The orchard called work

 

They say landing your first job is one of life’s sweetest fruits—a mark of independence, proof that you’ve finally “made it.” For many, it’s the beginning of a dream. But for others, like me, it’s simply what’s available.

As a fresh graduate, I thought finding a job would be easy. Everyone says that once you graduate, opportunities come pouring in. That’s what our parents always tell us—“Mag-aral ka nang mabuti para may magandang trabaho ka balang araw” (Study well so you’d land a good job someday).

But truth be told, it’s not that simple. There are countless interviews, exams, and callbacks before you land even one offer.

So when I finally did, even before graduation, people were quick to say, “Wow, sana all!” I smiled, but deep down, I knew this wasn’t the job I had imagined for myself. I didn’t wake up one morning thinking, This is what I want to do for the rest of my life. But when bills start knocking and opportunities are scarce, practicality often wins over passion. So, I took the offer. I told myself that maybe, with time, I’d learn to love it.

At first, everything felt new and exciting—my first company ID, my own desk, my first paycheck. I thought this was the sweetness everyone talked about, the taste of adulthood. There was pride in being able to say, “I’m employed.” My parents were proud. My friends congratulated me. I convinced myself this was a beginning worth celebrating.

But as the months rolled in, the sweetness began to fade.

The daily routine became monotonous: wake up early, sit for eight hours staring at the same screen, then drag myself home only to repeat it the next day. What once felt like an opportunity started to feel like an obligation. The fruit still looked ripe from the outside—but it no longer tasted as good.

My tasks were manageable, and I was lucky to have kind coworkers who made the workload lighter. But the problem wasn’t the work itself—it was the environment. I couldn’t move freely because every action had to be monitored. A single misunderstanding could spark my boss’ anger, sometimes over the smallest things.

One coworker even advised me not to do my best because it could lead to abuse or more tasks.

As a fresh graduate eager to prove myself, that hit me hard. I wanted to contribute, to grow, to do well. But slowly, I learned that excellence here wasn’t rewarded—it was punished.

I later found out that I wasn’t alone. The AXA Mind Health Report (2024) revealed that work-related stress is at its highest among millennials and Gen Zs in the Philippines, with many reporting feelings of burnout, anxiety, and mental exhaustion. The report found that younger employees are increasingly prioritizing work-life balance, yet still find themselves in rigid, high-pressure environments that compromise their well-being. Many stay in their jobs not out of fulfillment, but out of fear of unemployment. After all, even with an official unemployment rate of just 3.7 percent in mid-2025, the quality and stability of available jobs remain uncertain.

I thought of resigning. I felt stuck, stagnant. Yet the phrase kept echoing in my head: “Be grateful you have a job.” A sentence meant to silence rather than comfort.

So, I stayed. I smiled through it all and clung to the illusion of stability. But behind that façade, I realized I was losing more than I was gaining—time, motivation, and, sometimes, even myself.

The sweetness had turned bland. Then the blandness became toxic.

There were days I caught myself staring at the clock, counting down the hours like a prisoner waiting for release. Work became a fruit I had to chew on, even when every bite drained the joy from my day. I told myself it was temporary, that maybe this was just how adulthood worked. You don’t have to love your job; you just have to survive it.

But then I started to wonder: When did survival become the standard? When did we start equating endurance with success?

Excellence shouldn’t be measured by how long we can tolerate monotony, but by how we continue to learn, adapt, and grow despite it. Yet here I am, trapped in an orchard that once promised sweetness, now filled with fruits that look ripe but taste hollow.

Maybe the job isn’t entirely to blame. Maybe it’s me—expecting fulfillment where only stability was promised. Still, I can’t help but hope that one day, I’ll find a fruit that nourishes rather than drains.

Until then, I keep chewing. Because for now, it’s the only fruit I’ve got.