One of the sweetest compliment I have ever received would be, “bagay na bagay mo talaga maging psychologist.” Well, psychology student pa lang naman ako, madami pa akong kailangang aralin at matutunan, pero sobrang saya ko pa rin nung nabasa ko ang mga salitang ‘yan.

Naturally, I’m the one that the internet calls a “therapy friend.” Nakikinig sa rants, nagbibigay ng advice, at tumutulong sa mga kaibigan kong intindihin kung bakit ganito at gano’n ang nangyayari. Sobrang saya ko nga tuwing lumalapit sila sa akin. Feeling ko kasi, may tiwala sila sa mga sasabihin ko, o di kaya’y magaan ang presence ko para sa kanila. Pero kapag narinig ko na ang problema, may mga pagkakataong hindi ko na alam kung ano ang tamang sasabihin.

Kasi minsan, hindi naman talaga advice ang kailangan ng isang tao. Minsan, gusto lang nilang may makinig sa kanila–‘yung tipong hindi sila huhusgahan ano man ang sabihin nila. Na merong isang taong mananatili kahit wala silang maibigay na solusyon, kasi minsan, ‘yung presence nila mismo ay malaking tulong na.

Gayunpaman, hindi ko maiwasang isipin na sana may iba pa akong ibang maitulong. Na kahit sabihin nilang okay na sila sa presensya ko, baka meron pa akong kayang ibigay kahit hindi ‘yun ang mismong solusyon. Ewan ko ba. It might be the psych student in me, or baka dahil gano’n ko lang sila kamahal.

Hindi rin naman kasi ako palasalita. Madalas, sinasarili ko na lang din ang mga problema ko. Tsaka hindi naman tayo pare-parehas ng pag-proseso ng nararamdaman natin, ‘di ba? So kapag wala na akong masabi sa kanila, parang nagi-guilty ako–not because I believe I should always have something to say, but because ayokong maging walang silbi sa mga panahong kailangan nila ng masasandalan.

Ayokong dumating sa punto na maramdaman nilang wala akong naitulong dahil hindi ko lubos maintindihan ang bigat ng nararamdaman nila, o di kaya’y ako pa mismo ang magiging dahilan ng lalong paggulo ng isip nila.

Siguro gano’n lang talaga ako magmahal. Ayokong maging rason kung bakit malungkot ang isang tao. Ayokong makasakit dahil sa isang action na ginawa ko without knowing how much it could affect another person. Kasi kung ganito na kabigat para sa akin ang konsensya ng isang bagay na nagawa ko, ayokong isipn kung gaano pa kabigat ito para sa taong nasaktan ko.

But perhaps one of the most painful lessons you’ll learn in psychology is that you cannot always help someone. No matter how many times you show up for them, you cannot change the way they feel. No matter how much advice you give, you cannot simply take away the burdens they carry in their hearts.

And when that time comes–when words are no longer enough and there is nothing more I can do to ease their pain–I’ll leave what I cannot carry to prayer.

I admit that I am not the most devout believer, nor am I someone who prays earnestly. Feeling ko nga hindi rin ako favorite ng langit–hindi kasi palaging nagkakatotoo ang mga dasal ko. But if praying for you could help you sleep with a lighter heart at night, if it could help you sit down and eat your meals instead of letting sadness take away your appetite,, if it could keep you from being too hard on yourself for the things you cannot control, then I’d gladly pray for you instead.

And if I had to, I’d cast aside every prayer I’ve ever made for myself just to make room for one more prayer for you.

Not because I believe that a prayer can magically make everything better. Alam ko namang may mga bagay na kahit ilang beses mo pa ipagdasal, hindi pa rin mangyayari. A prayer wouldn’t miraculously take away all your pain, nor would it always give you the answers you’re looking for. Sometimes, it might not even change a thing.

But maybe that is also the beauty of praying for someone. It isn’t always about asking for their problems to disappear. Sometimes, it’s simply asking that they be given enough strength to face another day. That even when life gives them every reason to give up, may something–kahit maliit lang–na magpapaalala sa kanilang may dahilan pa para magpatuloy.

I’d pray that you find comfort in the little things. That you find the strength to get out of bed on the days when everything feels a little too heavy. That you remember to eat your meals kahit pakiramdam mo’y nilalamon ka na ng kalungkutan. That you allow yourself to rest without punishing yourself for being unproductive or calling yourself “tamad.” That you remember to drink enough water, too, so you don’t end up dehydrated from crying yourself to sleep.

And when you find yourself feeling like the whole world is against you, I’d pray that you never blame yourself for thinking that wala kang kakampi. I’d pray that, somehow, you remember that you are allowed to feel alone without actually having to be alone.

Because I know there would be days when my presence won’t be enough. There would be times na hindi ko alam ang sasabihin, at kahit anong salita ang sabihin ko, pakiramdam ko’y hindi pa rin enough ‘yun. And even if we were sitting rigt beside each other, I still wouldn’t be able to take the sadness away from you.

And I think I’m slowly learning to be okay with that.

Maybe I don’t have to be someone who saves you from everything. Maybe I don’t have to understand every part of your brain just to prove that I care. Maybe loving you means accepting that there are certain battles you must face alone, while making sure you know that you don’t have to face them feeling completely alone.

Kaya makikinig ako kung kailangan mo ng kausap. Mananatili ako hanggang gumaan ang iyong mga hikbi. Sasamahan kitang magpuyat kahit abutin pa tayo ng umaga. Ipapaalala ko sa’yong kumain kahit kaunti. At kung wala na akong ibang magawa, ipagdadasal kita.

I’ll pray for the things I cannot give you myself.

Katahimikan para sa isip mong magulo.

Kapayapaan para sa puso mong pagod.

Lakas para sa mga araw na kahit ang pagbangon lang ay malaking bagay na para sa’yo.

Pahinga para sa katawan mong matagal nang pinipilit kayanin ang lahat.

Pag-asa para sa mga panahong nawawalan ka na ng ganang magtiwalang magiging okay rin ang lahat.

And perhaps, more than anything, I’ll pray that you never become too familiar with sadness and pain that you’ll start thinking you deserve them.

Hindi ko man alam kung kailan matutupad ang mga dasal ko, o kung nakakarating ba ito sa kung sino mang nakikinig sa bawat pagluhod ko, I’d still rather keep praying for your well-being than wonder if there is something else I could’ve done.

Because sometimes, when you love someone, you learn that cannot always carry their pain for them. All you can really do is hope that something else carries them when you can’t.

And if that something is a prayer, then I hope mine reaches you.

Not to promise that everything will be okay. Not to ask for a life without sadness. But to simply ask that, wherever life takes you, it gives you gentle moments to remind you that being alive is still worth choosing.

And when the tides grow too strong and carry you farther away than you intended to go, I hope you’ll always find your way back to the shore.

At kung hindi na kayang pagaanin ng kahit anong salita ang bigat na nararamdaman mo, ipagdadasal ko pa ring sana’y ‘wag kang lubos apihin ng mundo.

The future doesn’t frighten me — not for lack of care, but because I’ve sacrficied so much of myself that the thought of still not getting the life I desperately wanted, despite all I’ve given, haunts me more than what lies in the unknown.

“What if it doesn’t work out?” I often ask myself this question and unconsciously weigh the pros and cons before making my final judgement.

If overthinking were a job, I’d probably a billionaire by now. But when it becomes scond nature, it changes how you approach and perceive every situation.

For me, overthinking meant that I wasn’t completely confident in myself — in what I do, how I act, or sometimes, even the way I think. I feel like this really limited my potential instead of motivating me to do better.

When I realized that and knew that it’ll never give me peace, I stopped — not completely, since I still overthink sometimes — but I stopped doubting myself first before I could even have the results of what I’d done.

It’s when you start to overthink that you begin to hesitate to do what you actually want to do. It’s when your fear of failure slowly creeps in, ready to throw your whole existence into chaos.

And believe me, it’s a cycle you don’t want to spend your whole life in. Take it from a girl who’s still trying to figure out how to live a life she actually wants: I wish someone had told me that it’s okay to fail while trying instead of failing because you never tried.

Because here’s the truth: failure will always be part of the process. No one really knows what they’re doing most of the time. We figure out things on our own and make decisions based on what we know, experience, and learn. So who’s exactly judging us first, if not ourselves?

That’s the tricky part of overthinking — most of time, no one is actually waiting to scrutinize us as harshly as we imagine. The loudest critic is usally the one living rent-free in our heads. And when you realize that, you also start to see just how much potential you’ve been giving away to your own fears instead of your own potential.

If they do judge you, does it really, really, really matter? I won’t pretend and say that it doesn’t, because that would be a lie. But dwelling on something that doesn’t define you is like letting a single moment dictate your entire story.

People will always have opinions — some fair, others not so much — but at the end of the day, those opinions doesn’t build your life.

So if you still fear that you might fail — it’s okay, I understand, I really do. But I hope you remind yourself that failure doesn’t erase your worth. It doesn’t cancel out all your efforts, and it is definitely not the end.

Failing means you tried.

So carry the lessons. Carry the scars. Carry everything that could help you when you decide to go for it again. But leave the weight, leave the doubt, leave the heaviness that only burdens your heart.

Because at the end of the day, you’re not defined by the moments you stumbled — you’re defined by the courage it took to stand back up. You’re defined by the choices you made to keep moving, even when your mind told you to stop.

Maybe the question shouldn’t be, “what if doesn’t work out?” but rather, “what if it does?” What if all the things you fear are simply illusions holding you back from a future that’s already waiting for you?

And if it doesn't? Would you stop? Maybe, but only to take a break, to prepare so you could try again — wiser this time, braver this time, stronger this time.

The truth is, no one has it all figured out. We’re all just trying, failing, learning, sometimes crying, and trying again. And maybe that’s enough. Maybe it’s the very reason that makes life worth living and loving.

We don’t live for perfection, we live for the life we want.

So take the chance and let yourself try. Let yourself fail and yes, even overthink — but do it in moderation, do it with a grateful heart for anothe chance to try, instead of a heavy one. Do it scared, do it confused, do it doubtful, but most importantly — do it for yourself.

Because the art of trying will never ever fail you.

Minsan, gusto kong magsumbong sa‘yo
Kapag pagod na pagod na ako
Tama pa bang init ng yakap mo ang hinahanap ko?
Minsan, gusto kong tumawag sa’yo
Para lang marinig ko ang boses mo

Naka-move on na ako, promise, pero bakit relate na relate pa rin ako sa kantang ‘to?

When the preview for this song — Kahel na Langit by Maki — was first posted on tiktok, and when I first heard it, I knew it’ll be another song of his that I could relate to.

I love listening to music. I love finding new songs, artists, bands, albums, and genres I haven’t heard yet. Sa sobrang dami, ako ‘yung type of person na sa lahat ng okasyon o mga pangyayari sa buhay ko, may playlist akong nagawa or nagagawa.

But what fascinates me more is how the artists convey their emotions through the lyrics of the songs.

And that’s exactly it. I could relate to the lyrics of this song — though part of me wishes I didn’t. Para niya kasing kino-contradict ‘yung sariling salita ko.

In my defense, just because I could relate to this song doesn’t mean failed ang healing stage ko, nope.

It’s just that, whether I admit it voluntarily — like what I’m doing right now — or not, kapag feeling mo, pinagkakaisahan ka na ng mundo, maghahanap at maghahanap ka pa rin ng kakampi mo — ng pagsusumbungan mo.

When that happens, sino nga bang pagsusumbungan ko? Well, the first person that comes to mind — unfair as it is, uninvited as it feels — is still you.

Ewan ko ba, hindi ko naman ginawa before, hindi naman ako tumawag or nagbalak tumawag kasi hindi ko rin naman alam kung anong sasabihin ko. How would I even start? Where would I even get the courage to actually call?

Dati kasi, walang intro, walang hi or hello, direct to the point agad, “pagod ako” agad. Tapos, mababasa ko na ‘yung reply mo, “kwento ka lang, makikinig ako” — and God knows how much I miss those times.

But I know better than to call you, that’s why I never did. And maybe, deep down, you knew better too. That’s probably why you never tried. And honestly, I’m glad. I’m so glad you never called because if you did, I know I would’ve answered — without thinking, without hesitation — and that would’ve ruined everything I’ve tried so hard to rebuild.

Because I know now na hindi na kita kailangan para makapagpatuloy ako. Masakit man aminin noon, pero ngayon, kaya ko na.

Kaya ko na.
‘Yung pagod ko.
‘Yung problema ko.
‘Yung sarili ko.

At sinasabi ko ito — kahit hindi mo mabasa o makita — para sabihin sa‘yo na thankful ako.

Thank you for teaching me how to love myself more even when it cost us what we had back then. Thank you for allowing me to choose my self and be selfish for the last time.

Thank you for leaving, because now I know that I can stay for myself.

Take care of yourself. I hope you’ve found your peace, the way I’m learning to find mine.

With gratitude and care,
A.

About a week ago, I got the chance to catch up with my aunts and grandma and share how I’ve been doing, since it had been nearly a year and a half since I last visited my mom’s side of the family.

It was fun sharing my stories, and I even began reflecting on those days and experiences after our conversation.

Of course, like typical Filipino relatives, they asked me whether I’m currently in a relationship with someone, and I simply answered, “no po.”

Cue the playful gasps and half-teasing remarks — “Bakit wala? Ang ganda-ganda mo. Wala bang nanliligaw sayo?”(“Why not? You’re so pretty. Isn’t anyone courting you?”) I just laughed along, already expecting this question the moment I sat between them. It’s almost like a rite of passage in every Filipino family gathering.

That conversation lingered in my mind longer than I thought it would. Of course, there used to be someone, and I even tried talking to a few people again, had small crushes, and even received some confessions. But I soon realized that I’m much better off alone — for now.

Growing up as an introvert, I often struggled to do things alone due to my shy and timid personality. I would always resort to saying, “nahihiya ako” (“I’m shy”) in situations that weren’t even embarrassing — like knocking at the teacher’s office or ordering food alone — simple acts that seemed daunting when you’re used to leaning on someone else for certain situations.

I guess the universe had a different plan. I soon learned how to do these things alone — almost a little too much — that solitude began to feel like second nature. What used to be scary turned into a kind of quiet freedom.

The first time I ate at a restaurant alone, I was painfully aware of every glance, every sound, every movement. But after a while, I noticed something: no one cared. Everyone was too busy in their own world to judge the girl eating by herself.

I also tried attending a festival alone, watching the bands play their songs while the crowd swayed and cheered. The people around me were too focused on getting the right angle and perfect footage for their stories that nobody looked at me weirdly or asked if I was truly all by myself.

At first, I kept scanning the crowd, wondering if I looked out of place. But the longer I stood there, the more I allowed myself to simply enjoy the moment. The music, the lights, the freedom of not having to compromise on what stage to go to or when to leave.

Experiences like that taught me a valuable lesson: the world doesn’t revolve around whether you’re alone or with someone. Most of the time, the fear of judgment exists more in our minds than in reality. And once you push past that fear, a new kind of happiness will be there — happiness that isn’t dependent on others.

Well, I’m not saying that I’ve mastered the art of being alone or that I’d rather be alone. There are still times when I wish I could’ve enjoyed such happy moments with someone, or told them about the most random things I would suddenly think of.

Some sunsets feel a little softer when shared. Some songs sound sweeter when you know someone’s listening with you. Some problems feel lighter when you talk them out. And sometimes, a quiet meal would feel warmer with someone sitting across the table.

But I’ve come to accept that those feelings don’t mean I’m lacking, or that I need someone to fill that space. Wanting connection is natural — it’s a choice — but so is wanting peace and waiting patiently for the right timing, the right person, and most importantly, the right version of myself.

Right now, I’m in my season of repair. I want to grow. I want to heal. I want to complete myself without the need for another person to find the broken pieces and assemble them. I owe that to myself — to be whole first, to know who I am, and to love the version of me that stands strong on her own.

I’ve realized that no relationship, no amount of attention or affection, can replace the peace that comes from truly knowing and valuing yourself. Love shared with another person should be an addition, not a solution.

So when I answered, “no” to their question, I knew it was genuine — and it was my choice. It’s a testament to all the things I’ve learned and unlearned in my ongoing journey.

For now, I’m choosing myself. A table for one, please. And I’ll gladly take the window seat.

This might sound a bit ridiculous but the actual reason — something I’ve never told anyone — why I chose to study psychology, was because I wanted to get away from my house.

When I was in junior high school, I had all sorts of plans for how I could leave home once I got into college.

The first one was to secretly apply for universities outside our city. I thought that once I passed those entrance exams and interviews, I could break the news to my parents.

The second plan was to get a part-time job so I could pay for my own tuition and rent, just so they wouldn’t have to worry about money—and maybe, just maybe, they wouldn’t have a reason to stop me.

Lastly, the third plan was to choose a program that wasn’t offered at any universities near me. I figured if I could convince them that I had no choice but to study elsewhere, they’d let me go.

Looking back now, I realize how desperate I was for freedom—for space, for peace, for a chance to breathe without walking on eggshells. I didn’t hate my family, but staying in that house felt like slowly losing parts of myself.

Psychology was actually the program I chose for the third plan. It was my ticket out of this place, this city, and this house. But along the way, as I was refining this plan, I fell in love with it—I fell in love with psychology.

All of my plans eventually failed due to my circumstances, but I’m still grateful I was able to pursue a program I chose for myself. And although the reason why I chose this program wasn’t actually the one I gave when people asked, “Why psychology?”—that I wanted to understand people—wasn’t the full truth, that lie has somehow become the truth.

The third plan shaped me into who I am now. I was able to understand the people around me a bit more with a more mature mind.

Growing up, I was already in a situation where I had to understand why people hurt others—and sometimes hurt them so easily. But my mind was too young to understand, back then, that they were hurting too.

I was trying to make sense of why people who were supposed to love me dearly could also be the ones who hurt me the most.

And for the longest time, I blamed myself, I thought everything’s my fault. That maybe I was too sensitive, too dramatic, too difficult to love, that maybe I was too much for them. I was constantly on flight mode with my surroundings. I needed to adjust to the moods of the people around me. I thought just surviving these challenges would eventually lead to a peaceful life.

By the time I started studying psychology—with a different, genuine purpose and passion—I realized I have brought my wounds with me. They didn’t magically disappear just because I left my house and attended my classes.

They followed me into the classroom—into the pages of my textbooks, the slides in our powerpoint presentations, even the examples in our discussions. It felt like I was being laid bare—I was exposed— and for the first time, I had the words to describe what I used to feel but couldn’t explain. I could finally make sense of everything, and somehow, that clarity hurt the most.

For clarity doesn’t bring healing; it only makes the shattered pieces of your heart and soul feel sharper. The feelings you thought were long gone start creeping back, reminding you that you never truly laid them to rest.

Eventualy, I got used to it. The emotions, the people, the circumstances, it felt like I was trapped in an endless cycle of something I never signed up for.

But through the years, I’ve grown tired of repeating the same cycle. And despite the countless times I’ve crawled back into the pit—suffering, aching, and unbearably alone—I still want to believe that one day, I’ll make it out of this hellhole for good.

And when that day comes, I hope I’ll still be kind. I hope I’ll still be gentle. I hope I won’t let the pain harden me or turn me into the very thing I once feared.

Because even if I was shaped by chaos, I don’t want to become it.

I want to become someone that is hurt but heals. I want to become someone who can also heal others. I want to become someone who, despite all the damage, chooses to grow and not just survive, but truly live. Someone who can hold space for others’ pain without losing herself in it.

I’m still on my healing journey—my season of repair—and I’m proud to say I’ve learned, grown, and changed. It hasn’t been easy, and some days still feel heavy, but every step forward reminds me that healing isn’t linear.

So every day, I remind myself of the person I aspire to be, someone who refuses to let her own pain cause pain to others. Someone who chooses not to hurt others, even when she’s hurting inside. Someone who, despite coming from a difficult background, stays kind, gentle, and empathetic toward those around her.

And maybe, just maybe, I’ll get there someday. I’ll become the very image of who I want to be and that will be a victory in itself. And if I can become that person—someone who heals, who grows, who loves without fear—then every struggle, every tear, every moment of doubt will have been worth it.

Hello! I hope you’re doing well and staying safe. I just want to make a small request: the photo I chose shows me in my uniform and includes my ID, which contains personal details such as the university I’m currently attending. I kindly ask that you respect my privacy and avoid prying into that information. If you happen to know me personally, please keep my identity confidential as well. Thank you so much for your understanding! ♡

So open up your heart to me
Open up your heart to me
Now open up your heart to me
Open up your heart to me, baby

Reinforcing the walls around you might sound like a good idea and raising those walls higher sounds like a plan. But, haven’t you thought of putting down the drawbridge and let people cross to reach out to you?

I usually tell people that I’m fine and I can handle everything that might come my way — that I’m overly independent and I don’t think I need anyone for literally anything. And yet, when it’s quiet and no one’s around to hear me, I find myself praying for a voice that softens the edges of my day. A hand that does not need to be warm but stays. A presence that doesn’t need to be forced to come and be with me.

The fortress around me was the result of every battle I’ve won and lost to. Everytime I gave too much, loved too deeply, trusted too easily, I built these walls to keep me from experiencing those aches again. I built these walls in order to protect myself, so I could flee when everything overwhelms me, where I could go back to even if everyone else leaves.

It’s a sanctuary.

But sometimes, even sanctuaries grow lonely.

Because no matter how safe these walls feel, they echo. And there are nights when the quiet doesn’t comfort me — it echoes loudly, reminding me that there’s no one here.

Well, it doesn’t matter. I’ll just think to myself that it’s what I usually do and those feelings would soon pass like how they usually work. But, does it truly pass or am I just pushing them aside?

Maybe I’ve mistaken emotional endurance for healing. Maybe what I call “strength” is just silence dressed up in survival’s clothing. Maybe I haven’t been completely honest even with myself. Maybe it’s just really a random thought passing by.

However, if this feeling really is the last statement, that it’s just a random thought passing by, why am I still choosing to lock myself and not explore the world more?

Why do I keep turning away every time someone tries to get too close? Why do I romanticize love in my mind but run the moment it starts to feel real?

Maybe it’s because part of me is still scared. Scared that letting someone in will mean giving them the power to leave. That allowing someone to stay will make the silence feel heavier if they ever decided not to. But maybe that fear — just like the fortress I’ve built — is outdated protection for a heart that’s ready to feel again.

Because truthfully, deep down, I crave for the kind of love that isn’t rushed. The kind that takes time. Like in a slow burn book where the main leads haven’t realized their feelings for each other even if you’re halfway through the book. Like in the movies where it’ll take several twists and turns before they even start dating.

The kind of love that simmers — quiet, steady, and unshakable. The kind of love that wasn’t built from grand declarations, but rather, genuine intentions, shared silence that doesn’t need to be filled, soft glances making sure the both of us are okay. The kind of love that doesn’t demand to tear down walls, but waits patiently outside them. Just existing. Just being there.

I want to believe that love could be just like that. That love in it’s purest form is something that is soft, gentle, and comforting. That it doesn’t have to be announced for it to feel real. That I can still be independent and strong and still wants someone beside me.

Someone who doesn’t try to fix what’s broken in me but sits there creating something new. Someone who walks through life beside me, not ahead or behind. Someone who’ll hold my hand when it becomes too crowded in fear that we might get separated. Someone who’ll kiss away the worries and tell me we’ll be alright.

And maybe — just maybe — that love is worth lowering the drawbridge for.

Not because I’m weak. Not because I’m desperate. Not because I’ve given up. But because I’m finally starting to believe that I deserve genuineness and something tender. Something real. Something that stays — not just when it’s easy, but even when I’m quiet, guarded, and unsure.

So, if one day, you see the bridge drawn down and the gates slightly open, know that it wasn’t easy. But it means I’m ready — not for perfection, not for promises, but for possibility.

And if you choose to come in, come gently. Because underneath these walls, I’ve always been soft.

And somewhere in this fortress, I’ve always been waiting.

In films and stories, the idea of a character who doesn’t stick around for the entirety of the plot is often met with confusion or a sense of loss. We expect the familiar faces, the ones we get to know and love or hate, to carry us from the beginning to the end. But what happens when one of those faces, whose presence we thought we could count on, vanishes — abruptly, mysteriously, or slowly fading from the frame?

I’ve longed to be that character. The one whose absence is neither an act of betrayal nor one that requires an explanation. Someone you couldn’t blame for leaving once the plot starts to narrate the reason why they left. Someone whose departure felt natural, freeing even — that’s the kind of character I want to portray, not the main character who gets all the attention, nor the second lead forever living in the shadow of the main character. Not the sidekick who lets others shine, nor the villain, who is to torment others. Not any of those.

I want to be the one who slips away just when things start to get interesting, the one who leaves without explanation, without fanfare.

You might be wondering why, of all the characters — or people — I wish to be the one who disappears without a goodbye, without a trace, and without any feeling of doubt or guilt. The answer is simple: in real life, there’s no such thing as leaving in peace. Leaving is almost always accompanied by pain. Denying that such existence — one that is undeniably irreplaceable — left to who knows where. Betrayed by the fact that despite surviving all those twists and turns, they’ll be gone and life will carry on as if their absence was never even a thing.

But I don’t want to leave with sorrow or regret. I don’t want a departure that leaves a wound that time can never truly heal. I want to be someone who leaves like a breath of wind — felt only for a moment, then gone in a second.

Perhaps it’s because the world demands explanations, justifications, and resolutions that the idea of leaving without offering any of these feels liberating. A character who leaves doesn’t need to explain why they made such choice. They’re not obligated to fit into the role of a hero, a mentor, a sidekick, or even a villain. They simply exist for everyone else — and then, they exist for themselves.

In reality, we don’t get to leave like this. The consequences of leaving would weigh in our minds and usually force us to stay involuntarily. When we exit someone’s life, whether by choice or by circumstances, we often carry a sea of what ifs, an urge to go back, and haunted memories when we’re still in that moment.

And that’s quite it. I wish to leave, yet not vanish into nothingness.

However, here’s the thing — being forgotten isn’t the worst thing that could happen. What’s worse is being remembered for something you’re not, or worse, being held in a place that doesn’t truly reflect who you are.

What I long for isn’t something grand. I do not wish to be remembered for something heroic, like saving the world from its doom. I don’t want to be sought after once I’m no longer around, nor do I wish for my absence to be announced for the whole world to know. I’m not talking about death, either. I simply wish to slip away whenever my presence is no longer needed, or when the weight of my existence becomes too heavy to carry.

What I crave isn’t immortality in the form of remembrance. I don’t want to be endlessly thought of, nor do I wish to cause anguish to those I leave behind — but rather, I long for a quiet departure, one that allows the story to progress even without me in it. That the worlds and pages I’ve gone through would still reach the endings — deserving, complete, and unbroken.

I want to be looked back on, simply for being who I am. I want to be thought of without pain accompanying my memory, without the weight of sorrow tied to my absence. I don’t want to be someone who lingers in your mind like a wound that refuses to heal, or a regret that never fades away. Instead, I want to be remembered as a presence that existed — just a person who was there, without needing to be anything more.

I’ll consider that a “happy ending,” indeed.

I once had a notebook with this quote on it, but back then, I hardly gave it a second thought. Now, out of nowhere, it resurfaced in my mind, and I suddenly felt the urge to write about it.

Lately, I’ve been diving into all sorts of activities — initially, just to keep my mind occupied. I need something to pull me away from the endless cycle of overthinking, a distraction I could actually control. And to my surprise, I found genuine joy in every single one of them.

I’ve always loved crafting, especially making cute, fun, and sometimes even practical things. At one point, I became obsessed with folding paper stars — so much so that I filled an entire jar with them and called it “st(a)ress.” A bit silly, I know, but fitting. I’d fold those little stars whenever I felt overwhelmed or needed to settle my thoughts. The process itself is simple, yet it requires precision to create a perfect little star. And in that careful folding, I always found a sense of calm.

Then came reading — an old love rediscovered. Once again, I found myself slipping into different lives, taking on different personas, experiencing emotions that weren’t mine but felt just as real. Each book became a temporary escape, a doorway to a world where my own worries didn’t exist, at least for a while.

After that, I found myself crafting again, this time with flowers — first with paper, then with fuzzy wires. The latter proved to be a bit tricky, but I welcomed the challenge. There was something satisfying about shaping delicate petals and bringing something beautiful to life with my own hands.

And then, inevitably, I returned to writing. I’ll always be a writer. It’s in me, whether I run from it or not. I wrote about sadness — the very thing I’ve been trying to escape from. I wrote about college life, chaotic yet oddly fun. I wrote about my past, realizing how, in some ways, I’m still tangled in the same timeline. And I wrote about my progress, which, no matter how small, I’ll always take pride in.

Through all these little changes and bursts of randomness, I wasn’t just creating cute and therapeutic things — I was creating a new way to deal with pain, a healthier, more enjoyable way to navigate sadness. And honestly? That’s pretty awesome.

It’s funny how, at first, all I wanted was a distraction, something to fill the empty spaces in my mind. But somewhere along the way, these distractions became something more. They became proof that I could take control, that I could turn the weight of my emotions into something meaningful — something tangible.

Now, when I look at the jar of tiny stars, the handmade flowers, the books I’ve lost myself in, and the words I’ve poured onto paper, I see more than just hobbies. I see resilience. I see a quiet kind of strength. And most importantly, I see a version of myself who, despite everything, continues to create, to feel, and to move forward — even in the smallest of ways.

I tend to overthink a lot about things that are out of my control—like other people’s mindset or behavior. Sometimes, I brush it off by saying, “it has nothing to do with me, why bother meddling?” and yet, still think about it for a couple of days or weeks or even months (and years if I’m being honest).

A full cycle of me just racking my brain in silence, fighting the urge to speak up and not cause any unnecessary dramas. No biggie—or so I’d like for it to be—but it bothers me, and sometimes in the most painfully annoying way, which is questioning myself whilst losing sleep consecutively.

It took a lot of people testing my patience to finally learn to confront them. Not in a loud, dramatic way, but in a quiet, firm shift.

I stopped explaining myself. I stopped offering solutions to problems that weren’t mine to solve and worry about . I stopped apologizing for things I wasn’t responsible for. I started saying “no” without justification, and “yes” only to the genuine ones who didn’t thought of me as their backup plan.

Honestly, it was uncomfortable at first, like I’m becoming a whole new person that I’m not and the urge to revert back to my old people-pleasing habits was strong. My brain screamed at me, convinced that everyone was judging me, whispering about how selfish I’d become.

Lost some people along the process which only proves that the world doesn’t end when you strive for betterment. The people who actually and truly cared for me remained and supported me instead of harboring negative feelings and hindering my progress just because they’re not used to it. On the other hand, the people who were only around for what I could do for them slowly drifted away. It was a quiet exodus, and honestly, I don’t miss them.

You see, change doesn’t necessarily mean a drastic one. Sometimes, it’s about taking those small steps and having the courage to back up your decision and remain firm with it that would eventually result to the goal you have in mind.

When I learned that the people I value could get affected, I would immediately take action and draw some boundaries.

It started as a wobbly line, then became a tight circle. At first, the boundaries were tentative and easily crossed—more like suggestions than firm rules. I’d try to assert myself, then quickly backtrack, worried about causing offense or appearing rude. The guilt was a constant companion, whispering doubts in my ear, reminding me of all the times I’d prioritized others’ needs over my own. It was a struggle to overcome the ingrained fear of disappointing anyone.

But with each small victory, each “no” that I managed to utter, the wobbly line began to solidify. It became less about pleasing everyone else and more about protecting my own well-being. I started to realize that setting boundaries wasn’t selfish; it was essential. It was about recognizing my limits, respecting my time and energy, and prioritizing my mental and emotional health.

The tight circle came later. It was the result of countless small decisions, countless acts of self-care, countless moments of choosing myself. It wasn’t about shutting people out, but about creating a safe space for myself—a space where I could be authentic and true to who I am. It was about understanding that I didn’t owe anyone an explanation for my boundaries, that ”no” was already a complete sentence and answer.

Whenever someone tries crossing the line I’ve set, I immediately confront them. And when they still forcefully let themselves in, I cut them off. It’s a simple equation, really. My peace is non-negotiable. It took me a long time to understand that, to truly internalize it.

There was a time when I would have bent over backwards, twisted myself into knots, just to avoid conflict. I would have tolerated disrespect, rationalized bad behavior, and excused the inexcusable, all in the name of keeping the peace. But I learned — through painful experience — that true peace doesn’t come from appeasing others; it comes from honoring yourself.

Respect is for those who deserve it, not for people who demand it. It is not something you are obligated to give, especially when they only cause you harm and do no good. But, it doesn’t give you a reason to disrespect them—don’t be like those people. This is the crucial distinction.

Setting boundaries, cutting people off, choosing yourself—none of that requires you to stoop to their level. You can maintain your integrity, your kindness, even as you protect your peace. It’s about refusing to engage in their drama, refusing to be drawn into their negativity. It’s about walking away with your head held high, not out of arrogance, but out of self-respect.

There's a quiet strength in that. A power in choosing not to retaliate, not to sink to their level. It’s a recognition that their behavior is a reflection of them, not you. You don’t have to carry their baggage. You don’t have to absorb their toxicity. You can simply walk away, leaving them to their own devices, and letting them be responsible with it.

In doing so, you create space for the people who truly deserve your time, your energy, and your respect. The people who understand the value of boundaries, the people who celebrate your growth, the people who love you not for what you do for them, but for who you are.

Those are the people who belong inside your tight circle, those are the people who will help you nurture and protect the peace you’ve worked so hard to achieve—the people who heard you even through your silence.

The truth is, birthdays often feel like I’m moving further away from some invisible finish line—a point where I’m supposed to have it all figured out. Each year that passes adds another layer of expectation, another tally mark on the timeline. And with each added year, a creeping sense of inadequacy settles in.

This year was no different. Another year added to the count. Another year where I found myself grappling with the strange sensation of feeling both old and young simultaneously. It’s a disorienting experience, like being caught in a time warp. I look back at the years that have passed and wonder where the time went. Where are the accomplishments that should line this path? Where is the wisdom that should accompany these added years?

There’s a heavy weight that comes with this feeling. A sense of being overwhelmed by the sheer magnitude of life, the endless possibilities, and the crushing weight of unmet expectations. It’s as if a small voice whispers, “What if this is it? What if this is as far as you go?” It’s a daunting thought, the fear that this year might be the culmination of all my experiences, that I wouldn’t survive past this age and year.

I know I’m not alone in feeling this way. The “birthday blues” are a common experience, a quiet struggle that many people face. It’s the pressure to be happy, the expectation that this one day should be filled with unbridled joy.

But what if joy isn’t readily available? What if, instead, there’s a quiet contemplation, a moment of reflection that brings with it a sense of melancholy?

Hence, I always find myself waiting for the exact arrival of this special day. “Will someone remember that it’s my birthday?” “Will someone greet me exactly at 12 midnight?” “Will they write me a long message telling all sorts of things and wishing me a happy birthday?”

But I guess too much expectation could hurt, and I always end up crying. It’s a strange ritual, this self-imposed cycle of anticipation and disappointment.

I build up these elaborate fantasies of how the day should unfold, the outpouring of love and well wishes that should validate my existence. I imagine the perfect midnight greetings, the heartfelt messages that will affirm my worth. And when reality falls short — as it inevitably does — the tears come.

They’re a release, a catharsis for the unmet expectations, the unspoken longing for connection and recognition. It’s as if the tears are washing away the accumulated weight of the year, preparing me, however reluctantly, for the next. It’s a vulnerable moment, a raw exposure of the deep-seated desire to be seen, to be valued, to be loved. And in that vulnerability, there’s a strange kind of truth — a raw honesty about the human condition and the universal need for connection.

Despite all the happy birthday greetings I received the morning I woke up, I still spent the day normally, like it’s nothing special. And I hate to admit it that it’s fine when clearly, it’s not.

“Why is my special day sad?” “Why am I not allowed to celebrate it?” It’s like a constant internal battle, a struggle to reconcile the idealized version of birthdays with the actual experience. I tell myself that I should be happy, that I should be grateful, and yet, there’s this lingering sadness that I can’t seem to shake.

It’s a frustrating and confusing feeling, like being trapped in a cycle of wanting to celebrate but being unable to fully embrace the joy. It's a question that echoes in the quiet corners of my mind, a persistent whisper that asks, “Why?” Why this sadness on a day meant for happiness? Why this inability to simply celebrate?

Then I realized, “why am I waiting for people to celebrate my existence while I feel sad about it?” And I found the answer to that question, I’ll just celebrate it alone, celebrating it the way I want to. I’ll bake my own cake and gift myself something I’ve been wanting to purchase or get. I’ll stroll around and eat something I’m craving for while enjoying a walk in the beach.

Maybe I’ll do just that and be happy. Maybe I wouldn’t check my messages to see if somebody remembered and sent a message or if nobody greeted me.

I’m always grateful for the people who constantly stayed by my side even if it’s not a special day. Those who chose to be by my side and those who tried to be by my side. But I guess, I’ll always be the girl who wants to stay by herself when she’s a little emotional especially on her birthday.

As I spend the last year of my teenage years, I’ll certainly have fun and explore, try new things and learn new skills, meet new people and connect more with the world. Might be a little hard since I’m an introvert, but I can’t just spend my youth feeling sad and alone.

This year, I’ll try to bake myself a cake. Maybe it won’t be perfect, maybe it’ll be a little lopsided, but it will be mine. And maybe, just maybe, that will be enough. Maybe that act of self-care—of creating something for myself—will be the key to unlocking a different kind of birthday, one where the blues are replaced by a quiet sense of contentment, a celebration of self, by self.