When a close relative passed away, the first thing that came to my mind was: Can I take leave?
That day, close to the end of work hours, a Line message popped up on my phone.
It was from my husband.
His grandmother had passed away.
I stared at those words for a few seconds, but my mind didn’t immediately fill with grief. Instead, another thought surfaced—
Can I request leave?
The question arose naturally, without any real thought.
Because back then, working overtime until eight or nine at night had become routine. The production line was running at full capacity, work orders were stacked up, and everything was interlocked like tightly wound gears. And I was one of the parts that couldn’t be loosened easily.
If I took leave, would it disrupt the schedule?
Would the production line not know what to do next?
Would the already tense rhythm become even more chaotic?
I sat at my desk without moving right away.
In that moment, I wasn’t a family member or a junior. I was the production controller.
It took me a little time to convince myself—
If leave is needed, then it must be taken.
Not because I’m not important, but because I’m human too.
Someone who also needs to breathe.
In a way, I even knew this leave wasn’t just for the bereavement itself, but also to step away, even briefly, from a work pace that had become almost suffocating.
I informed my supervisor first.
I clearly stated it was bereavement leave.
His reaction was calm and direct: “Take the leave if you need it. I’ll coordinate with another colleague to handle your work.”
Those words were simple, yet reassuring.
No extra questions, no hesitation. As if in that moment, I wasn’t an irreplaceable role, but simply an employee who needed time off.
But with the production line, I didn’t explain as clearly.
I just said casually, “Something’s come up at home. I’ll be taking tomorrow off.”
I didn’t mention bereavement leave or explain the reason.
Partly because we weren’t close enough to discuss personal matters, and partly because I didn’t want my private emotions laid out in the workplace.
Later, I found out they thought I was going to a job interview.
When I heard that, I almost wanted to laugh.
But it wasn’t a laugh of absurdity—it was a quiet kind of understanding.
Apparently, to them, I really did look exhausted.
Exhausted like someone who might leave at any moment.
In a way, it was an impression I had deliberately cultivated.
Not to gain sympathy, but because when others know you’re carrying a heavy workload, they tend to be more understanding, more patient.
It wasn’t calculation. It was survival.
Before fully settling into the role, before building a steady rhythm, I needed that kind of buffer.
During those days of bereavement leave, I temporarily stepped away from the constant stream of emails, shifting schedules, and questions that always needed answering.
Work didn’t stop because of it.
The production line kept running, work orders kept moving forward.
That was when I realized something—
The world wouldn’t collapse just because I was gone for a day.
Yet while immersed in it, I always felt I couldn’t leave.
This job had slowly trained me to put responsibility before myself.
Even when facing life and death, the first thing that came to mind was still work.
Not because work mattered more,
but because a sense of duty had become instinct.
Still, I’ve also begun to remind myself—
No matter how important the role, in the end, it’s still just a person.
And people need to stop sometimes.