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. What breaks my heart sometimes is when I pull away, not just from my own pain, but from the people who need me too. I’ve missed moments when I should have been there for others because I was too tired, too drained by my own battles. I know it hurts them, but they still try to understand. They give me space. They respect the fact that sometimes, I need to close my doors to the world. And for that, I’m grateful. They wait for me, never pushing, always knowing that when I’m ready, I’ll come back.
There are feelings that are so hard to put into words. I don’t think I could ever truly explain the depth of the sadness I sometimes feel. So, I hide it. I retreat into the safety of my room, behind a closed door, where it’s just me and my thoughts. There, in the silence, I don’t have to pretend that I’m okay. I don’t have to explain why I feel the way I do. I just let myself be, and eventually, I heal. It’s a lonely way to go through life sometimes, but it’s how I’ve learned to survive. And though I choose to disappear when things get tough, I never forget the ones who are always there, quietly waiting for me to return. Their presence, even from a distance, gives me the strength to keep going.
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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—more success, more opportunities, more growth—was somehow a bad thing. I witnessed this same complacency as I started working overseas, meeting other Filipinos who, like me, had ventured far from home. In Saudi Arabia, I encountered many OFWs who, despite their circumstances, had settled into an attitude of simply surviving, not thriving. Don’t get me wrong, it’s hard being away from your family, living in a foreign land, working long hours just to send money home. But there’s a stark difference between enduring hardship to build a better future and merely accepting that hardship as your permanent reality. One particular instance stands out in my mind. I met a fellow Filipino who, after working abroad for nearly 10 years, had grown weary of the system but seemed utterly resigned to his situation. When I asked him about his plans for the future, he simply shrugged and said, “Wala na, ganito na lang tayo habangbuhay” (This is how we’ll be for the rest of our lives). My heart sank. Here was someone with the same potential, the same opportunities as me, yet he had chosen to stop fighting, to accept the limits of his circumstances. I felt a pang of sadness and anger. Not at him, but at this mindset that seems to plague so many of us. Even when I visit home, I still see it—this complacency that trickles down through generations. The younger ones, full of dreams and energy, often get swallowed by this narrative that they can’t aspire for more. I’ve seen bright minds who could do so much, held back by the weight of complacency, as if the world beyond their current life is unreachable. They hear it in the words of those around them, “Okay na ‘yan” (That’s good enough), and soon enough, they start to believe it too. It’s hard to break free from this, and I don’t mean to judge. Life is difficult, and sometimes we are just trying to survive. But I believe in our potential to thrive, not just survive. I’ve experienced it in my own life, the battle against complacency. I’ve worked hard to push past the limitations I’ve felt, to build something better for my daughters and my family. And it hasn’t been easy. There were moments I wanted to give up, moments I doubted myself and felt it would be easier to just accept things as they are. But each time, I reminded myself that I didn’t want to pass down this mindset to my daughters. I didn’t want them to inherit this complacency. I often think about the life I’ve built far from home. The sacrifices I’ve made, the dreams I’ve chased. Every time I return to Oriental Mindoro, I’m reminded of how far I’ve come, but also of how much more there is to do. There’s this quiet voice in me that says we don’t have to settle. We can aim for more—whether it’s in our careers, our relationships, or the dreams we hold dear. And that’s the message I try to spread whenever I meet fellow Filipinos, whether abroad or back home. I encourage them to see beyond the present, to fight against that little voice that says “just enough is enough.” I’ve always believed that as Filipinos, we have this unique resilience, a strength that has carried us through countless struggles. But sometimes, that resilience turns into a quiet complacency, and that’s what I hope we can change. I don’t want us to be content with mediocrity. I want us to reach for more, not out of greed, but because we deserve better. We owe it to ourselves, to our families, and to future generations. At the end of the day, I know it’s a long road ahead. But if we can change the narrative, even just a little, we can transform our future. And maybe, just maybe, we can break free from the chains of complacency that have held us back for so long. I wish we can all not settle for less than what we’re capable of. We owe it to ourselves to dream bigger, to push harder, and to build a life we can truly be proud of. |
HappinessMy happiness comes from the people who believe in me and inspire me every day. They are my strength.
Life is a beautiful, fleeting journey. Despite the challenges, I see beauty and miracles everywhere. Growing up was tough, but my Dad was my beacon of hope. He taught me to believe in myself and to embrace life's limitless possibilities. His lessons and spirit guide me still. I lost him years ago, but I carry his memory everywhere I go, hoping he's proud of me—as I've always been of him. I promised him I'd live life to the fullest. Now, I find joy in writing, traveling, and simply living, cherishing each moment. This, I believe, is something we all should embrace: finding happiness in every part of life. Archives
October 2024
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