An:Ya

According to Jason Pargin

When we were kids, we dreamed big. We wanted to be doctors, lawyers, astronauts, and even the president. Nowadays, as adults, we’re alright with settling into a reasonably priced apartment with a stable job.

The point is most long-term goals don’t pan out the way we plan. Pero bakit nga ba?

1: We tend to focus on the how instead of the why

Most people know how to change, but not enough of them have a solid reason why they have to. They want to achieve success without being fully committed to it, without sitting through the discomfort of changing and growing.

Anyone can do the hard thing if the why is strong enough.

2: We’re not letting go of parts of ourselves

Change costs you something. Not just in effort or pain, but in what we give up. If we say we’re going to add a new goal (like running, learning a new language, or chasing some big dream), we’re not just adding. We’re replacing. Sacrificing. Trading one part of our lives for another.

Becoming someone new means killing off pieces of who we are now.

3. We expect ourselves to magically become better

Who we are in 10 years is just who we are today, multiplied by days. We don’t get transformation by default. We get it through repetition. So if we’re not starting now, we’re not gonna start ever.

If we really want to become someone else, then we have to start being that person today.

4. We discourage ourselves by being too eager

Big goals seem impossible when we zoom out too far, so we just have to show up today and do today’s task. Then tomorrow’s. Then the next. That’s how the big stuff gets done: by reducing it to small, manageable steps and trusting that they’ll stack up.

We win not by climbing the mountain all at once, but by putting one foot forward every day.

5. We don’t know the difference between fantasy and intention

There’s wishful thinking and then there’s intentional wanting. The world is split into two kinds of people: those who fantasize and stall, and those who pay for what they want—with time, effort, and sacrifice.

According to Ellis Tree

Obsession is often misunderstood.

In a world that values balance, moderation, and productivity, being consumed by a single idea or interest can appear unhealthy and dangerous.

But for creatives, it can be a compass. It’s the spark that drives us into deep focus, long hours, and unexpected territory. The initial high of an obsession—the kind that keeps us up at night, pulls us away from the world, and demands our full attention—is often the birthplace of the most original and personal creative work.

True obsession transforms the mundane into the magical. What seems insignificant to most becomes a mirror, a gateway, a language for something bigger; not because the thing itself is extraordinary, but because obsession sharpens the lens through which we see it.

When you magnify something with enough intensity, it starts to reflect everything: your history, your curiosity, your identity.

For neurodivergent creatives, an obsession is foundational. Hyperfixations or special interests often shape how they engage with the world, how they work, and how they connect with others. The creative process becomes a space where they can unmask, explore freely, and find clarity in the things they care about most.

But obsession alone isn’t enough.

Turning an obsession into something shareable requires translation. The story has to move from “just for me” to “for someone else, too.” This is where the discipline kicks in. It’s the refusal to quit even when the initial fire has cooled.

Obsession starts the engine, but persistence drives the journey. To create something honest and meaningful, creatives must allow themselves to fall into the things that pull at them.

Kapwa: The Heart of Everything

In Filipino culture, you are not just “you.” You are part of “us.” It’s an invisible thread that ties families, friends, neighbors, and even strangers together.

Ito ang dahilan kung bakit sa halip na “Hello,” ang tanong natin ay “Kumain ka na ba?”

Dahil ang kalagayan mo, kalagayan ko rin.

Bayanihan: No One Left Behind

Madalas itong inilarawan bilang mga magkakapitbahay na sama-samang bumubuhat ng bahay kubo, pero ang tunay na diwa ng bayanihan ay ang siguraduhing walang maiiwan.

Passing around a job opportunity, raising funds for a sick friend, or helping a classmate understand a lesson are examples of this.

Malasakit: Radical Compassion

It’s care that goes beyond. It’s compassion turned into action. Ito yung klase ng pag-aalaga na minsan nakakapagod pero kusa pa ring ginagawa.

It’s when a tita cooks extra for your family or when a co-worker covers your shift without complaint.

Paggalang: Respect Built In

It’s embedded in the way we speak, in “po,” “opo,” and the respectful gestures of mano.

Pero lagpas pa doon, naroon ito sa kusang pagbibigay ng upuan sa jeep, sa pagbabantay sa mga nakababatang kapatid, at sa pagpapahalaga sa pamilya kahit minsan nakakabigat na.

Kantahan + Tawanan = Joy as Resistance

And perhaps the most underrated but most magical value is this: Joy as resistance.

Kahit ilang trahedya, kahit ilang ulit tayong pinatahimik at pinahirapan, kumakanta pa rin tayo. Nagtatawanan kahit sa burol. Gumagawa ng meme sa gitna ng krisis.

Ganito Maging Pilipino

SH: Itinuro sa atin ng #KultuRA natin na ang tunay na lakas ay nasa sama-sama. Ang pag-aalaga ng kapwa ay isang kapangyarihan.

On my mother’s old vanity dresser, multiple tubes of lipsticks in varying shades of nudes and browns were displayed. And yet it was a single bullet of red lipstick that called out to me: Avon’s “Truest Red”. Worn blunt, yet casing polished. I could vividly remember the scent of the formula from all the times she left kiss marks on my cheek before she left for work. It was a beautiful hue that I thought was fitting for the matriarch of my family.

She wore it selectively and only during times when she had to face a crowd, such as neighborhood gatherings or school events. Once, she even wore it at a funeral of a distant relative I wasn’t familiar with. Was it a bold choice? Perhaps, but my mother was always a deliberate person. She had a pattern. It didn’t take long for me to understand that wearing red lipstick was her manner of silent protest. 

Growing up in a conservative province, I was taught early that beauty was an indulgence. Catholic teachers enforced a “no makeup rule” on the girls, but many—including myself—tried to slither through loopholes with tinted balms and glosses. Lips that were too pigmented, too pink, too red had to be wiped clean. “Wag masyado mapula,” a teacher said when I was twelve years old. “Parang pokpok.” The comment lodged itself in my teenage throat, muffling whatever defiance I wanted to emulate from my mother.

But the red never stopped calling.

How could it not? The color is a symbol on the very flag of our country, and even more present in the pages of our history. Wars. Blood. Sacrifice. In the story of Kumander Liwayway, the WWII guerilla fighter who marched into battle, red lips cemented her presence. In protest rallies today, red shrouds the bodies of students refusing to be silent. In both spectacle and struggle, red survives.

In the spectrum of Filipina archetypes, the manananggal and Maria Clara stand on opposite ends—monster and maiden. Somewhere in between is a woman in red lipstick: my mother. Controlled, yes, but never tame. I think of drag queens at Cubao’s underground pageants, blotting crimson onto tissue before a performance of a lifetime. I think of my own lips the first time I wore MAC Ruby Woo to a job interview.

Today, I carry multiple reds in my purse. Sunnies Face “Major,” NARS “Dragon Girl,” even one shade I mixed myself. I wear them not just for style, but as a reminder:

Visibility is its own form of resistance.

If I could sit across from my younger self, I’d start by reaching out, holding their hand, and simply saying: 

You’re not broken. 

Because before the lessons and the courage, before the community and the love, what that younger version of me needed most was reassurance that our existence wasn’t a mistake.

Growing up queer in a society that often treats queerness as a sin to be confessed or corrected, I’d tell my younger self that being “different” isn’t a burden to carry in silence. 

I’d pass on the knowledge that queerness isn’t a wound to cover, but a prism that refracts who you are in a hundred glorious colors.

I’d tell them that it’s okay not to have all the words yet. 

Gender and attraction and identity aren’t multiple choice questions you have to answer before recess. They’re landscapes you get to explore for the rest of your life. You’re allowed to change. You’re allowed to evolve. You’re allowed to say “I don’t know” and mean it with hope, not fear.

I’d want them to know they are allowed to take up space. 

I’d show them that one day, they’ll have friends who feel like home, a love that doesn’t make them apologize, and a voice that no longer shakes when it speaks truth. I’d remind them that softness is strength, that vulnerability is not weakness, and that joy is resistance.

Most of all, I’d tell them that pride doesn’t always roar. 

Sometimes it whispers, “Keep going.” Sometimes it looks like crying alone in your room, and sometimes it looks like dancing at a march. 

Pride is not a destination. It’s political. It’s a practice. One that unfolds over time, in the way you forgive yourself, protect others, and live out loud in a world that keeps trying to silence you.

Living with pride is a reminder that your existence—your joy, your grief, your complexity—is worthy of celebration. 

I was raised by a single mom.

It wasn’t easy for both of us. Her accepting the responsibilities meant for two parents forced me to grow up faster compared to my peers. 

I had to be more independent at an early age. I had less room for mistakes or weakness because my mom wanted to prepare me for the real world—the unkind one she was facing.

Harsh judgment didn’t come from teasing classmates, but from ignorant adults who decided the problem must have been the wife. And yet, my mom endured with her head held high.

Having a single mom meant you saw her struggles up front. When you’re seen as less of a daughter and more like an equal, you see more parts of your mom that make her human. Just like you, she can be flawed while still trying her best.

“Nabudol ka nanaman ba?”

With the number of content creators and influencers appearing on our feed every day, it’s safe to say that we’ve all impulsively bought something online that we didn’t really need. 

But recently, a new trend emerged that goes against just that: underconsumption core.

“Underconsumption core” is the antithesis of overconsumption. It focuses on purchasing with purpose and promotes making the conscious decision of NOT buying more than what we need.

From makeup compacts used all the way to the pan, to clothes they’ve had since they were still a teenager, people have been showing off their minimalism with pride.

It’s also important to note that many of us “underconsume” without realizing it: reusing the same phone instead of buying the latest model; using the same lamp for years and only changing the light bulb when needed; or making coffee at home.

Underconsumption core’s beauty is that it celebrates what living normally looks like. 

If you’re looking to improve your spending habits, here are a few things you can learn from “underconsumption core”:

-Ask yourself if it's an influence or a need -Go thrifting -Embrace hand-me-downs -Practice the “you only need one” mindset

While it’s easy to fall prey into buying something because you’ve been influenced or because you wish to follow a certain aesthetic, inflation is still worsening in our country. Salaries have not kept up with living expenses.

This is Bob.

Bob used to be just a guy…until he was given the super serum that gave him the “power of a million exploding suns” and turned him into the Sentry.

But with that power came the Void—the dark side of Bob’s mind. Think of it as a physical manifestation of Bob’s trauma, fear, addiction, and depression all rolled into one. And then give that being powers too.

Bob’s worst enemy is himself.

In Thunderbolts*, Bob’s story shines a light on what it really means to live with mental illness. Gaining super powers did not instantly remove his struggles with mental health. 

Behind the glowing eyes and superhuman strength is someone trying to survive depression, addiction, and a constant fear of losing control. His struggle isn’t glamorous. It’s messy, painful, and deeply human.

Bob is not alone. 

SH: Each member of the Thunderbolts* has a past they’re not proud of and a voice in their head they try to ignore. The film doesn’t shy away from that. It puts them in “shame rooms” where they’re forced to confront their worst memories, regrets, and fears.

But they’re not in those rooms alone. They face them together, and that’s the point.

Bob is an important reminder.

Bob shows us that pain doesn’t always look like weakness. Sometimes, it looks like holding it together. Sometimes, it looks like being the strongest one in the room while silently falling apart.

His story reminds us why empathy matters. You never really know what someone’s carrying. Behind the powers, the jokes, the “I’m fine”, there’s often a fight no one sees.

Bob is dealing with it one day at a time. 

There’s no quick fix for what he’s going through. Just like in real life, healing for Bob isn’t a straight line. It’s messy, slow, and often lonely.

But he keeps showing up. Even when he’s scared of himself. Even when the Void is louder than reason. Because in the end, you don’t have to have it all together to keep going.