I've always known that I'm an average person. The kind of person you see every day and forget five minutes later. Nothing about me really stands out. And honestly, I've been aware of that since I was a child.
I was never the smart one in class. Not the student who eagerly raised their hand to answer every question. But if the teacher suddenly called my name in front of everyone, I could answer well enough to avoid embarrassing myself. Not excellent, not impressive — just enough. I learned early in life that being average meant surviving quietly without drawing too much attention.
My life at home was average too. I had a father who worked until retirement and a mother who loved cooking for the three of us every day. There was nothing extraordinary about our family, but it was warm, stable, and peaceful. I appreciated that. I appreciated them. I appreciated the simple life we had.
Looking back, everything in my life felt easy. Not easy in the sense of great achievements or success, but easy in the way that things simply flowed without much resistance. After high school, with my very average results, I managed to enroll in a Creative Multimedia course at university. Four years later, I graduated with a CGPA of 2.85.
Yes. Very average. I know.
Still, I wasn't worried. I managed to get a job at a small company as their social media handler. The salary was average, the workload was manageable, and I felt content. As long as I could support myself and contribute a little money to my small family, that was enough for me.
I didn't love my job, but I didn't hate it either. Six and a half years passed like that, and before I realized it, I had grown comfortable. Maybe too comfortable.
Multimedia work had become easier over the years, especially with the rise of AI. Even during my university days, I rarely struggled. Give the right prompt and the work was done. Content ideas, designs, video drafts — everything could be generated quickly. The only thing AI couldn't replace was confidence during presentations, but those were rare enough that I never worried too much about them.
My life was simple. Average results. Average job. Average routine.
And I was perfectly okay with that.
Until last year.
It's December now, and it has been ten months since my father passed away. He died quietly in his sleep, beside my mother. Since that day, something in her has faded. She rarely cooks anymore. She barely eats. Some days, she doesn't even leave her room. Calling her alive feels less accurate than saying she is simply existing.
About a month after the funeral, my company let me go. They said my role was no longer necessary if most of the work could be done through automated tools. They needed someone with stronger strategy skills, someone more creative, someone more "valuable."
I didn't argue. I had always known I was average.
I spent months sending out resumes. Hundreds of applications, maybe more. Some companies never replied. Some rejected me politely. Most didn't respond at all. The industry had changed faster than I had, and people like me were easy to replace.
We survived for a while using the money my father had left behind from his retirement savings. I tried to make it last— paying for groceries, my mother's medication, the utilities. But eventually, the balance reached zero.
That was when I realized that being average was no longer enough.
The job I have now is not something I planned for. It wasn't something I searched for either. It was simply the only opportunity that came when I had nothing left to choose from.
The pay is good. Much better than my old job. It comes in cash, and there are no interviews, no requirements, no need for a portfolio or experience. No one asks about my degree, my skills, or my past.
They only ask if I'm willing.
At first, I told myself it was temporary. Just until I found something better. Just until my mother recovered. Just until life became normal again.
But normal never came back.
The money pays for her medicine. It pays for the food she barely eats. It keeps the lights on and the rent paid. Sometimes she asks why I come home late at night. I tell her I work a night shift now. She nods and doesn't ask anything more. Maybe she's too tired. Maybe she trusts me. Or maybe she already knows and chooses not to say it.
The work itself is simple. No one cares about my creativity. No one asks about my achievements. No one expects me to be talented or exceptional.
They don't need someone special.
They just need someone.
And I need the money.
For the first time in my life, I'm no longer living an average life.
But I'm still just an average person.
Trying to survive.