Until my body started telling me otherwise!
My head was spinning as I fought to stay focused, careful not to let anyone see what was really going on with me. I hauled twenty-kilogram boxes off a roller that flowed like an unending river, responsible for sorting and placing not one but four or more destinations correctly. At logistics, we build pallet castles, box after box — this is not a lazy man’s job.
I had worked nonstop for four years, taking only the occasional weekend shift off.
Until recently, I believed I could manage everything alone. It started with a slight fever and headache — symptoms I assumed would pass in a few days. I was wrong, but I carried on working anyway.
Here’s the thing about working as a parent with young children, without savings or a side business, especially when you’re not directly employed: missing a single day feels impossible. With so many people looking for work, you could be replaced within the hour, no matter how hard you’d worked. So I kept going, sick as I was.
Eventually it became undeniable. The dizziness and fog in my head grew so severe they blurred my vision. I struggled to think clearly, but I kept working anyway. I couldn’t get to the hospital after a shift — too exhausted, too little time — and I caught myself looking at my own reflection with pity, a feeling I’ve never been able to stand.
I worked from sunset to sunrise, through summer and winter, in sickness and in health, and still the pay barely covered the basics. It’s never a child’s fault that their parent falls ill, and it’s harder still to explain that to a wife and children a million miles away. When your kids are hungry, they have to eat — and being sick is no excuse for them to go without. So you’re told: work hard.
Most parents spend the better part of their lives working to provide, missing their children’s most precious moments, only to realize too late that hard work alone doesn’t solve everything — it can quietly rob you of the joy of parenthood. Fortunately, I’m not too old to have learned that now. So I kept working, but I started paying closer attention.
When my health kept declining, I finally went straight to my doctor instead of collapsing into sleep after a morning shift. She wasn’t pleased with what she found and, after running some tests, ordered a week of rest at home. I followed her instructions, mostly, seeking the emergency care she recommended and taking the medication she prescribed. But against her warning — and against my own better judgment — I went back to work the very next evening. My contract was about to expire, and I was determined to get it renewed. If I didn’t, how would I send my family what they needed to get by?
That final shift, the one I was supposed to spend at home recovering, turned out to be one of the worst decisions I’ve made recently. I felt miserable, in and out of clarity, and for the first time I was truly frightened — regretting that I hadn’t listened to my body, my doctor, or the quiet warnings I’d chosen to ignore. And on the last day of that contract, despite everything I’d given, my supervisor informed me it would not be renewed.
I went home feeling neither happy nor sad, just thinking about my children and their welfare in the months ahead — knowing I’d be out of work exactly when I needed the rest my doctor had advised, if I was ever going to keep providing for them.
What I’ve learned from all this: as a parent, taking care of your health matters. Listen when your body asks for rest, and when your doctor tells you something important. It’s wiser to work smart and build something — a side income, a cushion — that supports you beyond your labor. Hard work alone does not make life easy.
the untold Realities 