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"Subang ni Marlon" "Unica ija" "Bugtong-bayi ni Melyn"

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Being the eldest and the only daughter, my life has been a high wire act. My young parents, still learning themselves, looked to me for a kind of maturity that was beyond my ken. Since earliest childhood, I was the "little mother" to my two younger brothers, a role I never ever auditioned for, but was thrust into anyway. While they had the luxury of childhood abandon, I was ever reminded of my responsibilities, the unspoken necessity to set an example, to be the eye in the whirlwind, and never to fail. And yet in all these demands, there were little, precious moments of being their "princess".

The very nature of my existence, then, has been forever tied to this expectation of fortitude, tempered by these moments of soft indulgence. Every choice, every trial bested, every failure that befell me, was gauged on how it would affect my standing as the unflappable eldest sister. There is a quiet pride in the knowing that I've been there for my brothers, that I've led them, supported them, and picked them up when they fell. And for this, my little "rewards" — a plate of adobong atay that was seasoned with my father's love, or the calming aroma of haplas from my mother's fingers — were a reminder that even the strongest among us need to be cared for.

It's an imperfect life, sure. There are times of fatigue, of annoyance, of wanting someone to be strong for me. But in the imperfection is a unique sort of love and bond. My brothers are my entire world, and though the path of being their rock has not been an easy one, it has forged an unbreakable bond. My strength, while a burden so many times, is also my gift to them, a demonstration of the long-term, though at times aggravating, love that keeps our family bound, made bearable by the fleeting, sweet times when I was simply their princess.

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"Te, pahimo ko 3D na project daw" "Te, giaaway ko nila" "Ate, mainom ko tubig please" "Ate, anuhon ko ning portfolio man?"

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Life as the eldest and only daughter of two younger brothers was always one of learning to take responsibility, but it gained a certain edge with my middle brother's musculoskeletal disability. I learned early on to see the world in another way, attuned to the extra care and patience he needed. While other kids my age were perhaps struggling with standard sibling rivalry, I was adjusting, assisting, and advocating for him. It wasn't so much about being an older sister; it was being his extra set of hands, his support system, and his biggest fan, assisting him in living as much life as possible, if that meant modifying our games or being innovative.

There's an undeniable well of pride that fills me when I reflect on how I've grown through this experience. Tending to my brother, helping him navigate a world not always built for him, has shaped me in profound ways. It makes my heart flutter to know that I'm dependable, that he trusts me, and that I've been a constant presence in his journey. Seeing his resilience, his unwavering spirit, and the inventive ways he finds to overcome challenges fills me with immense admiration. It's a privilege to witness his daily triumphs, big or small, and to be a part of his incredible growth.

Watching my brother learn and discover for himself his own special gifts has been one of the greatest pleasures of my life. Although it might be said that he has physical limitations, his heart is large and his will an endless source of inspiration. From his earliest efforts to move by himself to his current ability to do some things with a quiet confidence, I've seen the great growth of his character. To be his "ate" has been the best education in compassion, patience, and unshakeable love any textbook could ever hope to provide, and I would not trade the imperfect, beautiful tapestry for the world.

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The future has always felt like a hazy landscape to me, a place I'm driving towards without a clear map. In high school, I was the quintessential overachiever, driven by an insatiable need to be the best. Every test, every project, every extracurricular activity was a battle to be won, a stepping stone to some undefined pinnacle of success. That relentless pursuit of perfection was my compass then, albeit one that often pointed solely to academic accolades and competitive triumphs. There was a certain clarity in that ambition, even if it was narrowly focused.

University, however, was a jarring wake-up call. The vastness of it, the sheer number of brilliant minds, quickly showed me where I truly stood. From a top-tier student, I became, well, average. It was a humbling experience, stripping away the easy confidence I'd worn for years. The path I thought I was on dissolved, leaving me feeling adrift, without that familiar competitive fire to guide me. For a while, that sense of directionlessness was unsettling, a constant hum of anxiety beneath the surface.

But slowly, things started to shift. The "things behind my back," as I've come to call them, began to emerge as new anchors. My friends, with their unwavering support and diverse perspectives, showed me that success isn't just about grades. My evolving ambition, now less about outdoing others and more about finding genuine purpose, started to take shape. And my family, always a steadfast presence, reminded me of the values that truly matter. These aren't external pressures, but internal compass points, gently nudging me forward.

So, here I am, still adjusting to this newfound sense of directionality, learning to navigate the future with more trust than certainty. I might not have all the answers, and the path ahead is far from perfectly clear. Yet, despite the lingering uncertainties, I hold firm to one unwavering belief: I can do all this through Christ who gives me strength. That faith is the ultimate anchor, the quiet assurance that even when the map is unreadable, there's a guiding hand leading the way.