Why We Have to Vote, Even If It Feels Pointless

YESTERDAY, I found myself in the middle of a sweltering crowd at a bus station in Manila.

It was mid-afternoon. The sun was high, the heat thick, and the lines—long and confusing—barely moved. Sweat trickled down necks, shirts clung to backs, and the air shimmered with the unmistakable Manila humidity.

That’s when Adrrick Vista, 23, a College of Education student from the University of Santo Tomas, caught my attention. Like me, he was headed home to Santa Cruz, Laguna—his hometown, and mine.

After confirming that we were both in the right line for Santa Cruz, I took my place behind him, standing in the full heat of the sun. No shade. Just the wait.

I noticed how young he looked, much like myself, and a thought crossed my mind. As a reporter covering the elections, it felt like a moment to ask.

“Are you a Gen Z?” came the question.

He nodded. “Yes, I am.”

“And are you going home to vote too?” I asked.

He confirmed it. 

Introducing myself as a reporter for republicasia, a Gen Z platform, I mentioned my plan to write about Gen Z and voting. When asked if I could interview him for the piece, he agreed without hesitation.

So, I went on with my question. I asked him why he thought it was important to vote, despite the hindrances and the difficulty of the trip.

The noise around us made it harder to hear. The announcer’s voice boomed, calling out passenger lines, while the horns of passing cars and buses added to the chaotic soundscape. Sellers shouted their wares on the pavement, their voices blending with the noise.

Still, Adrrick leaned in slightly, making an effort to hear and answer my question.

“Importante sa ‘tin ‘yung voting, especially sa younger age, para alam nila ‘yung right natin kahit bata pa tayo. Kasi minsan iniisip natin na dahil bata pa tayo, wala tayong right, wala tayong power to vote for change,” he said. 

“Pero in reality, kapag nagsama-sama tayo— us, the kids, the youth— ‘pag nag-vote tayo and we’re knowledgeable, I think that will make a big impact.”

While tiptoeing to hear Adrrick’s answer, I couldn’t help but think how others— especially the pessimistic ones— might perceive his perspective. For sure, they’d think of him as naive, someone idealistic, who hasn’t yet experienced the full-blown harshness of life’s reality. 

This is a phenomena I’ve observed lately, especially from the older generations. For many, the idea that things could truly change feels distant, if not outright impossible. There’s this prevailing belief that all politicians are, in one way or another, inherently corrupt. They said that the best we can do is to choose the lesser evil. 

Some have even stopped believing in the power of voting altogether. 

And I really can’t blame them. After all, when you look at our political history, it is easy to see where they’re coming from. The system has repeatedly let us down. We’ve been duped so many times, voted for people who promised reforms only to prioritize their own agendas instead of genuinely serving the public. It’s exhausting. We’re stuck in a loop of hoping and being let down. 

But then, I remembered a poem I once read: “Hope is not some delicate, beautiful bird,

Emily. / It’s a lowly little sewer rat.” 

This line is from Caitlin Seida’s poem, Hope is a Sewer Rat. It is a poem that reimagines hope, not as an idealist tool, but as something that is grounded in reality. It’s not the elegant, ethereal bird that soars high in the sky, full of promise. 

Instead, it’s gritty, persistent, and works its way through the muck and the mess. It survives in the dirtiest, most difficult of places, finding a way to make it through the worst.

And this is what the youth, like Adrrick, embody. Their hope isn’t naive—it’s grounded in the reality of corruption and disappointment, yet they still choose to act. By voting, they’re asserting their belief in change, even when the odds seem stacked against them. It’s not about miracles but about taking that first, necessary step to make a difference. 

Voting as a Resistance

Our democracy is not perfect. Sometimes, our system doesn’t even act democratic at all, favoring those in power, and setting the odds against us who are simply trying to make a difference. 

It’s frustrating—looking at a political landscape where promises of reform fade into the background, where the shadow of corruption looms large, and where it feels like the gears of progress grind too slowly, if at all. 

Yet, despite all of this, voting remains the one act that still allows us to participate, to fight back, and to challenge the status quo.

While voting may not be perfect—just like the system it hopes to influence—it is still a form of power. Our power. And no, voting isn’t the endgame. It’s the starting point. The first, necessary step toward the change we hope to build.

If we won’t even commit to the simple act of voting, then what more of the harder, messier work that change actually requires? Voting may seem small—just a name shaded in, a piece of paper slipped into a box—but it matters. It is a declaration. A way of saying: I exist. I care. I am paying attention.

Voting is an expression of the self. It’s one of the few tools we all hold equally, no matter our background or income. Alone, one vote might feel like a whisper. But collectively? It becomes a roar. A signal that we are here, and we are watching.

And even when we don’t win—when the candidate we rooted for loses, or the system still feels broken—the act of voting holds weight. It tells the world that there is another path, another voice, another way of imagining our future. It’s resistance. It’s persistence. It’s hope, made real through action.

Hope, Even in the Muck

Perhaps apathy is easier.

And cynicism, after all, can feel like armor—shielding us from the sting of disappointment, from the ache of believing in something only to watch it fall apart.

But it also blocks us from hoping.

And hope—real hope—is not a daydream. It’s not some soft, glittering idea that floats above reality. Hope is complicated. It’s dangerous. It asks something of us.

Because when we hope, we make ourselves vulnerable. We stake something. We’re not just dreaming—we’re investing. And our actions must rise to meet the weight of that dream.

To vote, despite everything, is to do exactly that. It is to believe—not blindly, but stubbornly—that change is possible.

Not because the system is just, or because the odds are in our favor. But because this small, imperfect act of marking a ballot is a kind of resistance.

It’s not the elegant songbird kind of hope. It’s the sewer rat.

Gritty. Ugly. Hard to love.

But it survives. It finds the cracks. It crawls through the filth and keeps moving.

And so must we.