Saan nga ba matatagpuan ang buhay?

Sabi nila, “Ang buhay ay nagsisimula sa unang iyak ng sanggol at ang huling pikit ng mga mata.” Ngunit sa palagay ko, nagkakamali sila.

Ang totoong buhay ay wala sa magkabilang dulo ng linya, kundi nasa mahabang espasyo… sa gitna.

May buhay sa bawat pagitan ng kwento.

Sa kwento na pinili nating tawanan o minsang nabalot sa kalungkutan. Sa mga desisyon na minsan tayong pinatatag o mga pagkakamali na minsan na tayong nasira.

Lahat nang iyon ay may kwento.

Lahat sila nagsasaad ng emosyon, sa kung paano gugunitain ang bawat araw na lumipas, at sa kung papaano lilipas sa ating mga palad ang kwento na minsang nabuhay sa loob natin.

Maaaring isang malaking talinhaga kung ihahalili ang pagitan sa mga desisyong hindi nagawa o sa sarili natin na lumipas na pero nagsasabi ito ng totoo.

May mga tanong na natapos sa “malapit na” o kaya sinimulan sa tanong na “paano”. Pero doon nagsisimula ang totoong buhay. Hindi sa natapos na salita o sa tiyak na mga sagot bago magsimula, kundi sa lakas ng loob na manatili sa gitna ng katiyakan.

May buhay sa pagitan ng pananatili sa puwang — dahil tayo rin ang magdudugtong nito upang maunawaan na ang buhay ay hindi ka pagkakaitan.

Because grief preserves love — just as much as how grief crawls in without knocking.

I purposely went home for her 40th day after her death. At first, it was all normal, not until I removed my socks and shoes, and immediately walked into her room.

With my fingers caressing the door knob, a cold feeling gently swept in. As I open the door, an empty bed sitting in the corner greeted me. It felt like I stared for it for a long time — until my body snapped at me.

I anticipated that an old woman would be lying down, and waving her little fingers the moment I came in.

But there was no one around.

She was not there… anymore.

But I stood there for a while.

I was expecting to hear her call my name.

I was expecting to see her eyes open and flash a smile to see me.

I was expecting.

I was waiting.

This was not the routine my body had ever expected. Whenever I would come home to visit, she was the first my eyes would look for. I’d immediately knock on the door, step in, give her my “pagmamano,” and say, “Kumain ka na, Inay? Kararating ko lang po.”

But instead, no voice had greeted me.

Just an empty bed.

Her walking stick that sits on the corner.

A small pillow she loved to carry.

And the remaining medical equipment she used.

And you know what hurts the most?

It’s not how these things greeted me, it’s how grief walks in without knocking.

It doesn’t care if I am ready. It doesn’t ask a question. Even in a middle of a happy day. It simply crawls into my walls and takes over the room.

It’s like losing her feels like losing a soul.

For how long she had taken care of me, for how long she offered her life for me, and for how long she loved me. It feels like she took the child in me along to her grave.

I lost someone who has been a part of me.

Grief waits in the silence. It hides beneath her belongings — in the shape of her pillow waiting for someone to caress, and in her walking stick that will soon be covered with dust.

I hate how synonymous the feeling when I pulled that cold doorknob is to how I felt when I first got the news. It’s the exact same shock. The exact same coldness. The emptiness. The exact same drop in my stomach. And with an instant, all the memories replayed no matter how many days passed.

Now, there are no diapers to change.

No NGT routines to make.

No constant exercises.

There’s no one to check on in the middle of the night.

No routines to ever keep because there’s no one left to wake up early for.

My hands are now empty from how it became used to do the tasks. I realize that the very things that used to tire me out are now the things I would give anything to have her back, just to have her here for one more day.

And for once, I took a one last look at her empty bed, and eventually let go of the door knob. It’s me silently wishing that a familiar voice would call me — even if it’s almost a whisper from no one.

I could have greeted him a happy father’s day, or posted him on my Instagram account with a caption like “Best Dad Ever!” — but I chose not to.

I already anticipated that I would never have an entry for this day. I won’t have that long caption on my Instagram story telling the world about his practical skills, his life lessons, and how he instilled a strict discipline on me while growing up.

I have already greeted my uncles, my lolos, my friends’ fathers… but I never intended in telling him those three words. For every swipe and scroll I did throughout the day was a reminder of the peace I am choosing to protect.

Every happy picture on my feed belonged to a reality that isn’t mine. Seeing everyone else post their celebrations just reminded me of the distance between us. There are just some gaps that are too hard to close; even these simplest three words cannot fix them.

Because I cannot celebrate a role that was not truly fulfilled.

Those three words meant so much to me that passing through his name in my contacts today was a battle between self-protection and wishing him the best. It is hard to see the world celebrate fatherhood when my dad is a fragile mix of providing physically but failing emotionally.

He stood up as a parent for me, changed my clothes when I was three, kept a roof over my head, and sent me to my dream university. Yet he did all that while completely starving me of emotional stability and understanding. He financed me of my future but abandoned me on my present. His mind was absent when I was recalling how my day went. He couldn’t show up and assure me of better days ahead. He couldn’t at least try and make me feel I am worthy by making me feel his daughter.

And don’t tell me it’s their first time living as a parent because it is also my first time living as a kid, too. He had the chance to grow up and be a better figure for his daughter — yet he made it worse by creating a tangled mess within my heart, which, once again, a simple word cannot fix.

He had decades to figure out how to be a man; I only had a few years to figure out his absence.

So, today I won’t block him, and I won’t text him — I will leave him exactly where he left me.

Happy Father’s Day to the provider I had and Happy Daughter’s Day for the child he missed.

If he could not teach me how to be loved, nor to be taken care of fully, I will have to teach myself. It is lonely but at least I am growing stronger on my own.

kung bibilangin mo ang araw sa buwan ng pebrero,

batid kong buong-puso mong bibigkasin ang ikalabing-apat na araw

bibilangin mo pa ito sa mga kamay mo at bibilugan ang petsa nang husto

sapat na para maintindihan kong may nais kang gawin sa araw na iyon

ngunit gusto ko sanang ipaalala sa iyo —

hindi mo na kailangang buksan ang mga daliri upang magbilang,

hindi mo na kailangang markahan ng itim na tinta ang kalendaryong maliit,

hindi mo na rin kailangang palibutan ng mga puso ang minarkahan na linya,

sapagkat hindi mo pa man nailalahad nang buo ang kontekstong gusto mong sabihin —

batid na agad kita,

kabisado ko na agad ang mga gusto’t paborito mo.

sapagkat nakaugat na sa puso ko ang katauhan mo.

hindi sa katorse ng pebrero nasusukat ang pagmamahal ko,

umiikot ito at dumadaloy sa bawat kalendaryo na pinipilas natin nang buo

hindi mo pa man nabibigkas nang malakas ang katorse sa tuwing pebrero,

ngunit may plano na agad na nakatanim sa isipan ko,

taimtim man ako kung magbalangkas ng mga pagsuyo

ngunit asahan mong hindi nakatala sa kalendaryo ang pag-ibig ko sa ‘yo,

ito’y nakaukit sa bawat araw na kasama ko ang tulad mo.

Mayroong kataga ang mga Hapones na siya kong nasisilayan sa tuwing sumasapit ang hapon

Ito ay ang salitang “komorebi” na kung ilalahad ko ang salitang ito sa konseptong Tagalog

ganito ko siya ipapaliwanag sa iyo.

Kung ikaw man ang araw na sumisilip sa pagitan ng sumasayaw na mga sanga,

Handa akong maging dahon mo at saluhin ang liwanag na dala mo.

Banayad lamang ang pagpatak ng init na bakas sa linya ng katauhan ko,

Malamlan na kulay ang kapalit na siyang sumusuot sa bawat ukit ng pader

Ang mga anino na gumagalaw sa pader at sahig,

At kapag mas lalong hinulma ng hangin ang pag-iisa natin,

Doon ay pasimpleng umuukit ang liwanag na dumaraan lamang

Isang haplos sa balikat na maaaring mawala

Isang bulong sa tenga na maaaring lumipas

At kung sumapit man ang dilim at tuluyang angkinin ang liwanag na dala mo

Hihintayin ko muli ang pagbabalik ng sinag mo —

Angkinin mong muli ang anyo na dala ko;

Ang hugis na siyang dumarampi sa tuwing hapon,

At kung hindi man tayo magtagpong muli,

Marahil ang pinakamalinis na anyo ng pag-ibig ay sa pamamagitan ng komorebi

Sapagkat sapat na ang maging anino ng isa’t isa

Doon mananatili ang komorebi —

At maging ang tayo.

This year has been a mix of everything — both loss and light, everything in between.

It’s the last day of the year and it hits me how much life has changed in just twelve months. Some people might see this year as a fruitful one; full of blessings, the places they have traveled, the achievements they have made, the person they have become, and the things they’ve gained. Some people might also see this year as a tough one; a year full of survival, the rollercoaster of emotions, a sadness lingering within, and a thousand of cries that spelled out of the eyes.

This year taught me lessons about how much I grew up from the first month to the end month of the year. Some lessons were gentle reminders — through every season of the year carried its own way of healing and learning. Some lessons cut deep, leaving nothing behind but scars — like they never fade; it’s like a lesson that refuses to be forgotten.

For some, this year was not about healing or triumph — it was simply about surviving the hours, the shadow that never seemed to lift. Some might describe this year as a cruel one — a year they don’t want to sit with and talk about. Some conversation this year grew thinner for some, but bigger for others. The laughters may seemed distant to others, but a vivid one to some.

If you didn’t hit all your goals this year, I hope you don’t punish yourself and may gentleness touch your opportunities the next year. If happiness comes in your hand this year, may you continue that path through the next year. And if all you did was survive this year, then you did enough.

Every struggles and triumphs are worth celebrating — even if you’ll leave this year incomplete. Every bravery describes every moment that is becoming.

I want to remind everyone:

Bad news: a lot can change in a year

Good news: a lot can change in a year

As we leave this year, may you slowly release all the scars and wounds that destroyed you. May you step into answered prayers you once cried for, into dreams you once fought for, into opportunities you once thought were out of reach.

You are brave enough to make it through the year — through whatever versions of you. You are worthy enough to step another year.

There is so much to describe this year but there’s one thing in common: You made it through, through it all.

May the new year bring you colors after the rain. May the new year be softer to your heart and soul.

May 2026 be the year full of you.

As I stepped on the red concrete floor, with cracks touching the soles of my feet, I felt a shadow at the back of my mind that never leaves.

It clings; it stays, like a stubborn keeper that holds memories. My eyes wandered around, staring into the abyss of silence. There, I couldn’t help but notice a big difference ever since my feet had stepped on this place.

The walls are covered with mist. The windows are clouded by fog. Magnets cling to the rusted refrigerator. Some blankets and pillows are covered with white sheets.

Frames are tilted and apart. Shoes and slippers by the doorway. Clocks with stopped hands. A rusting doorknob. Water stains on the ceiling. Chairs are arranged in a way I would never have imagined.

And as I walk through the hallway, I can’t help but wonder: do the ashes and mist that shroud these things take the place of our absence? Have they clung to the remnants we left behind, so these things would not feel alone in the cold?

Because I remember myself as a child, running down the long hallway of this house. My sibling and I preparing food at the table. There was also a time when I would sit and watch movies with my cousins in the living room. And then, the little kid left in this house remembers how we built small houses beneath the table, cooked meals from imagination, exchanged laughs, and believed that the walls could hold our memories forever.

All of it stays here.

And I can’t help but grieve how this house once held my joy as a child, yet now it greets me only with sorrow — a reminder that I am no longer the same, that time has carried me away from who I was.

It feels as if everything here has turned into a ghost. The laughter has faded into echoes. The stories dissolved into shadows. The light that once stayed now breathes only the ache of memory.

As I continue my steps, the heavy feeling that surrounds me weighs me down; I can barely move. The back of my mind remembers every corner of what once was. My heart aches for every wall that is now gone. My eyes weeps over what it has lost.

The smiles, the warmth, the love; they all lingers within but unreachable.

And I am left standing, carrying both the child I once was and the grief of knowing I can never return to them.

I can never rearrange the frames to set them right. I can no longer return to the magnets attached to the refrigerator. I can no longer use the shoes waiting for my return. I can never read the books and albums stained with yellow pages. I can no longer view the photographs fading in the frame.

Sure, I can wipe away the mists, the cobwebs, the stains, the ashes, the dust; but only for now, for there will come a time when they will once again wrap themselves around what remains.

Mayroong kulay sa kalsada kapag bumubuhos ang ulan. Maaaring hindi lantad sa paningin ang kulay nito, maging ang singaw ng alimuom na natutuyo, o kahit ang ligaw na talsik na pumaparoon sa aking damit.

Ang tinutukoy kong kulay ay wala sa tinta ng mga payong na siya nating dala-dala; ito ay nasa kulay mismo ng ating mga mata.

Sabihin man ng siyensya na ang mga patak nito’y malapit sa kulay ng mga bintana ay hindi ako maniniwala. Sapagkat nakikita mismo ng mga mata ko ang tinta na ibinubuhos nito sa kawalan.

At ito ay ang mga kulay na lulan sa likod ng taong nagdadala.

Maaaring kulay malamya ang dating ng ulan sa mga taong nasaktan. O ‘di kaya naman ay kulay luntian para sa mga taong umaasa. Kulay dilaw naman ay para sa mga batang nagtatampisaw.

Tiyak din ako na kulay pula para sa mga taong nagmamahal. Kulay asul naman ang dala-dala ng mga taong malungkot. At maaaring kulay kahel naman para sa mga taong may malaking kumpiyansa sa sarili.

Maaaring pare-pareho ang daloy ng ulan sa tuwing ito’y bumabagsak, maging ang tunog ng mga patak na dala nito sa bubong, o kahit ang kapote’t payong na bitbit ng mga kamay natin.

Pero hindi alintana na mayroong kulay ang ulan na siya tayong pinagkakaisa — ito ay ang kulay na sumasalamin kung kailan nararapat.

may namumuong gutom sa aking dibdib,

hindi para sa tinapay o sa tubig,

kundi sa ‘yo — sa init na taglay mo,

inihain ko ang puso sa altar ng iyong mga labi

idiniin ang pulso sa dugo ng iyong pintig

sapagkat ang gaya mo’y isang sugat

na hindi ko gustong pagalingin

ako ang katawan na iyong tinanggap,

at ang agos na tinunaw sa iyong dibdib.

dahil kung kasalanan man ang umibig sa ‘yo,

ano pa’t puno na ng dugo ngayon

ang tuhod na gustong lumuhod sa ‘yo

sapagkat, kahit ang kasunod nito’y ang paghatol,

mas pipiliin kong manatili kahit sa gilid ng bangin,

at ilahad ang kamay na handang sunugin —

dahil ang pag-ibig sa’yo ay pakikibaka

at panlilimos sa sandaling makapiling ka

Until, it’s not.

I once dreamed of seeing myself in white uniforms – those that were once sketched in the back of my notebook. I imagined myself walking through the hallway, wearing my stethoscope, and just being myself. Those times, my dreams used to be so alive, so full, and even colorful. I didn’t even bother the lapses, the gaps, the sadness I may encounter once I get in.

During those times, I admit it was a fun experience having those silly dreams in my head, thinking that with one single thought, I’d finally meet that version of me, effortlessly.

Until I stepped into the new rooms, new hallways, new surroundings, and even new me. And with that, I feel like I was lost. I get tangled up in feelings I don’t understand. My dreams were now blurry. My thoughts were so busy creating a version of me that I believe I will love someday, until this second voice behind me was silently roaring, yet I can’t barely open my eyes to even notice it.

And it sucks. Now that I am in this version of me that I created long time ago, it’s so frustrating because I used to want this so badly. I used to dream of being here, to have this, to finally reach this point. But now it feels like the opposite.

Back then, I was manifesting this moment – I thought it would make me whole, happy, and proud. And now that I am here… why does it feel so strange? Why can’t I even remember the version I made a long time ago?

It was as if I’m not the same person who once dreamed of this. The version of me who wished for this place, this life, this moment – everything feels distant now, like a memory of someone I used to know.

Now, I force my arms and knees to get up each day because I don’t want to waste such time – even if there’s an emptiness residing in me that I can’t seem to fill. Sometimes, as I walk through these hallways, I wonder if I’m still on the path I once longed for, or has the world simply been too harsh on me, making me feel lost in the dream I fought so hard to live.

Maybe that’s what happens when you chase something for too long – that you’ll eventually change the routine, piece by piece, until the person who arrives isn’t the one who started the journey. It’s just the fulfilment of being in here, but the happiness and freedom that comes after it were silenced.

It just keeps getting worse that sometimes I believed being in here doesn’t feel like winning. It feels like realizing how much of myself have lost trying to get here.