There are people who wake up every day with a smile, as though happiness is simply part of their morning routine. I watch them in awe, wondering where they find the energy to face the day with such joy. They turn on the radio, sing along, and carry themselves as though the weight of the world is nothing but a feather. Meanwhile, I force myself to laugh, to smile, to pretend everything is fine. My days are weighed down by the heavy cloak of sadness.

Some people genuinely enjoy their jobs, finding meaning and satisfaction in their work. For others, like myself, work is just that—work. We go through the motions because it’s what needs to be done. I’ve met people who are the fighters in their families, leading with strength and determination. In their families, the leadership roles are clear—those who lead must do so with power, and those who cannot keep up will inevitably fall behind. The weak engine can’t stay ahead; it will always fall back.

I admit, I lose my patience sometimes. Simple questions can ignite frustration, and I find myself walking away, consumed by my own thoughts. As I leave, I wonder if I’m missing something important. There’s always the rush to catch the next flight, to get to the next place. But the truth is, I don’t always want to leave, and I certainly don’t want to stay. I’m trapped in a cycle, unable to move forward or stand still. My mind drifts, filled with nostalgia for something I can’t quite place. It’s as though I’m longing for a past that never existed, confused by the emptiness inside me.

I’ve always felt broken, as though I was born defective. No amount of adjustment could fix me, and I carry this sense of being unloved with me everywhere. Family, the core of so many people’s lives, seems distant, almost absent. Where are they when I needed them the most?

At times, I walk aimlessly through the night, remembering moments from my childhood. I was only nine or eleven, wandering the streets without purpose. I didn’t want to return home; there was no reason to. I felt no connection there, no sense of belonging. My sister would open the door when I finally came back, but my parents pretended not to notice I had been gone. It was midnight, a time when other children were safe in their beds, but I was not like them. I wasn’t in their homes.

My brother, too, was out there somewhere, dealing with his own problems. I wanted to find him, to connect, but I knew he didn’t need my burdens on top of his own. Even now, as an adult, the traumas of that little boy follow me. The pain and confusion of those nights have never left. I’ve learned to pretend that I’m okay, to wear the mask of resilience.

I’ve managed to beat poverty, but in many ways, I am still poor. Not in material wealth, but in the emotional and spiritual poverty that lingers from a childhood of disconnection and confusion. I’ve survived, yes, but survival is not the same as truly living.

By Luis de Andrade