On the invisible rules we grow up learning, the differences we notice but rarely discuss, and why I keep returning to questions of money, taste, and belonging.
NOVEMBER 5, 2026 · THE SOCIAL CLASS SERIES
An observation of the lives we lead, and the worlds we learn to navigate.
In the Philippines, you can learn a great deal about someone’s social class without ever asking how much they earn.
Sometimes, all it takes is knowing where they went to school.
Or where they live.
Or how they speak English.
We notice the brands people wear, the restaurants they frequent, the places they travel to, and whether their families own the homes they live in. We notice who drives and who commutes. Who spends weekends at the mall and who spends them somewhere that requires a plane ticket.
We notice the small things, too. The way someone orders at a restaurant without looking at the prices. The way another person quietly calculates their share before agreeing to dinner.
And sometimes, we make assumptions before we even realize we’re making them.
I know I have.
I’ve always been curious about social class. Not just the obvious differences between rich and poor, but the quieter distinctions between people who appear to live similar lives.
The difference between someone who earns a good salary and someone who comes from money. Between a family that can afford a beautiful home and one that has owned several for generations. Between someone who buys expensive things and someone for whom those things have never been considered expensive.
I’ve wondered why certain people seem comfortable in almost any room they enter, while others spend years learning how to behave in those same rooms.
I’ve wondered why some women apologize for wanting beautiful things, while others grow up believing those things are simply part of life.
And perhaps most uncomfortably, I’ve wondered what these differences say about me.
Not because I believe one class is better than another.
But because I have spent much of my life noticing the distance between what people have, what they appear to have, and what they believe they deserve.
I don’t remember anyone sitting me down as a child to explain social class.
There was no lesson about the difference between being comfortable and being wealthy. No conversation about inherited privilege or the advantages that come from knowing the right people.
But I understood certain things anyway.
I grew up in a lower-middle-class household, although I didn’t have a name for it then. I only knew that some things required more consideration than others.
I noticed these differences everywhere. At school, in other people’s homes, in conversations between adults, and in the things children were allowed to ask for without hesitation.
I understood that some families could say yes more easily than others.
That a school activity could be an ordinary part of childhood for one student and a financial discussion at home for another.
That some children received things simply because they wanted them, while others learned to explain why they needed them.
And that wanting something beautiful could be read as impractical, wasteful, or ungrateful.
Luho lang ’yan.
It’s a phrase many Filipinos grow up hearing. Just a luxury. Something unnecessary.
But what qualifies as luho depends so much on the family saying it.
For one household, eating out is a luxury. For another, it’s a weekly routine.
A private education might represent years of sacrifice for one family and an unquestioned expectation for another.
Even rest can mean different things depending on how much money a household has.
These differences are not always visible from the outside. And yet they shape so much of how we grow up.
They teach us what to ask for, what to keep quiet about, and what kind of future feels realistic.
Sometimes, we carry those lessons long after our circumstances have changed.
This is probably where I should admit something.
I like beautiful things.
I like well-made clothes, thoughtfully arranged homes, beautiful hotels, good stationery, and the kind of everyday objects that make ordinary routines feel considered.
I notice fabrics. Furniture. Table settings. The way someone carries herself.
I’m drawn to elegance, not only as an aesthetic, but as something people learn, inherit, perform, or sometimes use to protect themselves.
I know that admitting this can sound superficial, especially in a country where so many people are struggling to afford necessities. There are moments when I’ve questioned whether writing about beautiful things is appropriate at all.
But the longer I think about it, the more I realize that taste and class are not separate conversations.
Who gets to develop expensive taste?
Who gets to call something an investment rather than an indulgence?
Why is a particular preference considered refined when expressed by someone wealthy, but maarte when expressed by someone who isn’t?
Why do we admire certain lifestyles while criticizing the people who try to attain them?
And why does a woman sometimes feel the need to justify wanting something simply because it is beautiful?
I don’t think these questions are trivial.
I think they reveal something about the invisible rules we live by.
For a long time, I thought social class was mostly about income. The more someone earned, the higher their class.
But the older I get, the less straightforward it appears.
Someone earning a substantial salary may still be supporting parents, siblings, or extended family. Another person earning less may have a fully paid home, inherited property, and no dependents.
On paper, the first person earns more.
In practice, the second may have considerably more freedom.
And then there are the advantages that don’t appear in a bank account.
Knowing which schools matter.
Knowing how to speak to people in positions of authority.
Having relatives who can make introductions.
Understanding the expectations of certain social circles before ever entering them.
Knowing that if a business fails, a parent can help.
Knowing that a mistake will be inconvenient rather than devastating.
These things matter. Not because these advantages erase anyone’s effort, but because they change what that effort can accomplish.
I keep returning to the difference between earning money and growing up with access. Between becoming wealthy and being raised around wealth. Between having enough to purchase something and having enough security that purchasing it requires very little thought.
They are different experiences, even when the outward results look similar.
There’s another part of this I can’t stop noticing: how easily we mistake appearance for financial reality.
Someone who dresses well, speaks confidently, travels occasionally, and lives in a beautiful space can be assumed to have more money than they actually do.
Sometimes, that assumption comes with admiration.
Sometimes, it comes with expectations.
People may assume you can afford to contribute more, lend money, pay for dinner, or help someone through a difficult situation. They may find it hard to believe that you also budget, save, worry, or make sacrifices.
And the reverse happens, too.
Someone with considerable wealth may live quietly, wear ordinary clothes, and have little interest in displaying what they own.
Wealth doesn’t always announce itself.
Neither does financial insecurity.
I think about how much effort people put into appearing as though they’re doing fine. Not because they’re dishonest, but because looking secure can change how others treat them.
Presentation can open doors.
It can also create expectations that become difficult to maintain.
I want to write about that contradiction. About the difference between looking comfortable and feeling secure. About why we sometimes spend money to appear as though money isn’t something we worry about. And about the complicated relationship between dignity, appearance, and belonging.
When people discuss inequality in the Philippines, the conversation often centers on the wealthy and the poor.
Understandably so. The differences can be enormous, and the consequences of poverty are far more serious than the discomfort of not being able to afford a particular lifestyle.
But I also want to understand the spaces between those extremes.
The working family whose income is already allocated before payday.
The household that is finally doing well, provided nobody gets sick.
The lower-middle-class parents who sacrifice for private education because they believe it will give their children a different future.
The professional who earns more than her parents ever did but still feels financially responsible for everyone at home.
The upper-middle-class family that travels abroad but still has to plan carefully.
The wealthy family whose children grow up with access to opportunities other people spend decades trying to reach.
And the families whose wealth has existed for so long that money has become part of their culture rather than something they discuss.
These aren’t rigid categories. People move between them. Families rise and fall across generations. Income, assets, education, geography, and family obligations complicate almost every distinction, and two people in the same economic group can live very different lives.
I don’t want to pretend otherwise.
What I care about is how these circumstances shape everyday decisions.
How people think about work.
How they choose partners.
What they consider a reasonable expense.
What they fear losing.
What they believe their children should have.
And what they imagine a good life looks like.
Perhaps the part I return to most often is belonging.
Because moving into a different financial position doesn’t necessarily mean feeling that you belong there.
You can learn how to dress for a particular room without feeling comfortable inside it.
You can afford a restaurant and still hesitate before ordering.
You can earn more money than you once imagined and continue treating certain purchases as though they require permission.
You can leave behind financial circumstances without leaving behind the habits they created.
And sometimes, the opposite happens. A person can grow up surrounded by comfort and lose it, only to discover how much of their identity was tied to a life they assumed would always be there.
I wonder how much of our relationship with money is really a relationship with memory.
With the homes we grew up in.
With the things our parents worried about.
With the conversations we overheard.
With the moments we felt embarrassed, proud, excluded, or unexpectedly welcome.
Maybe that’s why class is so difficult to discuss without becoming personal. Even when we talk about money, we’re often talking about something else.
Security.
Shame.
Ambition.
Fear.
Pride.
The desire to be accepted.
And the desire to become someone different without feeling that we’ve betrayed the people who raised us.
I don’t want this series to be a collection of judgments about who has too much or who doesn’t have enough.
I don’t want to romanticize poverty or suggest that struggle automatically makes someone more virtuous.
I don’t want to assume that wealth tells me everything about someone’s character.
And I don’t want to pretend that every class experiences difficulty in the same way.
They don’t.
There is a meaningful difference between worrying about maintaining a lifestyle and worrying about having enough to eat. Acknowledging that doesn’t mean we can’t examine both. It means we should be careful about how we compare them.
I also know there are experiences I haven’t lived. I can write about my own upbringing, the things I’ve observed, and the assumptions I’ve had to reconsider. But I cannot claim to understand every household simply because I’ve thought about class.
My own circumstances have changed over the years. I grew up lower middle class, experienced a different kind of comfort by the time I reached college, and now live a life I once associated with wealthy people.
I’ve watched my understanding of what is expensive, necessary, and ordinary change along with my circumstances.
But I also know that living a certain way doesn’t mean growing up that way. And having access to things I once considered luxuries doesn’t mean I’ve inherited the security, connections, or familiarity that sometimes come with generational wealth.
Some of these essays will be personal. Others will require more listening, reading, and questioning. And I expect some of what I believe now will change as I learn more.
I’m comfortable with that.
I would rather write from curiosity than certainty.
Because the more closely I look at class, the more I notice how often we misunderstand one another.
We mistake someone’s possessions for their financial security.
We mistake someone’s restraint for a lack of ambition.
We mistake familiarity with expensive things for evidence of wealth.
We mistake financial success for freedom.
And sometimes, we mistake our own circumstances for what is normal.
I’ve been thinking lately about how much of adulthood involves reconsidering the things we learned as children.
The things we were told were practical.
The things we were taught to save for.
The things we learned not to ask for.
The kind of life we were encouraged to pursue.
And the kind of life we quietly wanted anyway.
Some of us were raised to believe that stability was the greatest achievement. Others were raised to expect opportunities many people never receive. Some learned to associate money with safety. Others learned to associate it with status, responsibility, freedom, or power.
Most of us inherited some combination of these ideas without realizing it.
When I look at the differences between people’s lives now, I no longer see only what they can or cannot afford.
I see the choices available to them.
The expectations placed upon them.
The fears they carry.
The opportunities they inherited.
And the things they were taught to believe they could become.
So maybe that’s where I begin. Not with a definition of rich or poor, or a list of which families belong where.
But with the quieter question underneath all of it.
How much of what we want is truly ours?
And how much was shaped by the world we grew up in?
I don’t have an answer yet.
I suspect I’ll spend a long time writing toward one.
So much of what we want begins long before we know how to name it.
I’ve put together twelve quiet prompts about the things we were taught to value, the things we learned not to ask for, and the lives we’re learning to choose for ourselves.
A little space to consider what you’ve carried with you, and what you might want to leave behind.
A Conversation, If You'd Like
What did you grow up believing about money, class, or the things you were allowed to want? You’re welcome to share your thoughts here.