And the most powerful version of her will be the one who no longer needs to be heard, fixed, or fought for… because she’ll have found safety in her own stillness.

It won’t be that she didn’t love him. She will have loved him so deeply that she forgot to love herself.

She will have shown up.
She will have stayed loyal.
She will have given grace he didn’t even know he needed.

But over time, she’ll grow tired.

Tired of begging for the bare minimum.
Tired of questioning her worth.
Tired of shrinking just to keep the peace.

So she’ll choose clarity over chaos.

Quiet mornings over arguments.
Deep, steady breaths over anxiety.

That walking-on-eggshells feeling? She’ll replace it with a home built for her own peace.

No dramatic exit.
No final speech.
Just… gone.

Because when a woman truly heals, she won’t seek closure... she’ll become it.

Another man might’ve been forgiven.

She could’ve cried, pleaded, or tried again.

But when peace takes your place, know this: her soul will have already moved on.
​
And wherever she’s going… you won’t be coming with her.
 
Soon…
 

Minsan, hindi mo na alam kung pagod ka lang… o talagang hindi mo na kaya.

Minsan, kahit andaming tao sa paligid mo, pakiramdam mo mag-isa ka pa rin. Parang kahit anong sigaw mo, walang makakarinig. Kahit anong ngiti mo, walang nakakapansin na pilit lang pala.

At minsan, naiisip mo:
“Paano kaya kung bigla na lang akong mawala?”

Hindi dahil gusto mong sumuko. Hindi dahil mahina ka.
Pero dahil sobrang bigat na.

Yung tipong ayaw mo namang iwan ang mga mahal mo, pero hindi mo na rin alam kung paano pang hahawakan ang sarili mong bigat.

Ang dami mong kailangang isipin.

Bills. Trabaho. Expectations. Pamilya. Future.

Tapos sa gitna nun, andiyan pa yung sarili mong mga iniiyak sa gabi na hindi mo masabi kahit kanino.
Pagod ka na. Pero kailangan pa.

Kailangan pa ring ngumiti.
Kailangan pa ring bumangon.
Kailangan pa ring magpanggap na okay ka… kahit hindi naman talaga.

Alam mo yung pakiramdam na gusto mong humingi ng tulong, pero hindi mo alam kung paano?
Kasi baka isipin nilang ang arte mo.

Baka isipin nilang “drama” lang.
​
O baka… wala talagang makaintindi.

Today, I donated blood again. It’s my fourth time.

And every time, I think of my mom.

The first time I ever gave blood wasn’t for a cause. It wasn’t for an event or a campaign. It was for her. My mom was preparing for surgery for colorectal cancer, and we needed blood donors. A lot of them. It was urgent. It was terrifying. We were desperate.

So we asked for help.

We pleaded. Posted. Called. Prayed. And people - oh, people came. Friends, colleagues, even strangers we had never spoken to before walked into blood banks just to say, “This is for her.”

It was overwhelming in the best way.

But not everyone was kind. A few people tried to scam us, taking advantage of our fear and grief. It was cruel. And it hurt. But even then, the goodness of others was louder. More powerful.

There were far more people who helped without asking for anything in return. People who reminded us that in the middle of pain, humanity still shines through.

My mom didn’t make it. Cancer eventually took her. But every bag of blood that came in gave us more time. More hugs. More “I love yous.” More chances to hold her hand and just... be.

So today, as I sat in that chair and watched the blood slowly fill the bag, I whispered a quiet promise:
This is for you, Ma.

It’s for every mother fighting.
Every family hoping.
Every person waiting for a miracle.

Blood is just blood until it’s given with love. Then it becomes life.

If you’re healthy and able, please consider donating. It may be a small part of your day. But to someone else, it could mean one more tomorrow.
​
And sometimes, one more tomorrow is everything.

Now every Father’s Day, I scroll through all the sweet posts…
The hugs, the “I love you, Dad” captions, the family photos.
And my heart just aches.

Because I don’t get to call him anymore.

I don’t get to hear his laugh, or that proud voice saying, “Kaya mo ’yan, anak.” and the longing sound of "Kelan ka ga Ineng uuwi?"
I don’t get to say thank you… or I miss you… or I love you… one more time.

And now, as a mom, I look at my daughters
and quietly wish they could feel the kind of love I once had,
the kind of love that shows up, stays, and makes you feel safe just by being there.

That kind of love is rare.

And on days like this, I grieve not just for what I lost,
but for what my girls are still waiting for.

For some of us, this day feels heavy;
from missing our dad's or from wishing someone could love our kids better.
​
Some of us are just learning how to live with a heart that aches-
for the love we had… and the love our children still deserve.

When I was in high school, my sister and I joined a school play called Joseph the Dreamer. We were young, full of energy, and super excited. We didn’t just practice in school. We practiced everywhere. In the kitchen. In the living room. Even while doing chores. We memorized every line, every song. It became a part of us.

But there was one line that stayed with me, long after the lights on stage went out. A simple line, but it felt like a message straight from God.

“See the birds in the air. They don’t plant or harvest, but God feeds them. And we? We are the children of God. We are worth more than the sparrows.”

That line hits different when you're older.

Back then, it was just part of the play. But now, I see how true it really is.

Life is not always easy. There are times when I worry. Times I feel tired. Times I question if all this hard work is really worth it. Being far from home. Missing family. Working non-stop. Sacrificing so much.

But in those quiet moments, I remember that line, and I remember that God never forgets us.
Just like the birds in the air who don’t even try to earn their food, yet God still makes sure they’re fed… how much more will He take care of us, His children?

Sometimes we don’t see the answers right away. Sometimes life feels unfair. But just because we can’t see it yet, doesn’t mean God isn’t working behind the scenes.

So don’t give up.
Do your best, even when no one sees.
Keep praying, even when it feels quiet.
Keep trusting, even when the road is hard.

Because God provides.

Not always when we want,
But always when we need it most.
One day, everything will fall into place.
Not by luck.

But by His perfect timing.

Just like what that school play taught me years ago... we are worth more than sparrows.

Not everyone who travels is just chasing sunsets or ticking off countries.

Some of us are healing.
Some of us are hiding.
Some of us are just tired of pretending we're okay.

I’ve walked through cities, mountains, and empty roads, not always because I wanted to explore, but because I needed space to breathe.

Sometimes I travel for the silence, because my life back home feels too loud.
Sometimes I go for the simplicity, because everything else feels too heavy.
And sometimes, I leave because it’s the only way I feel seen… even when I’m alone.

Yes, I love the beauty, the landscapes, the sky, the smell of rain on unfamiliar streets.
But more than the view, it’s the quiet moments that save me.

One bus ride at a time.
One border crossing at a time.
One small step away from who I was yesterday.

So, if you see someone like me, suitcase in hand, eyes tired but searching,
Please think that maybe we’re not just chasing adventure.
​
Maybe we’re just trying to find a piece of ourselves we lost along the way.

​Most of the time, I keep quiet about what’s going on inside me. It’s not that I don’t trust people, or that I don’t know they care. It’s just that I’ve learned to deal with my feelings alone. I convince myself that telling someone won’t change what I feel. So, even on days when it feels like I’m falling apart, I don’t reach out. I tell myself I’ll be okay.

I know there are people who would help me, who would hold my hand through the hardest moments if I let them. But I don’t want to be a burden. I don’t want them to see the parts of me that feel shattered, the parts that are tired of fighting. So, instead, I pull away. I disappear when I’m hurting. I isolate myself, close my doors, and wait for the storm to pass. I cry in the quiet of my room where no one can see or hear me.

There was a time I did this during one of the hardest moments in my life. I remember the day I lost my father, and I shut the world out completely. The grief was too much, and even though my family and friends reached out, I couldn’t bring myself to share that pain. I just sat there in silence, tears streaming down, trying to make sense of the loss alone. I think about that time often because it taught me just how much I prefer handling things on my own, even when I’m surrounded by love.

I’ve always been this way. Even when I’m sad or overwhelmed, I push through it quietly. I don’t like people seeing me at my weakest, so I comfort myself. I tell myself to be strong, to keep going. And somehow, I do. But I still appreciate the people who remind me that they’re there for me. The ones who don’t pry but just gently let me know they’re around, waiting if I ever need them.

Over lunch today, my colleagues and I touched on a subject that has weighed heavily on my mind for years- complacency. It’s something I’ve seen firsthand growing up in Oriental Mindoro, and it frustrates me deeply, not just in my province but in the Filipinos I meet wherever I travel. It’s a trait that, to me, holds so much potential hostage, limiting the greatness I know we are capable of.

I remember when I was younger, the atmosphere in our hometown was one of contentment, but not the kind that makes you feel fulfilled. It was more like a resignation. People would settle into their routines, not daring to dream too big or reach too far. My parents, who worked tirelessly, often pointed out how many of our neighbors had the ability to improve their lives but didn’t. There was this unspoken rule - be grateful for what you have, don’t rock the boat, and certainly don’t try to rise above the rest. In our province, there’s a phrase I heard far too often: “Sakto na ‘yan” (That’s enough). It’s as if we’ve been conditioned to believe that wanting more success, more opportunities, more growth was somehow a bad thing.

​I’m slowly learning that no matter how much I react, explain, or try to fix things, it won’t change what’s already broken. It won’t make people see me differently. It won’t magically make them love or respect me, or even understand where I’m coming from. I’ve spent so many moments agonizing over conversations in my head, replaying them, thinking, *If only I had said this… If only they knew that…* But in the end, it doesn’t matter. People see what they want to see, and no amount of pleading or explanation can change their perception.

I’ve realized that the harder I try to cling to those moments, the more it hurts. I’ve fought for closure, begged for explanations that never came, chased answers that left me feeling emptier than before. And I’ve waited… waited for people to finally understand, to finally get why I was hurting, to give me the validation that I craved. But none of it happened. The closure I was so desperate for never arrived. The people I fought so hard to keep eventually drifted away. And the respect I hoped to earn stayed out of reach.

It’s a painful truth I’m learning to accept - sometimes, people just won’t care, no matter how much you do. Sometimes, they’ll leave without a word, and sometimes, they’ll stay, but their presence feels even lonelier than their absence. I’ve cried over relationships that fell apart, over misunderstandings that never got cleared, over friendships that slowly faded into nothing. And in those moments, I thought I had failed. But maybe, just maybe, it’s not about fighting to be understood, to be heard, or to be loved. Maybe, it’s about letting go.

I’m learning that peace comes not from trying to control what happens around me, but from what’s happening inside me. When I let go of the need to fix every misunderstanding, to heal every broken bond, I start to find a quiet kind of peace. I’m learning that not everything needs a resolution. Not everyone deserves an explanation. Some people will never understand, and that’s okay. I don’t need to keep fighting for space in the hearts of those who don’t see my worth.

There’s a certain kind of freedom in surrendering that's allowing life to unfold as it will without the constant need to steer it. It’s not that I don’t care anymore; it’s that I’m learning to care in a different way. I’m learning to care for myself. To put my energy into healing what’s inside me instead of trying to control what’s outside of me. And the more I do that, the more I realize that my peace, my joy, and my sense of self-worth don’t depend on anyone else.

Letting go doesn’t mean I don’t feel the pain anymore. It means I’ve decided to stop letting it control me. It means I’m choosing to live in the present instead of reliving the past. It means I’m slowly finding the strength to move forward, even when I don’t have all the answers, even when the wounds are still healing.

I’m learning that life is better lived when I don’t center it on what’s happening around me, but on what’s happening within me. And maybe that’s the greatest lesson of all: to find peace not in the things or people I once clung to, but in the quiet strength I’m discovering inside myself.

​One of Those Nights

It’s one of those nights when sleep feels so distant. I lie awake, staring at the ceiling, and the tears won’t stop. My heart feels heavy, and no matter how hard I try to push the thoughts away, they keep coming back. I miss my mom. I miss my dad. I miss their thoughtfulness, their comforting words, and just knowing they were there. I could never fully understand how much their absence changed me, how deeply it would hurt to live in a world without them. I know that even though they’re gone, the love they gave me still lives inside me, but tonight, it feels so far away.

And then, there’s my kids. I miss them more than words can say. I miss their laughter, their hugs, the way they made even the hardest days feel brighter. I’m far from them, and that distance feels unbearable tonight. I wonder if they know how much I long to be with them. I wonder if they miss me the same way, if they feel the same emptiness that I do. Being alone is hard. Loneliness wraps around me like a blanket, but it doesn’t offer warmth. Some nights are just too quiet, and the silence is overwhelming.