"Kakayanin": When Resilience Becomes a Burden

I remember the exact moment my body said "enough" - though I refused to listen at first. I was setting up for an indoor exhibit at an event, rushing to set-up my stall, I fell off some steps. The pain shot through my left ankle immediately, but my first thought wasn't about my wellbeing. Instead, my mind raced with very Filipino concerns: "Nakakahiya naman kung mag-iinarte ako" (How embarrassing if I make a fuss). I didn't want to "make a scene" or "bother anyone." The show, in my mind, had to go on.

In true Filipino fashion, I did what we've all been conditioned to do: I pushed through. "Kakayanin," I told myself. I'll manage. I'll endure.

The Cost of "Kakayanin"

Reality hit hard at the end of the day when I couldn't even walk anymore. The final moments of that market day painted a stark picture of the price of toxic resilience: me, crawling down the venue's steps because my left foot couldn't bear any weight, the kind event organiser helping me down while my husband rushed to pack up our displays and bring the car closer. That's what it took for me to finally admit to myself that pushing through was a mistake.

The Long Road to Recovery

What I dismissed as a minor inconvenience turned out to be an avulsion fracture - an injury that would demand over eight weeks in a boot brace, with the first two weeks on crutches. Even now, after finally getting the boot off last week, my ankle is still healing. The doctor says I still have weeks to go before I'm back to normal, and that I would need physiotherapy.

Here's the bitter irony: by trying to power through one market day, I ended up having to scale back my entire schedule. After the Filipino festival season, I made the difficult but necessary decision to be more selective with my markets. No more booking every weekend. No more pushing through pain. One day of "kakayanin" cost me weeks of mobility and opportunities - a harsh lesson in the false economy of toxic resilience. 

Our Cultural Blind Spot

We Filipinos pride ourselves on our resilience. It's woven into our cultural DNA, shaped by generations of overcoming adversity. "Matiisin" (enduring), we call it. "Matatag" (strong). But there's a dark side to this strength that we rarely discuss.

Looking back, I should have gone home immediately after the fall. Any reasonable person would say this was the obvious choice. But for those of us raised in a culture where pushing through pain is seen as a virtue, the obvious choice isn't always obvious.

Lessons in Humility and Growth

This injury forced me to confront not just our toxic resilience culture, but also my own hyper-independence. The lessons have been profound and sometimes uncomfortable.

First, I had to learn that it's okay to ask for help - something my fierce independence fought against every step of the way. Having to rely on others for basic tasks felt foreign, almost wrong at first. But gradually, I realised that accepting help isn't a sign of weakness - it's an acknowledgment of our shared humanity and connection. Every offered hand, every moment of support, was a reminder that we're not meant to do everything alone.

I'm especially grateful for my husband, who became my rock through this journey - from that first day helping me pack up the market stall, to supporting me through countless frustrated moments when I couldn't do simple tasks on my own. And my friends, who showed up not just with practical help but with much-needed encouragement and humour when the frustration of dependency felt overwhelming. Their presence reminded me that while injury might slow down my body, it doesn't have to dampen my spirit.

These eight weeks of limited mobility also opened my eyes to a world I hadn't truly understood before. Living with a boot brace and crutches gave me just a glimpse into the daily reality of people with disabilities. It changed how I see accessibility, how I understand the challenges of navigation, and deepened my empathy for those who face these challenges not for weeks, but for years or lifetimes.

Perhaps one of the most surprising lessons came when I started my new job wearing the boot. I was so self-conscious at first, worried about judgements and perceptions. Instead, I was met with unexpected kindness. More importantly, I discovered that I could still be effective, still contribute meaningfully, without rushing around at my usual breakneck pace. Success, I learned, doesn't always wear running shoes.

But the most profound lesson was learning to listen when my body speaks. Pain isn't a challenge to overcome - it's communication we need to hear. Those signals I ignored that market day? They were wisdom I chose to dismiss. Now I understand that "slowing the fuck down" isn't admitting defeat - it's embracing wisdom. Sometimes the bravest thing we can do is simply pause and pay attention to what our bodies are trying to tell us.

A Message to My Fellow Filipinos

To everyone who's ever pushed through pain because "kaya pa" (I can still handle it):

❀ Your worth isn't measured by your pain tolerance
❀ Your success isn't determined by how much you can endure
❀ Your strength isn't proven by ignoring your body's needs
❀ Asking for help isn't a burden - it's building community

Moving Forward

These days, I'm much more intentional about everything - from which markets I attend to how I pace my daily activities. Each task is approached with awareness, not rushed necessity. Most importantly, I've learned that it's okay to say "hindi ko na kaya" (I can't anymore) when I need to.

My ankle is still healing, but the lessons are already complete: Sometimes the strongest thing we can do is acknowledge our limits. In a culture that celebrates endless endurance, choosing to stop, rest, and ask for help isn't just self-care - it's revolution.

And perhaps the most powerful realisation? When we finally allow ourselves to be vulnerable and accept help, we often discover that people are kinder than we imagined. From the event organiser who helped me down those stairs to my colleagues who supported me through my boot-wearing first weeks at a new job - there's strength in community that our hyper-independence sometimes prevents us from experiencing.