.
I don't remember the impact.
Only the cold.
The weightlessness.
As if I was floating above the ground
Seeing my own body fly like a piece of paper.
Detached from the world.
It felt peaceful.
In an annoying kind of way.
Thud.
I crashed onto the ground…
And just like that…
Everything began again.