They try to convince you that being in the middle means balance
when really,
it means being stepped on from both sides.
Let’s talk about it.
Middle child.
Middle class.
Middle seat.
Middle of your twenties.
Where you’re expected to shut up and understand everything.
From the temper tantrums of toddlers
to the philosophical detours of boomers (who think your stress is invalid
because they didn’t have WiFi growing up).
At work,
you’re too young to lead, too old to be mentored.
You’re expected to know the system,
but not to question how broken it is.
At home,
you’re “already an adult” when it’s time to pay bills,
but still “anak kemarin sore”
when it’s time to be trusted with family decisions.
You bend. You nod. You yield.
You give your seat to the elders,
then give up your voice to keep the kids entertained.
And if you protest? You’re dramatic.
You’re disrespectful. You’re entitled.
They say you’re the softest generation,
but maybe you’re just the first to be tired
of being understanding all the damn time.
Middle class? The same joke with a different punchline.
Too poor for luxury, too rich for subsidy.
You’re the economic background character,
contributing to GDP, but never be the one
in the front row of policy speeches.
Honestly, it feels like the middle is where society
sends everyone they don’t know what to do with.
Not struggling enough for charity,
not powerful enough for authority.
You’re just here. Holding things together.
Smiling politely while you get passed over.
Again.
And again.
And again.
But here’s the worst part.
The world is built on the backs of the middle.
You’re the emotional buffers, the economic engine, the cultural glue.
And still. STILL. You’re the first to be asked to wait.
To sacrifice. To adjust.
Maybe one day, someone could say,
“Thanks for not making everything about you,
even when you had every reason to.”
But until then, you’ll keep yielding
at the intersection of everyone else’s comfort zones.
Not because you want to.
But because someone has to vanish
to make way for the breakthrough.
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