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‎There were times when I really struggled and felt like giving up. I’ve had days where I doubted myself, felt left out, or failed at something I wanted to do. But through those tough moments, I learned more about who I am. I saw how strong I could be, how to keep going even when things are heavy, and how to understand others better.

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‎I believe that failure and pain aren’t just things we go through—they help us become better and stronger. If life were always easy, we wouldn’t appreciate the lessons from difficult moments as much. Difficult times help us grow. I'm still learning every day, and I try to remember that everything that happens, may it be good or bad, has a lesson to teach me.

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‎That’s how I see life now—not perfect, not always happy, but full of important lessons. I may not understand everything right away, but I trust that one day, I’ll look back and see how it all helped shape who I am.

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In my 20 years of existence, challenges are nothing new to me. It almost feels like the day wouldn’t be complete without one.

Recently, I’ve been facing the challenge of regret — regretting my past academic performance. If only I had done better, maybe things would have gone my way. Maybe life would have felt lighter. Maybe I wouldn’t be experiencing late-night anxiety or sudden realizations that hit me out of the blue.

I’m still dealing with it now, and I know it’ll take time to heal. But one thing is certain: I’m starting to accept things as they are.

I am human. I made mistakes, and I grow from them.

Reality can’t be forced — it can’t be changed.

I’ve learned that accepting past mistakes can lead to a better future. And right now, I’m holding on to that hope for a better tomorrow.

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‎Aside from reading, I also enjoy watching animated movies and series, as well as Korean, Chinese, and Japanese dramas. There’s something magical about seeing stories unfold on screen. The emotions, the visuals, the music—it all hits differently. Watching these shows feels like entering another world, just like reading, and I love how they make me feel inspired, comforted, or even understood.

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Going through a hard life made me realize how important stability really is. Life can change in a moment, and nothing is promised. That’s why I work hard to build a life that feels steady and sure. Not just for me, but especially for my family. I want to provide for them and be someone they can count on.

One thing that always reminds me of my purpose is our first family picture, taken on my birthday. I always keep it with me. It reminds me why I keep going. My tough experiences? They are my biggest influence. My family? They are my greatest inspiration.

One flower is blooming, full of life, while the other is already fading. It shows that life is made up of both beginnings and endings. Sometimes, we need to lose something to make room for something new.

Letting go can be hard, but it’s not always a bad thing. A wilted flower doesn’t mean the plant has failed — it means it’s still growing. In the same way, we grow too, even after losing something or someone.

To bloom, we must be willing to let go.

A little strip that can do such a thing.

Holding together what’s torn apart,

Helping the skin remember to start.

But I wonder who thought of this healing art,

Did they also feel wounds deeper in the heart?

Could they invent for the aches we hide,

The kind we carry all quiet inside?

For not every hurt is blood or bone,

Some live in silence, faced alone.

If only there were band-aids for pain unseen,

To patch the places where we’ve never been clean.

so eager, full of drive,

but now the fire inside me

feels barely still alive.

The books I hold are heavy,

their words just fade away,

I try but can’t remember

the joy I had each day.

Yet deep inside I’m hoping

this dimness will not stay,

that somehow I’ll recover

and find my light one day.

Whenever they tease me with a name, my face hardens, sour with denial. They think I am disgusted, yet the truth is — I do like that person. I long to be cherished, to be cared for, to feel the warmth of every tender affection.

But love, to me, feels like a luxury I cannot afford. How could I offer my heart when it is not beating for itself? I am a vessel filled with insecurities—unstable in mind, frail in body, and unready in life. To love me would be to carry a weight I cannot lift.

So until I learn to quiet the storms within, until I resolve the fractures of who I am, my face will always turn away— sour — whenever their laughter ties me to an

other.

not one wrapped in tears,

not one filled with suffering.

I crave an ending — but only because I am desperate to begin again.

What I long for is a kind of disappearance,

a quiet pause,

like a bubble that pops

and leaves no trace of where it used to be.

Sometimes I wish I could simply dissolve

out of the weight of this life,

out of the memories that ache,

out of the mistakes that cannot be undone.

It isn’t death itself that I desire —

it’s the feeling of being able to start again.

A reset.

A life untouched by the heaviness I carry now.

Maybe what I really crave

is not an ending,

but a beginning.

A chance to breathe differently,

to live differently,

to be someone new —

someone who has not yet been hurt

the way I have been.

Maybe I don’t want to disappear.

Maybe I want to return

to a version of myself

that still believes

there is something ahead worth reaching for.

I once told someone that I wanted to die. She rushed to correct me, to remind me that life is meaningful, that it is beautiful, that it is something to be protected at all costs. I listened, nodded, and let her words settle where they could. But they never reached the place where the tiredness lives. What I felt was not drama, nor despair that begged for attention. It was something quieter, heavier, and more persistent.

I do not want a loud ending. I do not want tragedy carved into memory. What I want is simpler and crueler in its simplicity—I want to disappear. To be absent without explanation. To be gone without leaving a mess for anyone to clean. I want to slip away the way dusk does, unnoticed, unquestioned, inevitable.

I want to disappear from a world that feels sharp to the touch, where existing requires constant endurance. From a family I love but cannot breathe within, where love arrives tangled with expectation and silence is safer than honesty. From a degree that drains me daily, turning passion into obligation and effort into exhaustion. Most of all, I want to disappear from myself—from the version of me that keeps going out of habit, not hope.

I know family is important. I know this well. I care deeply, perhaps too deeply, enough that staying feels like suffocation. My thoughts remain trapped behind my teeth because speaking them would be called disrespect. My truth is mistaken for rebellion. And so I swallow my voice again and again, until even I forget what it sounds like. It is always the same words echoing back to me: “Maypag wala na lang ni uli.”

Maybe this is just a season of life. They say everyone passes through moments like this—moments where fatigue gathers all at once, where nothing is particularly wrong yet everything feels unbearable. A time when the soul grows tired before the body does, when waking up feels heavier than sleeping.

So, God, if it is Your will, I hope You will take me back home. Not because I hate life, but because I am so tired of holding it together. I am not Your strongest soldier. I am simply someone who has been fighting quietly for a long time, and is running out of strength.

Amen.

‎If you never fit into their world, how do you live?

‎If you’re treated like a disappointment instead of a person, how do you live?

‎If every mistake defines you and every effort is ignored, how do you live?

‎If you’re only valued when you’re useful, how do you live?

‎If you’re expected to endure silently, to smile through the damage, how do you live?

‎If life keeps knocking you down and never lets you stand, how do you live?

‎If every day feels like survival instead of living, how do you live?

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‎The truth is, you don't. You're alive but you're not living.

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‎Watching someone you love suffer changes the way you imagine the future. Illness does not stay confined to the body of the patient; it spreads quietly into everyone who loves them. It reshapes daily life, emotional capacity, and hope itself. In witnessing my mother’s struggle, I realized that I do not want to build a family only for them to experience the same pain I have endured. I do not want anyone to feel the helplessness, fear, and exhaustion that come with loving someone whose health is fragile.

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‎The thought of passing that burden forward terrifies me. If I were the one hospitalized, I know myself well enough to admit that I would not fight the way others might expect. I would accept my fate rather than force the people I love to carry the weight of my suffering. That realization does not come from apathy toward life, but from an acute awareness of how heavy love can become when paired with illness. To love deeply is to risk becoming the source of someone else’s pain, and that responsibility feels overwhelming.

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‎This fear has made me question whether choosing solitude is an act of selfishness or selflessness. On the surface, refusing relationships may appear like emotional withdrawal, but underneath it lies a desire to protect others. I am not afraid of commitment itself; I am afraid of causing harm to the people I would care about the most. In that sense, my reluctance is rooted not in indifference, but in compassion shaped by trauma.

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‎Perhaps not everyone is meant to follow the same blueprint of love, family, and resilience. Some people learn early that survival does not always look like fighting—it sometimes looks like choosing not to create situations where suffering multiplies. For now, I allow myself to exist in this uncertainty, without forcing decisions about love or the future. Choosing not to choose is not failure; it is honesty.

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‎What I know is this: my fear does not make me heartless. It makes me someone who understands pain too well, someone who has learned that love is powerful enough to wound as deeply as it heals. And until I learn how to hold love without fear, I choose gentleness—for myself and for those I might someday love.

I remembered leaning close to her, whispering sweet nothings—words of love, gratitude, and reassurance. I told her all the good things I could think of, hoping that my voice would guide her toward peace. I watched as each breath she took seemed to carry her farther away from me, until her breathing finally took her life. In that moment, my only wish was for her to rest, free from pain, free from suffering.

I wanted to cry. I needed to cry. But I wasn’t alone in the room. My two roommates were asleep, breathing evenly, unaware of the storm inside me. I couldn’t bear to wake them with my grief, so I swallowed everything I felt. I closed my eyes and cried in silence, letting the tears fall without sound, as if my pain had to be hidden to be allowed to exist.

As the night grew deeper, the what ifs began to surface. What if we had the money for her treatment? What if God had given us just one more day—one more chance to give her everything she wanted and deserved? What if there were a way to switch places? If there were, I would not hesitate. I would choose her life over mine without a second thought.

I loved my mother so deeply that watching her suffer felt unbearable. Even now, the memory lingers, heavy and sharp. Grief does not always come loudly; sometimes it arrives quietly, stealing sleep, tightening breath, and filling the darkness with memories that refuse to fade.