The Lie of “Self-Made”
Let me say it plain: I fucking hate the term “self-made.”
It’s a lie. Maybe it’s because whoever is describing it doesn’t know how else to term it, I don’t know. But to me, it’s a slick, ego-stroking myth that some people wear like a badge of honor, as if they alone fought through the storm, built everything they have, and rose from nothing. But that’s never true. It’s never just you.
I don’t know anyone who learns without someone first teaching them something. I get “self-taught” and watching YouTube videos, etc., but that’s still learning from someone. Even if you had to grind through pain and struggle, someone somewhere helped lighten the load, even just a little.
Take my dad.
He was born poor, really poor. His childhood home didn’t even have a floor, just packed dirt beneath their feet. I remember visiting that house when I was just a kid in the 70s. I can’t imagine what it must’ve been like. But he had this fire in him, this hunger to learn. I remember his stories of how hard a farmer’s life was, and he also told us stories of how, as a boy, he’d read comic books and graphic novels about Filipino heroes like José Rizal. Men who rose from humble beginnings, who valued education, and who fought with words and intellect. Rizal was more than a historical figure to him; he was an ideal, a reminder that someone like him could dream big, too.
And dream he did.
My dad didn’t have money for books. So when my aunt graduated with a degree in chemical engineering, he took her hand-me-down textbooks and decided that’s what he’d major in. Not because he loved chemistry, but because he wanted an education, and that was the only way forward.
He got his degree. He moved us from the Philippines to Guam, California, and back to Guam. He built a career. Quietly. Humbly. He never calls himself “self-made,” even though people love to point to his story as if it were the classic rags-to-riches arc.
But he knows better. He knows he didn’t do it alone. He had family, a very strong faith, and fire. He had examples like Rizal. He had books, borrowed or otherwise. He had a village, even if it didn’t look like one.
This myth of “self-made” erases the village behind every victory. It ignores the mentors, the supporters, the random kindness of strangers, the family that sacrificed, and the communities that lifted us, even when we weren’t looking.
It’s okay to be proud of your work. I am, too. But let’s not pretend we’re islands. Let’s not rewrite our stories to make ourselves the sole hero. Gratitude makes a better legacy than arrogance ever will.
So next time someone throws around “self-made,” I won’t be impressed. I’ll be wondering who they forgot to thank. Then again, maybe I’ll suggest they probably meant determined and supported, or some variation.
