It happened in Salcedo Village.
It was one of those trendy cafés in Makati: glass doors, tiled counters, natural light filtered just right. The kind of place that makes you feel like being there means something. Like it says something about who you are.
I’d seen it on stories before. A friend once said, “We should work there sometime, it’s chill.” So I went. Alone. I told myself I’d get some work done. Maybe take a photo for the feed.
I ordered an iced latte. Non-fat milk. The kind of thing I heard other people ordering, so I followed.
Tapped my card. Declined.
Tried another. Also declined.
The barista didn’t say anything. She just looked at me. And I gave a small laugh, the kind you do when you’re pretending it’s no big deal.
I pulled out cash, the last few bills I had for the week. They were meant for rides to work. But I used them anyway.
I was already there. And somehow, the idea of walking out empty-handed felt more embarrassing than going broke over coffee.
The illusion of ‘doing well’
I work in events and PR, where everyone seems to be “on brand” 24/7. You’re expected to show up polished, connected, and just the right amount of in-the-know.
At first, it was harmless. A nice shirt here, a drink there. But soon, I found myself doing mental math in taxis: if I split this Grab with two friends, I could still afford overpriced bar chow later.
Then came the Instagram stories: MacBook on a café table. Latte sweating prettily beside a fake planner I never wrote in. Caption: “Grinding for the good life.”
The truth? I was “grinding” through the last ₱900 in my GCredit and praying no one asked me out again that week.
When you fake a life, you have to keep faking it
No one talks about how tiring it is: faking composure, keeping the aesthetic, watching your feed fill up with soft lighting and curated weekends while your wallet quietly empties.
I wasn’t just broke. I was exhausted.
One time, I showed up to a friend’s dinner, couldn’t afford to eat, and just said I was on a diet. Another night, I skipped a birthday because the Grab would’ve cost me half of what I had left until payday.
And yet, on social media, it still looked like I was “thriving.”
The hard part wasn’t just the money. It was the performance.
You wake up every day hoping no one sees the cracks, because one declined tap could unravel the entire act. You’ll know you’ve fallen into a modern-day trap when:
- You’re curating your feed like a magazine, but your wallet is screaming “please help me.”
- You’re projecting abundance, but living on borrowed cash.
- You’re living for aesthetics, but not for actual quality of life.
There’s a name for it: performative living. Mukhang mayaman online. Pero IRL? Maxed out. Always anxious. Always catching up.
We were all taught to perform. Like success is something you wear, not something you build slowly, quietly, and often, invisibly.
How I started undoing it (painfully, but honestly)
Once I hit rock bottom and got a wake-up call, I knew I had to crawl out. Not overnight. Not with a sudden epiphany. Just one uncomfortable realization at a time.
If you’ve ever felt the same way, like you’re living one curated story away from crashing, maybe these can help. They’re not magic bullets. But they’re what helped me start acting my wage, instead of just acting.
1. I stopped trying to look rich.
Asking myself: Bakit ba kailangan ko i-post ‘to? Is it for me or is it for validation? A lot of our gastos come from the need to prove something.
At some point, I realized no one was actually keeping tabs. All those Instagram stories? They disappear. But my debt? That stays. I stopped performing, and guess what? No one unfollowed me. No one even asked why I stopped posting. It was all in my head.
2. I budgeted for peace, not performance.
Instead of buying coffee out every week, I can buy a decent flask and treat myself to a DIY brew. Hindi kasing aesthetic, pero mas tahimik ang utak.
I still go out, but only if I’ve already paid my bills. If I can’t afford a ₱1,000 dinner, I skip it and suggest something else. Sometimes I just say, “Not this week.” It’s not dramatic. It’s called being an adult.
READ: A Pinoy Breadwinner’s Guide to Building Wealth Without Burning Out
3. I got real with my circle.
I told a few close friends what I was going through. Turns out, some of them felt the same way but were also pretending. We started hanging out more at home, cooking together, and finding ways to have fun without emptying our wallets. The connection got deeper when the performance stopped.
Looking back now, I wish I could tell past me: You’re not cheap for choosing to live within your means. And you’re not boring for skipping a night out.
You’re not behind just because you can’t afford the ₱500 latte with the fancy leaf.
Being financially stable isn’t loud. Sometimes, peace is just knowing you can tap tomorrow, and your card will clear.
