In My Own World

What would you do if you knew someone you love only had two years left to live? Would you still postpone dinner because you’re tired? Would you still choose work over weekends? Would you still say, “Next time na lang”? Two years sounds long — until you start counting it in birthdays, Christmases, random Tuesdays, and ordinary mornings. Suddenly, it’s not “two years.” It’s a limited number of hugs. A limited number of inside jokes. A limited number of “ingat ka” before they walk out the door. And that’s when I realized something. Life isn’t short. If life were short, how do we explain people celebrating their 100th birthdays? How do we explain those who feel it’s too long and choose to end it themselves? Life isn’t measured by length alone. Life is fragile. Fragile like glass — it can last decades if untouched, but one unexpected drop can shatter it instantly. We tell ourselves that longevity is something we can control. Eat clean. Exercise daily. Avoid stress. Stay away from gadgets. S...

As the years pass, the meaning of love has quietly changed for me. Back in high school, I thought love was all about  kilig . Butterflies. Stolen glances. A crush fueled by good looks and surface-level attraction. Love, to me, was something exciting—something that made your heart race for reasons you couldn’t fully explain. But today, love feels deeper. Heavier. More intentional. I’ve come to realize that love is commitment. It’s choosing someone—not just when things are easy, but even when they’re not. Even when their breath smells bad. Even when they’re annoying. Even when they’re far from perfect. You stay, because you’re committed. Love is being willing to accept flaws without keeping score. It’s choosing understanding over judgment. Even when other people see their bad sides, you learn to look past that—because at the end of the day, it’s the two of you who understand each other in ways no one else ever will. Somewhere along the way, I realized that love is no longer about phy...

Valentine’s Day is coming, and suddenly, being single feels like a public announcement—like something that needs explaining, fixing, or apologizing for. I don’t really get it. Why is it such a big deal if you’re not in a relationship? Every year, as February gets closer, there’s this invisible pressure in the air. People start asking questions. Some joke about it. Some panic quietly. Others rush into situations they’re not even sure they want—just so they won’t be alone on a specific date on the calendar. And for what? I’ve been single my whole life. That’s not a confession or a complaint—it’s just a fact. Somewhere along the way, I accepted the possibility that this might be how my story goes. No dramatic resistance. No countdown. No desperate waiting. Just acceptance. And strangely enough, that acceptance brought peace. I’m okay not having a Valentine’s date. I’m okay not having one on random Tuesdays, either. But I’ve noticed that for others, being single feels like an emergency. As...

There are people who stop trying to change—not because they are incapable, but because they know someone will always catch them when they fall. Every mistake is softened, every consequence diluted, because there is a person who will listen, sympathize, and quietly take their side. Each time they confide in this person, they receive comfort instead of accountability. Understanding instead of questions. And slowly, unintentionally, this becomes permission to stay the same. To be fair, the other side may not be innocent. Fault is rarely one-sided. But as the saying goes, every story has three faces: yours, mine, and the truth. And the truth often lives somewhere in between, unseen and unheard. This is why blind loyalty can be dangerous. Before choosing sides, perhaps we should pause and ask:  Is it possible that the person I am defending also played a part? Not to accuse, but to understand. Not to judge, but to be fair. Giving someone the benefit of the doubt does not mean betraying a...

Goodbye, 2025. You were not an easy year to carry. You came with a flood of emotions—sadness, frustration, anger. You reopened wounds I thought had already healed, only to remind me that some pain lingers quietly, waiting for the right moment to resurface. You tested my patience, my strength, and my faith in ways I wasn’t prepared for. Work was especially heavy this year. Plans fell apart. Efforts didn’t always lead where I hoped they would. There were moments when everything felt uncertain, like standing still while the world moved forward without me. And yet—somewhere in the middle of the chaos—came beautiful surprises. The kind that makes you pause and say,  “Who would’ve thought?”  The kind that reminds you that life still knows how to surprise you when you least expect it. 2025 was confusing that way. Painful and hopeful. Disappointing and generous. A year that took so much, but still gave just enough to keep me going. As I let this year go, I hope that 2026 will be the c...

If you open my heart, you won’t find softness right away. You’ll find shattered pieces of glass—sharp, uneven, scattered in places I never learned how to clean up. If you reach in too quickly, your hands will bleed. Not because I wanted to hurt you, but because there are wounds in me that were never given the time to heal. I carry a lot of unhealed things. Some I recognize. Some I’ve learned to live around. Some I pretend don’t exist until they ache unexpectedly. They’ve shaped the way I love, the way I trust, the way I hold on. And maybe Christmas has a way of making all of this louder. It slows the world just enough for feelings to surface. The lights are softer, the nights are quieter, and suddenly there’s space to notice what’s still tender. In a season meant for warmth and celebration, I’m reminded of how fragile the heart can be—and how carefully it needs to be held. So if there’s one message I want to tell myself this Christmas, it’s this: Don’t take everything too seriously. No...

Everyone talks about how hard it is to leave. But no one really talks about how painful it is to be  left. The world often paints the leaver as brave—the one who made the difficult choice, who walked away for peace, growth, or self-preservation. But what about the one who stayed? The one who didn’t choose the ending, who woke up to absence instead of closure? No one tells you how heavy it feels to be the one left behind. How quiet the days become. How everything you once shared suddenly feels unfinished, hanging in midair. It’s the ache of replaying the last conversation, wondering if you missed a sign. It’s trying to fill a space that used to be occupied by laughter, comfort, and presence. And yet, even in that sadness, I can’t help but think of that line from  Winnie the Pooh : “How lucky I am to have something that makes saying goodbye so hard.” Maybe that’s the beauty and the curse of it all—having loved so deeply that losing it feels unbearable. Maybe I just tend to hold ...