Lately, I have been carrying so many questions in my heart.
Questions that keep me awake at night - those that have no easy answers.
Why is it so hard to be alone?
Why do we sometimes feel lonely even when there are people all around us?
Why are there days when happiness feels so far away?
Sometimes I wonder why we become sad.
Is it because of the things we regret?
The chances we never took?
The dreams we still carry in our hearts but secretly fear may never happen?
The older I get, the more questions I seem to have.
And the fewer answers I find.
For more than twenty years, I have lived away from home.
I have said countless goodbyes here and there.
I have walked away from people I love, carrying a smile on my face while my heart quietly broke inside.
People say you get used to it.
But I don't think you ever do.
You simply learn how to live with the ache.
The hardest part has always been being away from my daughters.
I missed school programs.
I missed ordinary afternoons.
I missed the little moments that probably meant nothing at the time but would later become memories.
And sometimes I wonder...
Do they understand?
Do they know how badly I wanted to be there?
Do they know that if I had another choice, I would have chosen them every single time?
When we talk, they tell me about their lives.
Their classes.
Their friends.
Their plans.
And I smile because I am happy they are growing into strong young women.
But after the call ends, the questions return.
Do they miss me as much as I miss them?
Do they ever cry because I am not there?
Do they ever wish I was sitting beside them during the important moments of their lives?
Or are they simply stronger than I am?
Maybe that is one of the hardest parts of being a mother.
You spend your whole life loving your children, yet there are some pains you cannot protect them from.
And some pains you cannot protect yourself from either.
Sometimes I wonder if this feeling will ever go away.
Maybe this is what love looks like when distance becomes part of your story.
A piece of your heart is always somewhere else.
Always longing.
Always waiting.
Always missing someone.
There are days when I feel strong.
Days when I convince myself that all of this sacrifice will be worth it.
But there are also days when I sit quietly and cry.
Because I am weak, because I miss them, because I miss my family and because sometimes carrying everything alone feels heavier than usual.
And then there are the questions about life itself.
Did I make the right decisions?
Did I spend too much time working and not enough time living?
How much longer can I keep doing this?
When will enough finally be enough?
I honestly don't know.
And maybe that is what scares me the most.
Not the sacrifices or the distance, but not knowing when the finish line will come.
The truth is, I am not only a mother.
I am also a daughter.
And there are days when I miss my parents so much.
Days when I wish I could go home and be someone's child again.
Days when I wish someone would hug me and tell me that everything will be okay.
Days when I am tired of being the strong one.
Because even the strong ones get tired.
Even the strong ones cry.
Even the strong ones need someone to lean on.
As I write this today, I still don't have answers to most of my questions.
I don't know how much longer I should keep holding on.
I don't know when all these sacrifices will finally make sense.
I don't know when I will stop missing the people I love.
Maybe never.
But perhaps not all questions are meant to be answered right away.
Maybe some questions are simply reminders.
Reminders of what matters, of who we love, and maybe even reminders of the dreams we are still fighting for.
So for now, I will just carry these questions with me. I will keep moving forward because I have no other choice.
One day at a time, one prayer at a time. Still, I will keep holding on to the hope that someday, all this distance, all this longing, and all these sacrifices will lead me exactly where I am meant to be.
And when that day comes, maybe I will finally understand why I had to go through all of this.

I remember one afternoon with my mother.

I was folding clothes while talking to my husband on the phone. We were arguing. I cannot even remember now what the argument was about, but I remember the feeling. The heaviness. The tiredness. The kind of pain that sits in your chest even while your hands are doing something so ordinary.

I was folding clothes, but inside, I was breaking.

That is the strange thing about being a woman, a wife, and a mother. Life does not stop just because you are hurting. The laundry still has to be folded. The children still have to be fed. The house still has to function. Even when your heart feels like it is no longer in one piece, your hands keep moving.
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When the call ended, I cried.

I did not even notice that my mother had entered the room. Maybe she heard everything. Maybe she only heard enough. Or maybe, like most mothers, she just knew. Mothers have a way of sensing pain even when we try to hide it.

She sat beside me quietly.

She did not ask me to explain. She did not force me to tell the whole story. She just sat there. And when I looked at her, I saw the kind of eyes that understood without needing too many words.

It was the look of a woman who had also carried things quietly.

Then she told me something I never forgot.

“Ikaw ang nagdadala ng pamilya. Kung kaya mong magtiis para sa mga anak mo, yun ang dapat mong gawin.”

At that time, I did not know how to feel about those words.

Part of me understood her. Part of me also wanted to ask, “Paano naman ako?”
Because sometimes, that is the silent question of many women.

What about me?
What about what I feel?
What about the days when I am tired of being strong?
What about the times when I also need someone to carry me?

But I know my mother. I know those words did not come from a place of cruelty. They came from a life that had taught her sacrifice. They came from her own experience as a woman, as a wife, and as a mother. Maybe she was not telling me to lose myself. Maybe she was telling me to think of the bigger picture, especially when children are involved.
Because whether we admit it or not, mothers carry so much of the family.

We carry the small things and the big things. The bills, the food, the school needs, the sickness, the moods, the silence, the worries, the dreams. We notice when a child is sad. We feel when something is wrong at home. We remember what everyone needs, even when we are also needing something ourselves.

And many times, we do all of this quietly.

Not because we are okay.

But because someone has to keep going.

I think that is what my mother saw in me that day. She saw a daughter who was hurting, but she also saw a mother trying to hold everything together.

I did not fully understand it then. Maybe I was too young. Maybe I was too hurt. Maybe I was still hoping that love would always feel soft and easy.

But life has taught me that family life is not always soft. Marriage is not always simple. Motherhood is not always beautiful in the way people describe it. Sometimes it is painful. Sometimes it is lonely. Sometimes it asks too much from one person.

And many times, that person is the mother.

Still, I also believe this now: carrying the family does not mean forgetting yourself.
A woman can sacrifice, but she should not disappear.

A woman can be patient, but she should not be silenced.

A woman can fight for her family, but she should also be allowed to fight for her own peace.

Maybe this is the part I understand differently now. My mother came from a generation where women endured so much and called it strength. I respect that. I honor that. But I also know that we are allowed to learn from their sacrifices without repeating all their pain.

That afternoon stayed with me because my mother did not really fix anything. She did not solve the argument. She did not give me a long lecture. She simply sat beside me and made me feel seen.

Sometimes, that is all we need.
Someone who sees us.
Someone who understands that we are tired.
Someone who knows that behind the folded clothes, the prepared meals, the quiet face, and the normal routine, there is a woman trying her best not to fall apart.

I miss my mother in moments like this.

I miss her when life feels heavy. I miss her when I want to be understood without explaining myself. I miss her when I want to sit beside someone and not pretend that I am okay.

Her words still come back to me.

“Ikaw ang nagdadala ng pamilya.”

It is a heavy sentence.

But maybe it is also true.

Many women hold the family together in ways no one sees. They hold it through patience, through silence, through tears, through prayers, through choices that are not always easy. They hold it because they love deeply. They hold it because their children matter more than their pride.

But I hope we also remember this:

The woman holding the family together is also part of the family.

She also needs care.

She also needs understanding.

She also needs rest.
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She also needs to be held.

Because no matter how strong a woman is, she is still human. And sometimes, even the strongest mother is just a daughter missing her own mother, wishing someone would sit beside her again and say, without too many words, “I understand.”
 

Today, I miss him so much.
I told my sister during our video chat. It just slipped out. I said, “I miss him… a bit terribly.”
And then I laughed right after, like I always do when something feels too heavy.
But it stayed there. That feeling.
I think what I really wanted to say was… I wish I knew if I made him proud.
And then, for some reason, my mind went back to that day.
Makati. Office. That version of me I don’t visit often.
I had just passed the pharmacy board exam. Everyone around me was celebrating, moving forward, starting their careers. And I was paused. I couldn’t get my license yet. I wasn’t 21.
So instead of being a pharmacist, I became a medical indexer.
I remember telling myself it was temporary. That it was just a waiting room. But you know how waiting can feel… like you’re watching everyone else’s life move while yours is buffering.
Lunch breaks were quiet.
I didn’t really have a group yet. Or maybe I just didn’t try hard enough. I would go to the canteen, find a corner, and sit there like it was my assigned seat.
My usual food was scrambled eggs. Fried. With ketchup.
I don’t know why that detail sticks. Maybe because it says a lot without saying anything. Tipid. Simple. No thinking required.
That day, I was eating alone again. Same corner. Same plate.
I think I was tired. Not physically. Just that kind of tired where you don’t question things anymore. You just go through them.
Then I looked up.
And there he was.
My dad.
No warning. No message. Nothing.
He was just there, standing in the canteen like he had always belonged there. Looking around until he found me.
I remember feeling confused first.
Like… why is he here?
Then he saw me.
And he smiled.
That quiet smile. The kind that doesn’t ask anything from you. The kind that just says, okay ka lang ba?
He walked over and sat with me.
And suddenly, I wasn’t alone anymore.
I wish I could remember what we talked about. I really do.
Maybe he asked about work. Maybe he asked if I was okay. Maybe I said yes, even if I wasn’t fully sure.
I don’t remember the words.
But I remember how it felt.
He didn’t come to see a pharmacist.
He didn’t come to see someone successful.
He came to see me.
That version of me. The one who felt a little lost. A little behind. A little unsure.
The one eating eggs with ketchup in the corner of a canteen.
And now that I think about it… maybe that was already his answer.
Because today, sitting here, miles and years away from that moment, I still find myself wondering if I made him proud.
If everything I’ve done since then, the work, the sacrifices, the trying, if it’s enough.
If I’m enough.
But then I remember that day.
He didn’t wait for me to become something before showing up.
He didn’t need me to prove anything.
He saw me exactly where I was… and he still came.
So maybe…
just maybe…
I didn’t have to become someone else for him to be proud.
Maybe he already was.