“We Carry Grief Like a Backpack and Still Keep Going”

They say we’re glued to our phones. That we want everything handed to us. That we’re soft. Fragile. Sensitive. But they never ask why.

Why is it that we can’t sleep at night unless there’s background noise? Why do we joke about trauma with the same casual tone we use to talk about what we’re wearing? Why do we cry in private, hustle in public, and call it self-care?

We aren’t lazy; we’re exhausted.

We;re the generation that came out of age during active shooter drills and police brutality livestreams. We watched the ice caps melt and billionaires blast off into space like it was a game, while some of us rationed gas money just to get to school or work. We’ve scrolled past so many tragedies that the news doesn’t even shock us anymore; it just hurts less with every headline.

We’re fluent in emojis and coping mechanism though.

And somehow, in the middle of all that, we’re expected to be exceptional. To thrive. To be entrepreneurs, activist, influencers, and students; all while being told we’re entitles because we want work-life balance and therapy access. We want boundaries, not burnout. We want healing, not hustle.

But here’s the thing: we still show up.

We still organize, protest, create, care, and fight; even if we do it from bed sometimes. We turn out pain into playlist, our grief into group chats, our fear into fierce advocacy. We surviving systems that were never built for us, and doing it with style, slang, and solidarity.

So no, we’re not soft. We’re scarred.

But we’re also strong as hell. And we’re not done yet.