Over a hot coffee on a Saturday morning, a group of old friends met up. Laughing and giggling, conversations were flowing nonstop. It’s like time hasn’t changed a thing or two among the peers.
Someone in the group is now a licensed psychometrician, someone’s freshly engaged, and the other has booked a trip for Bali. Suddenly, as the pancakes turned cold, they felt the unsaid nostalgia of their gradually passing prime. Their youth is now becoming hazy, as it’s wrapped around with layers of different adult responsibilities. The non-negotiables of adulthood as they say.
Yet, despite differences, there is a common denominator that keeps all the balance and grounding in the group. Once in their lives, they were all aspiring to become artists of their own craft. One dreamt of becoming a successful filmmaker, the other aimed for a brutalist pottery business in the suburbs, and the latter dreamt of becoming a musician.
But, what changed? How did it turn out this way for these friends?
The Sound of Survival
One of those people sitting for a morning coffee was Axle, a 23-year-old Caviteña.
For Axle, the moment she held the guitar felt like she knew it. All she ever wanted to be was to become a musician. A free one. Over the course of her childhood, she collected memories as if they were pokemons. And the moment she knew how to express them through a pen and some tunes, she unintendedly wrote her first EP.
Growing up, both of her parents provided for a family of six. All of them are in nice clothes, good schools, and are fed with proper meals daily. They weren’t well-off, but they were intendedly provided for.
As the pandemic strikes the nation, both of her parents were laid off from their companies. They became unemployed for quite some time. Both pursued businesses, but their luck seemed to have run out. It was a challenging time, and it remained one.
Axle, the eldest of the four, had to step up to help make ends meet. Despite being in college, she decided to become the third foundation of the family. She got employed in BPO as a customer service representative, working a deathly graveyard shift while working on her degree.
As these things were happening all at once, she felt like her dreams had become the least of her concern. That being the artist that she aspires to be could wait. Right now, all she could afford to become is to survive.
Five years later, she’s still working in BPO. She has gained a degree in an industry that she loves, but can’t afford to pursue a career in it for the same reasons—survival.
Working in BPO provides her with the thing that she and her family needs the most. Stability.
The Price of Passion in the Philippines
In the Philippines, artistic inclination is practically woven into the cultural DNA—from everyday street art and vibrant festivities to a natural affinity for storytelling, music, and craft. Yet for millions like Axle, the path of a creative career remains an unaffordable luxury. A damage in a nation where survival takes absolute precedence over self-expression.
The harsh economic reality forces young Filipinos like her to trade their paintbrushes, instruments, and cameras for stable corporate jobs that guarantee a steady paycheck, healthcare, and the ability to keep their families fed.
According to data from the Philippine Statistics Authority (PSA), while the creative economy contributed around 7.1% to the country’s GDP in recent years, the creative workforce remains heavily dominated by informal, freelance, or underpaid labor, where income instability is the norm rather than the exception.
Furthermore, industry studies highlight that a vast majority of Filipino creative workers operate without basic social safety nets, insurance, or fixed monthly salaries. When a family faces sudden financial hardship, in Axle’s case, a parent’s job loss—pursuing an arts degree or a passion project shifts from a noble dream to an irresponsible risk. Burying a generation of immense creative talent beneath the non-negotiable weight of adult responsibilities.
The Silent Weight of Sacrifice
As the coffee grows cold and the morning turns to afternoon, Axle takes a slow sip, listening to her friends talk about mortgage rates, wedding venues, and flight itineraries. Nobody brings up her unfinished tracks nor her drafted films. The tragedy isn’t that they stopped loving the art, it’s that they had to love their families more.
In a country that celebrates art but starves its artists, choosing to step away takes a quiet, crushing kind of courage. Is it harder to bear the daily grind of an artistic pursuit with no safety net, or to carry the silent weight of a song you were never allowed to sing?
For Axle and millions of young Filipinos, the answer isn’t a choice, it’s a sacrifice made every single day.
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Geloy Concepcion’s “Things you wanted to say but never did” at the Ateneo Art Gallery
