The Last and the Lightest

     

In Filipino families, being the bunso, the youngest child, comes with a certain expectation. People often see us as the “baby of the family,” the one who runs away with things, receives the most attention, and carries the lightest responsibilities. From the outside, it may look like a life filled with privilege and comfort. 

Growing up, I had a seven-year gap with my middle sibling, which made our bond even more special. Even though our house had two bedrooms, my family preferred to sleep together in the living room. Every night before going to sleep, we would play, watch TV, and study side by side. I cherished those nights deeply, never realizing they wouldn’t last forever. 

As time passed, our home began to change. The once makalat, maingay, at masaya (messy, noisy, and joyful) atmosphere slowly faded, replaced by silence. Even a single chair stayed unmoved because my two older brothers were too busy facing the challenges of college and adulthood. In that moment, I realized that growing up is about facing changes, even when they’re hard to handle.

Watching your older siblings chase their dreams fills you with pride and inspiration. But at the same time, it creates a quiet kind of pressure. As they move forward in life, I’ve come to realize how easy it is to feel left behind—like I’m still catching up while they’re already starting new journeys of their own.

That’s the double-edged sword of being the bunso. While we enjoy the privilege of learning from those who came before us, we also face the pressure of living up to them. Being the youngest means being protected, but it also means being compared and measured against paths already taken. It’s a blessing and a burden all at once. It serves as a reminder that while the bunso may be the “baby of the family,” we grow up carrying silent pressures that often go unnoticed.