In My Own World

I think I’m living in a chapter that doesn’t have a name yet. No bold heading. No clear direction. No summary at the top of the page telling me what this is about. Just paragraphs of ordinary days — blurred together. I am not sure what the future holds, but I know Who holds the future. And lately, that truth is the only thing anchoring me. Because if I’m being honest, I don’t know where this is going. Everything feels like autopilot. I wake up. I show up. I do what needs to be done. I respond. I complete. I survive the day. But I don’t necessarily understand it. It feels like I’m walking through fog, trusting there’s still ground beneath my feet. Maybe I’m just in a hurry. A hurry to figure everything out. A hurry to see if this story ends well — or begins well. I want to flip to the last page just to make sure it’s worth continuing. But life doesn’t work like that. Right now, I don’t feel motivated. I don’t feel inspired. Some days, I just want to quit everything and sleep for the res...

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...