The Sacrifices No One Sees

People think I’m doing well.

They see me handling my responsibilities; rent paid, bills on time, child cared for. I go to work, I smile when I’m expected to, I show up. From the outside, I look like someone who has her life together. Stable. Capable. Functioning.

But they don’t see what’s behind the curtain. They don’t see the nights I sit on the edge of my bed, eyes burning with silent tears, wondering how much longer I can keep holding it all together. They don’t see how close to the edge I feel some days, how the weight of it all presses so hard on my chest it hurts to breathe. They don’t see that I’ve become a master of hiding my pain. They only see the performance; the version of me that looks like I’m “making it.”

But I’m not. Not in the way they think.

I’m in a job that drains me. It doesn't challenge me or ignite any part of my soul. I go through the motions, day after day, because it’s safe. Because it's flexible. Because it gives me just enough space to be the kind of parent I want to be. And that’s the truth; that’s why I’ve stayed. Not out of fear. But out of love. I chose this job because I’m a single parent. Because I wanted to be there for my child in the ways I wasn’t always sure someone would be there for me. I chose presence over ambition. I chose accessibility over titles. I chose school pickups over promotions. And I have no regrets. None.

But that doesn’t mean it hasn’t cost me.

It’s cost me sleep. It’s cost me parts of myself I haven’t visited in years. It’s cost me creative energy, confidence, and dreams I shelved “for later.” It’s hard to admit how long I’ve been waiting for later to come. And now… I feel tired. So, so tired.

Not the kind of tired that sleep fixes. It’s the soul-deep exhaustion of being stretched too thin for too long; of always having to be strong, dependable, and composed; even when I’m breaking inside. Of having no one to fall apart in front of, so I just don’t, and the world keeps spinning. And I keep surviving. But I want more than survival. I want to wake up excited about my work. I want to rediscover the parts of me that I buried under duty. I want to chase the dreams I postponed. I want to believe that my life can still be mine; even after all the detours and delays.

So I made a promise to myself: this is the last year. Once my child graduates from primary school, I’ll give myself permission to let go of this job. I’ll step into the unknown and chase what I really want. I’ll stop making excuses and start honoring the fire in me that’s still flickering, even after all these years of neglect. It’s scary. But I have to believe that I’m still allowed to want something more.

You are allowed to choose you, too. You can be a good parent and still want more. You can be responsible and still crave joy. You can be strong and still feel exhausted. You can love your child with everything in you and still mourn the pieces of yourself you had to put away.

And it’s not too late. So when the time comes, I will step out of the shadows I’ve lived in for so long. I will chase the life I’ve quietly dreamed of. I will become the woman my younger self prayed I’d become; the one who didn’t just survive, but finally, finally started to live. Until then, I keep going. Quietly. Bravely.

Because that’s what we do.

-HumanityECW

People Don’t Know How Expensive It Is To Be Poor

Too Poor to Work, Too Tired to Explain

There’s a line in Straw that’s still echoing in my head days later:
“People don’t know how expensive it is to be poor.”

It was one of those lines that didn’t just land; it lodged itself in my chest. Not because it was new, but because it was true. Uncomfortably, painfully, undeniably true.

I remember this one day, just like any other day, I was scrolling through social media, aimlessly. I honestly can’t even remember which platform it was, but a video popped up. A man, clearly homeless, was being interviewed. You could tell people had already made their assumptions about him — that he must’ve chosen that life, or ruined his chances somehow.

He said something I’ll never forget: “I’m too poor to get a job.”

I’ll admit it, I scoffed. I thought, like so many others do, “That’s just another excuse.”

But then he explained: “No one wants to hire a homeless person. And even if they do, I won’t get paid until the first pay cycle. But to make it that far, I’d need bus fare, clean clothes, and something decent to wear. How do I get those things with nothing?”

And in that moment, everything shifted for me.

Because that is the trap, isn’t it? That’s the brutal, hidden cost of poverty. People assume it’s just about not having money. But being poor means paying more. It could be, with time, energy, dignity, and survival itself.

And when I heard that old lady say “people don’t know how expensive it is to be poor” in Straw, it struck that same nerve. That same ache. That same quiet truth I’ve lived, and one I’ve seen so many people ignore.

In the film, we watch Janiyah try, and I mean she truly tried to keep going. She’s chasing jobs, appointments, prescriptions, housing. But when you’re poor, one setback can cost you everything. One missed bus, one closed office, one wrong reaction from someone in power, and suddenly the whole fragile thing comes crashing down.

I’ve lived some of that. Not to the same extreme, no. But I know what it’s like to juggle bills and have to decide which utility you can afford to lose. I know what it’s like to smile through depression because you’re afraid of burdening others. To look "fine" because falling apart feels like a luxury you can't afford.

Straw hit hard because it doesn’t romanticise the struggle. It exposes it. It says: Look. This is what it costs just to survive when the world’s not built for you.

And I think more people need to see that.

Because until we stop blaming the poor for their poverty… until we stop asking “Why don’t they just...” and start asking “How can we make it easier?” … until then, we’ll keep punishing people who are already doing the impossible with nothing.

So if you’ve never had to wonder how you’ll get to work, feed your child, and hold your smile together in the same breath — be grateful.

And if you have… then you know.
You know how expensive it is to be poor.
You know how heavy it feels to carry that weight quietly.
And you know that what we need isn’t judgement, it’s compassion, dignity, and real change.

—HumanityECW 

We Never Really Know

The Weight Behind Someone’s Smile

You know the new movie by Tyler Perry. It''s called STRAW. Well, I watched it the other night, and I haven’t been the same since.

It wasn’t just a movie; for me, it felt like looking in a mirror. A haunting, beautiful, gut-wrenching reminder of what it means to walk through the world quietly breaking while no one notices. Or worse — they notice, but they don’t ask.

Taraji P. Henson’s character, Janiyah, is so familiar it hurts. She’s holding it together for her child. Smiling when she has to. Getting through the day, one task at a time, while inside, her world is already crumbling. And then everything spirals. One misstep, one misunderstood moment, and the whole truth unravels.

I sat there watching, breath caught in my throat, because I knew that woman. I was that woman once; and to be honest, maybe I still am.

There was a time when I, too, carried more than I ever let on.

I smiled. I laughed. I went to work. I showed up for people. BUT inside, I was barely surviving. I didn’t want to be a burden. I didn’t want to worry anyone. So I made it look easy — because I thought if I broke down, everyone else would too.

But the truth is, struggling in silence is exhausting. And hiding pain doesn’t make it disappear. It just festers in the dark.

Watching Straw forced me to sit with the weight of that truth again. It reminded me that being overwhelmed doesn’t always look dramatic. Sometimes, it looks like holding it together too well. It looks like strength, when it’s actually desperation. And the scariest part? No one sees it until it’s too late. That’s why I believe; now more than ever; that we have to start checking in on each other differently. Not just when someone looks sad. Not just when they “seem off.” But even, especially when they look like they’re fine. Because so many of us are experts at pretending. And if you’re the one struggling; asking for help doesn’t make you weak, it makes you human. We weren’t meant to carry everything alone. You don’t have to be strong all the time. You don’t have to earn rest, or permission to fall apart. You deserve support just because you’re breathing.

Watching Straw was a painful reminder that people are unraveling right next to us, and we don’t see them because we don’t look. Because we’re too busy. Because we assume. Because we’ve grown desensitized. But we can do better. We can start asking the real questions. Offering real space. Giving people the freedom to not be okay without judgment. And maybe most importantly, we can be honest with ourselves. Drop the mask. Let someone in. Because healing starts when we stop hiding.

 We never really know what someone is carrying. But we can choose to care enough to find out.

—HumanityECW 

Empathy for Content

When Helping Becomes Content and Compassion Becomes Hashtags 

There was a time when people helped each other just… because. Not for recognition, not for a camera, not for likes or follows — but because it was the human thing to do. If you saw someone fall, you ran to lift them up. If someone was hungry, you gave what you could, even if it was just a piece of your lunch. There was a kind of sacredness to that quiet, selfless care — and it’s something I’ve noticed fading as social media continues to tighten its grip on our daily lives.

We used to show up for each other. Now, we show up for the algorithm.

I find myself scrolling through social media and seeing things that honestly break my heart — not just the tragedies themselves, but the way they’re treated. Someone gets hit by a car, and instead of running to help, people whip out their phones. A fight breaks out in a school hallway and rather than stepping in, we see a dozen angles of it on TikTok before the school even finds out it happened. There’s no moment of “Is this okay to share?”; it’s just instant: film it, post it, monetize it.

This is where I think about Childish Gambino’s 

"This Is America."

When that video dropped, it hit like a punch to the gut. It was layered, chaotic, intentional. That track is a masterclass in contrast — flashing images of celebration and horror, dancing and death, going viral and going numb. The message? We’re distracted.  It captured not just the violence and distraction in America, but the desensitization — the way we consume pain like it’s just another clip to scroll past. But what we don’t always say out loud is that it’s not just America anymore. It’s everywhere. That same frantic energy, that need to perform rather than feel, has gone global.

We’re all becoming actors in our own highlight reels, and sometimes even our kindness is scripted.

Take those videos where someone surprises a homeless person with food or a wad of cash. On the surface, they seem touching. But watch closely. You’ll see the overly dramatic background music, the exaggerated reactions, the forced narration: 

“Watch what happens when I give this man a sandwich.”

It’s a performance. And while yes, that person might genuinely be helped in the moment, you can’t ignore the power imbalance. The person receiving help becomes part of a storyline designed to pull heartstrings and push views. These “random” acts of kindness doesn’t feel real. You can tell it’s not real —you can feel it. You can see it in the eyes of the person filming. You can hear it in the voiceover. It's less “look what I’m doing to help,” and more “look at me helping.” It’s subtle, but powerful; that difference between helping and showing you helped.
 

❤️

And after watching every video, I wonder: would you have still helped that person if there was no camera? If no one would ever know?

We’re losing something sacred — the beauty of anonymous goodness. The kind that isn’t curated, filtered, or tracked by engagement stats. I’m not saying everyone is faking it. There are real people out there doing real good. But the rise of "charity content" makes it harder to tell the difference. And it makes me worry that even good intentions are being shaped by the wrong incentives.

What we reward is what we grow. And right now, we’re rewarding spectacle over sincerity.

This isn’t a call to delete your apps or never film anything again. Social media can be powerful — it can bring awareness, build community, and drive real change. But it should never replace actual connection. It should never be more important to film a moment than to be fully present in it.

It’s not that people have lost their ability to care; I don’t believe that. I believe people do care. But we’ve let the digital world warp our instincts. We reach for our phones before we reach for someone’s hand. We need to stop performing our empathy, and go back to living it. 

—HumanityECW