You know when you finally get home at 11:47 PM, still in the same clothes you put on at 6 AM, and the first thing you do is kick off your shoes by the door but you’re too tired to put them on the rack? Yeah. That feeling. It was another one of those industry mixers. My third one this month. You walk in, bright lights, too many people talking at once, and everyone’s got this fake smile plastered on their face. You grab a drink, some lukewarm punch that tastes like it’s been sitting out for three hours. And then you start the dance. You try to make eye contact. Hold it for just long enough to not seem rude, but not so long it’s weird. Nod when they talk about their latest big client. Pretend you know what they mean when they drop some obscure software name you’ve never even heard of because you’ve been too busy perfecting your Photoshop skills at 3 AM. Someone asked me what my parents do. I said, "They run a small grocery store." And then they said, "Oh, that’s… different for a graphic designer." Like it was a choice, you know? Like I just woke up one day and decided to be different. Like my parents didn’t come here with nothing and work 14-hour days so I could even HAVE a choice. My mom called me earlier. During the mixer. I saw it ring. She said, "Are you eating enough? Did you remember to call your auntie? The one who lives in Queens?" I told her I was at a work thing. She said, "Work is good. But family is important." And I get it. I do. But sometimes you just want to finish a sentence without feeling like you’re disappointing someone. I spent five hours there. Five hours of trying to seem engaged, trying to network, trying to make connections. Handing out the business cards I designed myself, which, okay, were pretty good. But still. Five hours. After a week of staring at a screen, alone, just me and my Wacom tablet, trying to make a logo look *just right*. Trying to hit deadlines that felt impossible. You get home, and the house is quiet. Too quiet. My parents are probably asleep, dreaming in their language. I make myself a cup of instant coffee, even though it’s almost midnight. And I just sit there. Staring at the empty mug. I think about what my uncle said last year. "You’re an artist? Why not a doctor? Or an engineer? Something stable." He said it with a laugh, but the laugh felt heavy, you know? Like a judgment. And I just smile and say, "This is stable too, Uncle." But it’s not. Not really. It’s just… you want to make them proud. You want to show them all the sacrifices were worth it. But sometimes you just want to sit in your room, turn off all the lights, and not talk to anyone. Not make eye contact. Not pretend. Just… be. And then you pick up your phone at 2:13 AM and type this out because you can’t tell anyone else. Not really.