i blame everything on poverty and i’m tired of apologizing

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I blame poverty for this.

I do not say it with anger or rage. I say it plainly, the way a truth settles in you after years of living with it. The kind of truth that shows up quietly, usually late at night, when there is nothing left to distract you.

I used to dream a lot. I imagined myself everywhere — working in science and technology, engaging with humanities and literature, serving in healthcare, even studying law. I could see myself in many fields because, for a long time, I believed that interest and effort were enough reasons to belong. I was curious, motivated, and eager to learn. I did not yet understand how access works, or how unevenly it is distributed.

Throughout high school, I joined organisations and extracurricular activities with intention. I wanted to gain experience, develop skills, and prepare myself for university. I stayed involved not just to build a résumé, but because I felt that I needed to prove readiness — perhaps more than others. I treated every opportunity as something that could not be wasted, because I was never sure when the next one would come.

Eventually, I got accepted into several universities. Some came with strong backing and full scholarships, institutions often described as prestigious by social standards. From the outside, it looked like everything was finally aligning. But choices are rarely just about merit or desire. In the end, I chose a different college — one that still gave me a chance at a tertiary education I once thought was impossible for me.

I am genuinely grateful to that institution for taking a chance on me. That gratitude is real and steady. Still, there are moments — usually around three in the morning — when I think about what might have been. I think about the other offers, the other paths, and the versions of myself that could have existed under different circumstances. These thoughts do not come from regret alone, but from awareness.

What grounds me is the reminder that I had choices, even if only briefly. Many people never reach that point. Many never get to consider options at all. Remembering this helps me accept that I was not denied — I was redirected. That redirection came with its own lessons, responsibilities, and clarity.

As I continue studying and building myself piece by piece, I often think about those who came before me. I take education seriously because not everyone was given the opportunity to pursue theirs. I am aware that my efforts are connected to sacrifices made long before me, by people who did not get the same chances. Because of that, I feel a responsibility to do well — not just for myself, but for what this degree and future license can represent. I want to be useful. I want to give back in ways that matter.

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In a way, I am fortunate that my main stress comes from thinking about the future — about what kind of postgraduate program I might pursue next, about what comes after this chapter. These are concerns shaped by a certain level of privilege. People from the same background as mine were not always allowed to think that far ahead. Knowing this keeps me grounded. It reminds me to stay grateful, to look back, and to reflect.

Some people are born with easy access to opportunities. Others have to work twice as hard just to get a foot in the door. As a queer person of colour in a developing country, I learned early that effort alone is sometimes not enough. There are moments when you feel you need to perform — be better, be more impressive — just to be taken seriously or considered deserving.

Financial constraints did not affect only me. They shaped the lives of those who came before me and continue to shape the lives of many who share my background. I see how much potential has been lost because of this. Not because people lacked ability or discipline, but because the system did not make room for them. That loss feels generational, and it is difficult to ignore.

Poverty is not accidental. It is created and maintained by systems of control, by monopolies over resources and opportunities, and by decisions that favour a few while excluding many. Despite this, we share the same basic humanity. We breathe the same air, live on the same land, and, for those who believe, are created by the same God — understood in different ways, honoured in different forms.

Our differences in sex, skin colour, language, and culture were never meant to rank us. They exist so we can learn from one another and live with more understanding. No one should be treated as if they were born with less worth. No one’s place of origin should determine the limits of their future.

Some people benefit simply from where and how they were born. Others, especially those from least developed countries, are expected to accept fewer opportunities without question. This imbalance is not natural, and it should not be normalised.

Education is a right, yet many are still denied access because of prejudice, discrimination, and structural barriers. This is where the weight of it all settles. My heart aches for the children who are as passionate and hardworking as I am, and for those who are even more gifted. They put in the same effort, endure the same exhaustion, and hold on to the same hopes. Still, the outcome is not always fair.

I pray they are given space to grow. I pray they are seen and supported. Not in grand or idealistic ways, but through real opportunities — classrooms that welcome them, systems that do not dismiss them, and futures that allow them to become who they are capable of being.

I blame poverty for this — not to place blame alone, but to name what needs to change. And I hold on to the belief that recognising it clearly is where more honest, humane solutions can begin.