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Carrusel 2
4:5
Constantly saying yes to others — shifts, bills, abuela’s care, kids’ homework — while their own dreams gather dust. They show up early, stay late, and never complain. But at 3 a.m., they stare at the ceiling asking: ¿Y yo? ¿Cuándo me toca a mí?
A quiet grief for the self they buried to become the pillar everyone leans on. Not burnout — betrayal. They didn’t just lose time; they lost the version of themselves that dared to want. The pain isn’t exhaustion. It’s the silence where their voice used to be.
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