I love to win. But winning the bread wasn’t a reward, it was a choice because there wasn’t any.

I came from a very poor family. And as far back as I can remember, I’ve been a breadwinner since I was small. Out of the three of us, at the tender age of seven, I was the one who always tagged along with my mom to buy the things she needed to sell. I helped her sell what she made in my school, chocolates, cookies, hair ornaments, you name it. My tiny hands helped stretch our tiny income. Those small earnings helped my parents put food on our table, pay for the room we were renting, and keep life going one humble step at a time.

I was a kid. And I thought that was fun.

Fast forward to 2001. I had to drop out of college because my parents couldn’t afford to send me anymore. I remember sobbing in my room, feeling defeated and angry at the unfairness of it all. Why me? Why the younger one? Why not my older brother? But there was no time for resentment. I worked in a bakery for years while my two siblings continued their education. I eventually accepted my fate, a fate I didn’t choose, but embraced. I became the one who carried the burden because someone had to. Involuntarily, yet wholeheartedly, I sacrificed.

Eventually, with the help of my uncles, I went back to college and finished my degree. I started working. And just like that, the pattern continued. I became the one who sent my youngest sister to school. I became the safety net. The fallback. The constant provider. I stopped buying things for myself because I felt guilty. That money could pay the electric bill, buy groceries, or help pay off another family debt. I stopped dreaming big for myself because I was too busy making other people’s dreams come true.

I couldn’t rest. If I rested, I wouldn’t get paid. If I didn’t get paid, we wouldn’t survive. That’s the harsh math of being a breadwinner. It doesn’t care about your exhaustion. It demands, and you give. Again and again.

But I vowed it wouldn’t be like this forever. Even though it was hard, even though I felt invisible at times, like no one really understood what I was carrying, I endured it. I chose to rise, not just for them, but one day, hopefully, for me too.

Their welfare over mine. Their happiness over mine. And yet, I don’t regret it.

Because those sacrifices taught me strength. Because those long, sleepless nights built the resilience I now wear like armor. Because those silent battles shaped the woman I am today.

Sometimes people don’t understand. They think breadwinners are fools, martyrs, or victims of guilt. But they don’t see the love behind it. The fierce loyalty. The unshakable devotion. The silent promise we make to our families to hold things together no matter what.

Being a breadwinner is not a punishment. It’s not a curse. It’s an act of love. It is, and will always be, my Why.

Five Quiet Truths I’ve Learned as a Breadwinner:

1. Sacrifice doesn’t mean self-erasure. You can give to others and still save a small, sacred part of yourself.
2. You don’t need to carry everything alone. Learn to ask for help. Accept support when it comes.
3. Money isn’t the only thing you owe your loved ones. Your presence, your peace, and your joy matter too.
4. Rest is not a luxury. You can’t pour from an empty cup, even if that cup has fed many.
5. Your dreams matter. Even if they take longer to reach, they’re still yours to claim.

Five Things I Wish I Knew I Could Do
(Even as a Breadwinner):

1. Save a little for myself, without guilt. A small fund, a tiny luxury, a quiet treat, not out of selfishness, but sustainability.
2. Set emotional boundaries. Love doesn’t mean saying yes to everything. You can support without losing yourself.
3. Take intentional breaks. Short ones. Long ones. Any pause that allows you to breathe and reset.
4. Say no to financial black holes. Not every request is an emergency. Learn to discern between need and enablement.
5. Celebrate my milestones too. Even if they seem small. You deserve to be seen and cheered for, too.

To all the breadwinners reading this: You are not alone. Your sacrifices are not forgotten. And your quiet strength is worthy of every bit of rest, joy, and love you’ve been giving to others all this time.

Choose yourself too. Not instead of them. But with them.

— Ann