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When I was a child, I hated frogs.

Not just disliked them—I genuinely feared them.

Back then, I didn't know the difference between frogs and toads. To me, they were all the same: ugly little creatures with damp skin, strange eyes, and bodies that looked wrong in every possible way. Some were slick and slimy, while others looked dry and rough, covered in bumpy warts that made my stomach turn. Their skin looked as though it would feel cold and squishy if I touched it. I hated the way they hopped without warning, how they stared without blinking, and the thought of them crawling over my feet was enough to make me shiver.

Adults loved telling children stories about them, too. I was warned that the bumps on a toad's back could squirt poison into your eyes and leave you blind. I was told they would pee on your hand if you dared pick one up. Whether those stories were true didn't matter. I believed every single one of them.

As if that wasn't enough, I remember seeing a video of a frog with what looked like dozens of tiny holes covering its back. The image horrified me. Even now, I don't know exactly what I was looking at, but to my younger self it was enough to convince me that frogs were among the most disgusting creatures on Earth. After that, I couldn't even look at one without scrunching my face in disgust.

Then one day, everything changed.

I was visiting my grandparents in the province. Their home sat beneath rows of coconut trees that swayed gently in the afternoon breeze. The air smelled of earth instead of gasoline, and the loudest sounds came from laughing children, chatting neighbors, rustling leaves, and the occasional crow of a rooster. It was peaceful in a way the city could never be.

I had been playing outside with the other children when I wandered back toward the house for a short break. Near the entrance sat an old box that had been left there for days.

Inside were toads.

Lots of them.

I froze.

To my younger self, it was less of a box and more of a nightmare.

My grandfather noticed me staring. Without hesitation, he bent down, reached into the box, and picked up the biggest toad he could find.

I remember wanting to run.

Instead, he walked over to me with the biggest smile on his face. I shook my head over and over, already pleading with him before he even reached me. I begged him not to make me touch it. I might have cried—I honestly can't remember—but I remember the fear. I remember how enormous that toad looked in his hands.

My grandfather simply laughed.

He was deaf, but somehow his laughter always seemed louder than everyone else's. It was warm, contagious, and impossible to be angry at. Still smiling, he gently took my hands and placed the toad into them.

I braced myself.

I waited for it to spit poison, blind me, or do every terrible thing I had imagined all those years.

It didn't.

The toad simply sat there.

It wasn't trying to hurt me. It wasn't angry. It wasn't a monster.

It did pee on my hand, though.

I remember immediately wanting to wash my hands afterward, and to this day I still think that's gross.

But that was all.

Nothing else happened.

Looking back now, it seems like such a small moment. I only held that toad for a few seconds. Yet somehow, those few seconds quietly changed something inside me. The fear didn't disappear overnight, but it wasn't as strong anymore. Every time I saw a frog after that, I found myself just a little less afraid than before.

Without realizing it, fear slowly gave way to curiosity. Then curiosity became fondness.

Somewhere along the way, I fell in love with frogs.

Even now, I can't fully explain why. Maybe it's because every frog reminds me of my grandfather. Maybe it's because I still laugh whenever someone reacts the same way I used to—jumping back in horror as I reach toward a harmless little frog. Their expressions remind me so much of the frightened child I once was.

Or maybe I simply love frogs because, every time I hold one, I remember the day someone I loved helped me realize that fear isn't always the truth.

My grandfather is gone now.

I don't have many things that belonged to him, and I wish I had more memories than I do. Time has a way of stealing the little details. But this memory has never faded.

Whenever I see a frog resting in the grass after the rain, or hear one croaking somewhere in the darkness, I can't help but smile. I don't just see a frog anymore.

I see a little girl who was convinced she was about to die from holding one.

I see an old man with the brightest smile and the loudest laugh.

"Money."

It was the word I heard most often as a child.

"We don't have enough money for that."

"Let's save it for now."

"We can't afford it."

No matter where I was, every conversation seemed to find its way back to money. It was always money this, money that. I didn't fully understand what bills, debt, or responsibility meant, but I understood one thing very well.

Money mattered.

If you had asked younger me whether money could buy happiness, I wouldn't have hesitated.

Yes.

Even now, my answer is still the same.

Growing up, I often heard my parents argue about money. Sometimes they whispered late into the night after they thought I had fallen asleep. Other times, they spoke loudly enough that their worries reached my room.

"You don't know how hard we're struggling."

"You don't know what we're going through."

"We keep these problems to ourselves so you won't have to worry."

Maybe they were right.

I didn't understand everything.

But I understood enough.

I understood that money was the reason my parents looked tired. I understood that it was the reason they argued. I understood that whenever there wasn't enough of it, the entire house felt heavier.

So I started saving.

Whenever I received money for school, I rarely spent it. While other children bought snacks from the canteen, I quietly slipped my money into a small container at home. Every peso mattered. Every coin felt like it belonged somewhere more important than buying something for myself.

To me, that money wasn't mine.

It belonged to my family.

Whenever I heard my parents say they needed money, I would bring them my savings. My father would always tell me he would pay me back someday, but I never expected him to.

How could I?

I still remembered him saying that he had already spent so much on my diapers and milk when I was a baby. To my younger self, it felt as though I already owed my parents more than I could ever repay. Giving them my savings wasn't a sacrifice.

It was simply what I thought I was supposed to do.

So every time my savings disappeared into another family emergency, I quietly started over.

Sometimes I tried earning money myself.

The neighborhood children would make charcoal together, and I joined them a few times. The first time I did it, I earned fifteen pesos.

Fifteen pesos wasn't much, but to a child, it felt like holding something valuable. I remember feeling proud as I walked home with those coins in my hand. At the time, I thought it was just a fun activity to do with the other kids.

Looking back now, I realize I wasn't working because I wanted spending money.

I was working because somewhere inside me, I already believed that every peso could help.

Money also reminds me of the meals we used to have.

There were many days when eggs were enough for lunch and dinner. Sometimes it was dried fish. Other times, when there wasn't much left, I remember eating rice with soy sauce, or rice with salt. There were even days when sugar mixed into water somehow became enough to satisfy a child's craving for something sweet.

Back then, I didn't complain.

I thought it was normal.

Now, those memories feel much heavier than they did when I was living them.

Our life is different now. We no longer live the way we used to.

But whenever I hold money in my hands, those memories quietly return.

I remember the eggs.

The dried fish.

The soy sauce, salt, and sugar water.

I remember the child who counted every coin because she believed one day it might help her family smile a little more.

Even today, I still find myself doing the same things.

Whenever I buy something, I ask myself if everyone in the house can use it. If it's food, I make sure everyone can eat it. If it's an object, I wonder whether it will be useful for the family before I decide if I want it for myself.

Some habits never leave you.

Money doesn't just remind me of what I could buy.

It reminds me of what we couldn't.

It reminds me of lying awake while my parents worried in the next room.

It reminds me of hearing arguments no child should have to hear.

It reminds me of getting sick and hearing people complain about how expensive medicine was. I remember feeling guilty—not because I was sick, but because I thought I had become another expense my family couldn't afford. I felt as though my illness wasn't simply something that happened to me, but another burden I had placed on the people I loved.

Children shouldn't have to think like that.

But I did.

So if someone asks me today whether money can buy happiness, my answer will still be the same.

Yes.

Not because money buys luxury.

Not because money buys expensive things.

But because I know what it feels like to live without enough of it.

I've seen the tears it causes.

I've heard the arguments it starts.

I've felt the guilt it can place on a child who simply got sick.

Money cannot buy everything.

It cannot stop people from growing old, erase grief, or give us more time with the people we love.

But it can put food on the table.

It can pay for medicine without making a child feel guilty.

It can quiet the worries that keep parents awake at night.