sometimes a warrior, most of the times-- a worrier

There are moments when I find myself looking at your life from afar, almost like watching a house warmly lit at dusk. From where I stand, everything seems to have fallen into place for you. You found love again, built a home, and now you're preparing to welcome a child into the world. It all looks so effortless, as though the years gathered up the broken pieces and arranged them into something whole. Sometimes I wonder how someone who once shattered another person's heart could appear to have walked so gently into a life that seems filled with so much peace.

Then I turn to my own reflection. My days have been spent building a career brick by brick, celebrating quiet victories that rarely make it into photographs. I have someone who loves me, and I love him deeply, yet there are moments when the absence of a ring on my finger becomes louder than all the blessings I already hold. It makes me question whether I've somehow fallen behind, whether life has been kinder to you than it has been to me. I know comparison is a cruel habit of the wounded heart, but wounds have a way of measuring themselves against the people who made them.

What troubles me most is not that you've moved on, but that your happiness seems untouched by the pain you left behind. There is a part of me that still waits for the universe to make sense of what happened, believing that somewhere, somehow, every act of cruelty should be met with an equal measure of reckoning. I keep searching for signs that the scales have been balanced, only to realize that life has never promised to reveal its justice to the people who were hurt. Perhaps the consequences people carry are not always visible, or perhaps they simply do not arrive in the ways we expect. I cannot know which is true.

And maybe that is the lesson I continue to wrestle with: that healing cannot depend on witnessing another person's downfall. As long as I wait for your life to become smaller so mine can feel enough, I remain tethered to a chapter that has long since ended. I still hope that one day I can look at your happiness without measuring it against my own—not because what you did no longer matters, but because I will have finally built a life whose worth no longer asks for proof in the shadow of yours.

I hope that, one day, forgiving you becomes easier.

I really do.

But every time I convince myself that I've finally made peace with the past, another memory surfaces, and with it comes the quiet realization of just how many things I had to teach myself because you never did.

It's strange what grief chooses to remember.

Not grand tragedies. Not a single defining moment.

Instead, it remembers the ordinary things.

The things daughters are usually taught without ever having to ask.

I learned many of life's little lessons from other people—from friends, from their mothers, from teachers, and eventually from strangers on the internet.

I learned that serving spoons exist for a reason, that we don't dip our own utensils into shared dishes. I learned how to bathe properly, that every part of your body deserves care. These seem like such insignificant things until you realize no one ever taught you.

When I was younger, I didn't know how to ask for new underwear. A few pairs of panties and bras had to last me an entire year, and I learned to make do because I didn't know there was another way. We never did grocery shopping the way other families did. Everything came in small portions from the neighborhood sari-sari store. Even buying sanitary pads became something I dreaded because I had to ask for them from the store next door, embarrassed that something so ordinary felt so public.

I didn't learn how to cook different dishes—not because I wasn't interested, but because no one taught me. I didn't know how to properly clean or organize a home because those were responsibilities you carried alone. You would do everything yourself, then become frustrated that we didn't help. But how could we? You expected us to know what needed to be done without ever showing us. You expected understanding without communication.

Sometimes, I think about how often silence filled our home.

I would tell you stories about my day, hoping for conversation, only to be met with silence or a lecture. Eventually, I stopped expecting comfort and started expecting correction.

Looking back now, I think I had to mother myself.

I built routines by observing other people. I learned life skills from YouTube videos, articles, classmates, and the mothers who unknowingly became examples of what nurturing could look like. I shaped my own values, my own principles, and my own understanding of the world because those conversations never happened between us.

You taught me how to survive.

But I had to teach myself how to live.

Even my dreams seemed to require your permission.

When I wanted to become a nurse, you discouraged me. I eventually understood that money was tight, and I made peace with that. But when I dreamed of working in an office or in a bank, you discouraged those dreams too. You said those jobs were only for young people, that one day I would grow old and be replaced.

Teaching became less of a calling and more of the only path I was allowed to imagine.

What stayed with me most wasn't your reason for wanting me to become a teacher—it was the reason itself. It wasn't because you believed I would love the profession or because it matched my strengths. It was because teachers could easily take out loans, and banks would always lend to them.

Before I even earned my first paycheck, I had already been taught how to borrow money.

No one taught me how to save it.

I try so hard to understand you.

I know you were raising children while carrying burdens I may never fully comprehend. I know you made sacrifices that probably went unnoticed. I know you were doing the best you knew how to do.

But understanding someone and healing from what they couldn't give are two different things.

I want to forgive you.

I really do.

But every time I uncover another part of myself that had to be raised by someone else, I find another reason to grieve the mother I needed but never truly had.

Maybe that's why forgiveness still feels so far away.

Long before I learned there was a word for it, I had already been living it.

I have always been fascinated by the invisible lives people carry within them—the conversations they have with themselves that no one else will ever hear, the memories they revisit in silence, the burdens they shoulder without ever speaking of them. Every person I pass feels like a book that has already lived through countless chapters, yet I will only ever glimpse its cover.

I first became aware of this feeling back in college.

Every week, I would ride a bus from my hometown to the city where I studied. Halfway through the journey, the bus would stop at a terminal bustling with people. As the engine quieted and the doors folded open, life unfolded before me in fragments.

There was the saleslady arranging fresh bread in the bakery. The dispatcher calling out destinations in a voice that had probably repeated the same words thousands of times. Drivers leaning against parked buses, waiting for another trip. Passengers embracing loved ones, strangers hurrying past one another, children tugging at their parents' sleeves.

Everyone was going somewhere.

Everyone had already come from somewhere.

Then there was a man with a disability.

He had no legs—only his torso and his arms. I watched him move with a determination that made every inch of progress look painstakingly earned. It wasn't pity that stopped me. It was curiosity, followed almost immediately by humility.

I found myself wondering what his world looked like.

What dreams kept him awake at night? What disappointments had shaped him? What victories had no audience? What kind of future did he imagine for himself? What did happiness mean to someone who had lived a life I could never fully comprehend?

For a brief moment, I wanted to see the world through his eyes.

And then another realization settled quietly over me.

I never could.

No matter how deeply I empathized or how carefully I imagined his life, I would always be standing outside it. I would forever be looking through a window, never living inside the room.

That thought has stayed with me ever since.

Sometimes it happens while I'm waiting in line at a coffee shop. Sometimes while sitting in traffic. Sometimes while watching someone laugh with friends or cry alone in a place they think no one notices. I catch myself wondering about the stories hidden behind ordinary faces.

We spend so much of our lives believing we are the main character of the world, when in truth, every person we pass is living a life just as vivid, complicated, and meaningful as our own. They have people they miss, fears they hide, dreams they're still chasing, and battles that remain invisible to everyone else.

Perhaps that is what makes humanity so beautiful.

Not that we can fully understand one another, but that we keep trying despite knowing we never completely will.

It always feels like a rollercoaster ride.

Some days, my heart feels as though it could burst from the sheer weight of love and gratitude it carries for the people closest to me. On those days, I want nothing more than to give pieces of myself away—to leave fragments of my affection in the hands of those I hold dear. I want to offer them something meaningful, something that says, Thank you for existing in my life, no matter the cost.

The world, on those days, is washed in pastel hues. Gentle. Quietly radiant. Even the ordinary seems to glow with a kind of tenderness. I catch myself believing that life is beautiful, that tomorrow is worth looking forward to, and that there are still countless reasons to keep hoping.

I call these the good days.

Then there are the others.

The days when I don't feel like doing anything—and no, this is not a Bruno Mars lyric.

On those days, my heart feels strangely hollow, as though someone has quietly emptied the rooms inside it while I wasn't looking. I retreat into myself, closing the curtains to the outside world. Messages go unanswered. Conversations become mountains too steep to climb. Even the warmth of the people I love feels distant—not because they've moved away, but because I have.

It's not that I love them any less.

It's just that, somehow, I have nothing left to offer.

For the longest time, I kept wondering which version of me was the real one. Was it the person whose heart overflowed with affection, eager to embrace the world? Or the one who disappeared into silence, hoping no one would notice the absence?

Maybe I've been asking the wrong question.

Maybe they're both me.

Maybe my heart was never meant to stay in one season.

Perhaps healing isn't about chasing endless spring or fearing the arrival of winter. Perhaps it's about learning to trust that every season has its purpose—that even the barren branches are quietly preparing for bloom.

So when the colors fade and the world loses its softness, I remind myself that this darkness has visited before.

It has always left.

It's strange how a single absence can carry the weight of a goodbye.

For me, it was the feeling of finality that came with being uninvited.

When I wasn't invited to your wedding, I told myself it was okay. I didn't make a fuss because I understood. Weddings are intimate now. People choose their guest lists carefully, surrounding themselves with those who have become part of their love story.

So I accepted it.

After all, we had drifted apart.

But once upon a time, we were best friends. I was there for your teenage butterflies, your first complicated heartbreak, the stories you couldn't wait to tell, and the tears you thought would never stop. I witnessed a version of you that only a few people knew.

Then college happened. You found your people, and I found mine. Life, as it often does, quietly carried us in different directions. So I convinced myself that not being invited didn't have to mean anything more than distance.

Still, I'd be lying if I said it didn't hurt.

I pulled away—not out of anger, but to protect what was left of my heart. I didn't congratulate you. I stopped reacting to your posts. But in my mind, I hadn't erased you. I simply stepped back. There was a difference.

When your son was born, I knew there would one day be a baptism. By then, I wasn't expecting anything anymore. I assumed your life had simply grown into something new, a life where many of us from high school no longer naturally belonged.

Or so I thought.

Then I saw the photos.

The four of us used to be inseparable. Yet there they were—our other two friends—standing beside you on a day that mattered.

I was the only one missing.

And somehow, that was when it finally settled in.

It wasn't just about a wedding anymore.

It wasn't about a baptism.

It was the realization that somewhere along the way, our friendship had quietly reached its last page—and you had already closed the book.

You had let me go.

There's a different kind of grief that comes from realizing someone has moved on without ever saying goodbye. No fight. No explanation. Just silence, until one day you notice there's no place left for you in the story.

It makes me sad.

Deeply sad.

But I don't judge you.

Some people leave with slammed doors. Others leave by simply never opening them again.

Funny how, when it comes to love, we so often live with doubt.

Doubting whether we deserve the love we’re given. Whether we can still find love after losing it once. Whether love can still find us after we’ve avoided it for so long. Whether we’re capable of loving someone else. Whether we deserve to be loved at all.

And then you hear Olivia Dean sing about how she’s seen it everywhere — in the smallest, most mundane things, in moments we barely stop to notice.

Maybe that’s the thing about love.

It’s all around us, all the time.

Today is Sunday.

It's Mother's Day, but I didn't come home. It's been almost 8months since I last talked to my mom and I don't plan on talking to her any time soon. I'm just here in my apartment alone with my two cats.

Today I watched a movie on Netflix entitled "Swapped". I loved it. There's a lot of lessons to learn from it. Here's mine:

Sometimes, our good intentions may lead us to harm. But even then, we must stay true to who we are.

Forgiveness is free. Some people might not fully understand the extent of hurt they inflicted upon us. But if they come to us, remorseful and asking for forgiveness, who are we to not forgive them?

May we strive so hard to be like Ollie than be consumed and bothered by Boogles in our lives. Strive to be a good person every day rather than be always on guard for Boogles.

A lot of people are so concerned with Boogles in their lives that I think they might forget that it's more important to be more concerned about having an Ollie or being more like an Ollie. If there are more Ollies in this world, the world will be a better place.

Let's not care too much about Boogles out there. Let's find our Olies. Better yet, let's be like Ollie.

I'm not sure anymore. I keep putting off tasks that I can accomplish if I wanted to. I keep putting off almost everything and then regret becaue I do things the last minute. I cram and cram and cram. And I don't like it. But I feel like I can't do anything about it. I want to do something, but I don't want to and my brain is telling me I can't do anything about it.

I've always understood that in this world, there will be people who have different values from me. I resonated so much with the popular quote on social media saying "Not everyone has the same heart as you" and I have just about proven to myself that it is true.

I like to believe that I am someone who sees the good in everyone I meet. I do not look at them with an angry and judgmental eye. I always give people the benefit of the doubt even if I hear things about them. In workplace instances, I do not like to subscribe to office gossip. When other people talk about other people and say bad things about them, it has become my habit not to believe everything they say until I have proven them myself. But just recently, I have proven that some people are really just rude and it's who they are-- no matter how nice you are or you have been to them.

This person benefited from me for about a year. What I thought was a way of helping him at first turned out to be something he used so that he had things easier and quicker. While others worked double the time, he asked and asked. He's like that. Bossy, arrogant, boastful, and not an ounce of humility in him. One single office drama showed his true colors. He had a misunderstanding with our department heads. He caused this himself, he just didn't have the humility to accept it. At first it was fine, until the day came he began fighting almost everyone in the office. Not fighting in a way that causes attraction, but silent treatments. He acted as if we did him wrong. But in reality, it was him who brought this to himself.

What just angered me was the fact that he benefited from me but it was so easy for him to make me an enemy. But you know what? I'm still glad he stopped talking to me. At least I don't have someone like him in my vicinity anymore. Although I still see him the office, I ask as if he does not exist. And you know what? A lot of people has already seen this part of him. A lot of people started silent treating him as if he's just a wallflower.

So maybe yes, I am not the problem. He is.

Being around the internet and social media for a long time now, I always come across posts of people about cutting off friends who have become acquaintances, family members who have become toxic, or just anyone who doesn't contribute to one's well-being. I didn't know there would come a time I'd be at the receiving end of being cut off by someone whom I used to call my best friend back when we were in high school.

I wouldn't deny that we have somehow drifted apart because we went to different universities in college. Though we used to live in the same town, we never really hung out a lot even after graduating. But we were still social media mutuals. I thought everything was okay. I thought that even though we don't hang out that often, she still views me the same-- her high school best friend. But I thought wrong.

When she got married, I thought I was invited. You know, for old time's sake. I was the one who witnessed her when she fell in love with her first love. I was also there when she broke her heart. We were also still talking when she met her then boyfriend and now husband. But no, there wasn't even a message saying she's finally getting married. I felt hurt and jealous because she invited our other best friend.

Then she gave birth. Then she hosted her child's baptism. I just found out about it on facebook again. I saw she invited her college circle. I felt okay. But then a few days after the event, I saw my other high school best friend post a photo. We were a group of 4 girls back in high school. In the photo were the 3 of them, her husband, and her kid.

That was the final straw for me. I whispered "So I was cut off" .

I did not get mad at her. I am not mad now. I don't take it against her because for sure she has her reasons. But I wouldn't deny that it didn't hurt me. I thought about it for several nights, replaying what could I have done wrong for her to cut me off like that?

It still pains me to think about it up to this day. But I couldn't really be mad and angry towards her. I know she has her reasons and those reasons are valid. So I'll just be here. I won't burn bridges, but I've muted her on all platforms so I don't see updates about her life.

My bio said "from the southeast | 24 | she/her" and I can't help but say, Wow. It's been a while.

I'm now 27, about to turn 28 a few months from now. My last post was entitled "On a loop" and I couldn't remember exactly what it was about. Probably it was during the phase of my life when I felt like I was not progressing in my career. But now I'm in a totally different situation. I am thriving. I work as a college instructor in a state college. I'm almost done with my master's and I feel like I have matured.

Though I still need to work on other things but I am proud that I am in a better place now.

So this is me, saying hello again after a few years.

Literally for me. The year's about to end and I feel like it went by so fast and I'm stuck somewhere. I'm just here hanging around waiting for something.

In the process of being idle, I could not help but think of myself, my being, my individuality. I've had so many idle moments that I just could not help thinking about everything that has happened to me-- well, the parts that I remember.

And these days I couldn't stop thinking about how I was brought up, how my parents raised me. Looking back, I'm trying to understand my parents' parenting style but it seems to me that if I really think about it, it was traumatic. Looking back on my teenage years when I was growing up and learning how to navigate my own emotions, I've practiced to suppress whatever feeling I don't want to feel. Now that I am an adult, it feels like the things I've always wanted to suppress are coming out. All these pent up anger built up for years.

April 23, 2022

It's my friend, Allen's birthday today. I don't know how he celebrated his day. I did not ask. I have not been big on birthdays anymore. But today is Leni's birthday too! My friends from Cebu sent updates to our GC and shared pictures of their house to house campaign today. Said they prepared 3 kalderos of lugaw and within one hour, the kalderos were emptied by tinderas, habal-habal drivers, tricycle drivers, tindahan customers, and even just passers by/pedestrians. I felt happy looking at their picture. I wish I could participate in such activities too. But the situation here in our town is different.

In connection to Leni's birthday, Nica del Rosario, the singer and composer of the song "Rosas" used in Leni's campaign-- released a music video of the song. The music video showed powerful women who support VP Leni. It also showed pictures and clips from the previous rallies and sorties, pictures of VP Leni doing what she always does-- help the needy and be there in times of crisis. The video teared me up, and I'll be honest-- I think VP Leni is winning.

I asked to ride on Allen's birthday wish-- VP Leni winning.

I hope she wins. I wish she wins.

There's not a day I don't hear some disappointing news that's happening in the country. Every day I get angry, I get mad, I get sad. Especially now during election campaign period. It's distressing.

Last week I got pissed and heartbroken hearing the news about the bikers who got killed in MOA . Here.

Apparently, from what I've read in the news, the driver of the white van was drunk driving. He is 18 years old and when authorities asked for his driver's license, he could not show it. The bikers who died where almost the same age as my former students in Senior High School before. They were young-- they had their whole life ahead of them. Only for their dreams to be put to a halt by a selfish drunk-driving license-less monster.

The other day I got pissed again after watching Marcos Jr.'s video answering a citizen who was asking about his program on Solo Parents. His response? He's thinking about "having more daycare centers" "feeding programs" and "scholarships". If you think about it, it does QUITE make sense. Only QUITE. The person was asking what SPECIFIC programs does Marcos Jr. have for Solo Parents and yet he could not answer it. Why could he not answer it? HE DOESN'T HAVE ANY BECAUSE HE HAS NOT BEEN DOING GROUND WORK.

This elitist candidate running for President does not know what he is doing. He only sprouts UNITY UNITY UNITY without any concrete plan on how to achieve unity. I AM PISSED. I am pissed at the Marcoses and I am pissed at the people who, even though are capable to fact-check and read resources on the atrocities committed by this horrible family, turns a blind-eye as they express their support to this stupid candidate.

I can't stop thinking about the fact that, for the past months of this year(2021), I could not remember a single person who genuinely asked me how I am. Most of my exchanges where from conversations that I initiated. Basically, which meant that the people who asked me how I am only asked me because I asked them first and that they just returned the question.

This sounds so pathetic and may sound as if I am begging for pity. I am not. It's okay, I totally understand. But understanding the situation doesn't automatically take my feelings away. I 'm still allowed to be upset about this, right? I have the right to be upset and so I will be.