Skinny Brokovich

Alcohol is Never the Answer

2026-03-08T22:01:00.001+08:00

I think it’s safe to post this now without any protest from the universe.

Today, I am 365 days sober.

A year ago, I decided to stop drinking. At the time, I didn’t frame it as something monumental. It was just one of the steps I needed to take for my recovery. One small decision among many others that were slowly reshaping my life.

But somewhere along the way, that small decision turned into a full year.

Three hundred sixty five days of choosing something different. Three hundred sixty five days of sitting with feelings instead of trying to numb them. Three hundred sixty five days of learning that clarity, even when it’s uncomfortable, is better than escape.

I won’t pretend it was always easy. There were moments when a drink felt like it would smooth the edges of grief or quiet the noise in my head. That’s the promise alcohol tends to make. That it will soften things, make them lighter, make them easier.

But what I’ve learned this past year is that alcohol was never the answer for grief.

Grief doesn’t disappear when you drown it. It just waits for you to come back.

Sobriety, on the other hand, has given me space to actually face things. To feel them. To move through them slowly, honestly, sometimes painfully, but truthfully.

And today I get to celebrate that.

One year sober. One year of choosing recovery. One year of showing up for my own life a little more clearly.

I’m really happy about this one.

This is the Journey

2026-03-08T21:37:00.001+08:00

A few months ago, when the earthquake happened, something shifted in me. Not just the ground, but something inside my body too. Soon after, I started feeling this constant discomfort in my chest and throat. It felt like acid reflux. The burning, the heaviness, that familiar sensation people describe when acid decides to rebel against your peace.

So I did what most people do. I assumed it was reflux and started taking medication for it.

Weeks passed. Then months.

And it didn’t really get better.

At some point, you start to feel that quiet voice in your head saying maybe this isn’t what you think it is. So I finally decided to get checked properly. Tests, consultations, the waiting that always feels longer than it actually is.

And it turns out it was something worse than simple reflux.

Hearing that kind of news does something strange to your mind. Part of you wants to rewind time to when you still believed it was just something small. But life doesn’t really work that way. It moves forward whether we’re ready or not.

So here I am.

In recovery.

It’s not dramatic every day. Most days are actually quiet. Just small decisions, small progress, small reminders to take care of a body that has been trying to tell me something all along.

Healing, I’m learning, isn’t always loud. Sometimes it’s just waking up, taking the next step, and trusting that your body is slowly finding its way back.

And for now, that’s the journey I’m on.

Somewhere in Tabuelan

2026-03-03T21:02:00.001+08:00

This weekend, we found ourselves driving toward the outskirts of Tabuelan with no big agenda, just that quiet craving to get away. And boy, we enjoyed it.

There’s something about being near the water that does something to me. I don’t know how to fully explain it without sounding dramatic, but being in a body of water feels like “touching grass” to me. It’s my reset button. Some people hike. Some people journal. I float.

The moment my feet hit the water, it’s like the noise in my head lowers its volume. The overthinking softens. The tiny worries don’t feel as urgent. I stop rehearsing conversations that haven’t even happened yet. I just exist.

And maybe that’s what I love most about it.

No pressure to be productive. No checklist. No proving anything. Just sun on skin, salt in the air, and the steady rhythm of waves reminding me that not everything needs to be rushed.

We laughed more. Stayed in longer. Let time stretch the way it used to when we were younger and didn’t measure weekends by how much we accomplished. It wasn’t extravagant. It wasn’t grand. It was simple and it was enough.

Being in the water resets me in ways I can’t manufacture anywhere else. It clears the mental clutter. It gives me space. It brings me back to myself.

Sometimes you don’t need a life overhaul. Sometimes you just need to step into the water and let it hold you for a while.

I am that Person

2026-02-27T20:27:00.004+08:00

One thing I dislike more than a liar is a liar who believes I am too unaware or too foolish to notice what they are doing. Dishonesty is already disappointing, but what makes it worse is the quiet insult behind it, the assumption that I will simply accept whatever version of the story is handed to me without thinking twice. Some people confuse calmness with ignorance and silence with weakness. They assume that because I am not reacting loudly or questioning every detail out loud, I must not see the cracks forming in their narrative. What they fail to understand is that some of us are natural observers. We pay attention to tone, to timing, to the small inconsistencies that most people overlook. We remember what was said before and we compare it to what is being said now. When something feels off, we do not dismiss it. We sit with it, we reflect on it, and we allow the pieces to arrange themselves until the truth becomes clear.

Lying to someone who thinks deeply is rarely a wise decision because a thoughtful mind does not stop at the surface. If a story does not make sense, we turn it over in our heads again and again until it does. We look for patterns. We notice what is missing. We question what changed. It may take time, but clarity always arrives. The truth has a way of revealing itself, especially when someone underestimates the person they are trying to deceive. So if you are going to be dishonest, understand that the greater mistake is not just the lie, but believing that the person in front of you lacks the intelligence or awareness to uncover it. Some of us do not rush to confront. We observe, we analyze, and when we finally speak, it is not from suspicion but from certainty.

That one Weekend

2026-02-19T14:22:00.002+08:00

That one weekend, I almost said no.

It had been a long week. The kind that sits on your shoulders and doesn’t ask permission. I was tired. Not just “need a nap” tired. The deeper kind. The kind where even putting on sunscreen feels like a task.

But the kids wanted to go to the pool.

And something in me knew… I needed it too.

So we packed the towels. Grabbed the mismatched flip-flops. Argued about snacks. Found the goggles that were “literally right there.” You know, the usual chaos.

And then we got there.

The smell of chlorine. The sharp echo of splashing. Kids laughing like nothing in the world has ever gone wrong. And I felt it — that small shift inside me.

At first, I just sat on the edge. Feet in the water. Watching them jump in like they didn’t have deadlines, bills, or back pain waiting for them at home.

Then one of them yelled, “Get in!”

And I did.

Cold water. Instant shock. Instant reset.

There’s something about being in a pool with your kids that forces you into the moment. You can’t scroll. You can’t multitask. You can’t overthink your entire life while someone is cannonballing next to you.

You just… play.

We raced from one end to the other. I lost. On purpose. (Maybe.) We laughed so hard I swallowed half the pool. Worth it.

And for those couple of hours, I wasn’t exhausted. I wasn’t overwhelmed. I wasn’t thinking about Monday.

I was just there.

Present.

Sometimes recharging doesn’t look like silence or solitude. Sometimes it looks like wet hair, wrinkled fingers, and french fries after.

That weekend reminded me that rest isn’t always quiet.
Sometimes it’s loud.
Sometimes it’s messy.
Sometimes it’s chlorine and chaos and joy all at once.

And honestly? I needed that more than I knew.

Touching Grass

2026-02-19T13:50:00.001+08:00

Weekends are sacred.

Not in a religious way.
In a don’t-text-me-unless-someone-is-bleeding kind of way.

Weekends are for me to recharge. To reconnect. To come back to myself.

I’ve realized something about the way I move through the week — I give a lot. Energy. Attention. Emotional labor. Smiles when I’m tired. Patience when I’m stretched thin. And by Friday, I can feel it in my bones… I’m running on fumes.

So I’ve started treating the weekend like a reset button.

For some people, “touching grass” means literally stepping outside and grounding themselves. For me? It’s the beach.

The beach is my version of logging off.

There’s something about standing at the edge of the water, toes buried in sand, salt in the air, that reminds me how small my worries actually are. The ocean doesn’t care about my inbox. The tide doesn’t rush because I’m anxious. The waves don’t compete. They just come in. And go out. Steady. Certain. Unapologetic.

I sit there and breathe deeper without trying.

I put my phone down (okay… eventually).

I let the sun hit my face and I remember that I am more than my responsibilities.

The beach recalibrates me. It pulls me out of my head and drops me back into my body. It reminds me that rest isn’t laziness — it’s maintenance. It’s survival. It’s self-respect.

Weekends aren’t about doing more.
They’re about being.

And when my feet hit the sand, it feels like I’m touching something real again. Like I’m plugging back into myself.

Recharge.
Reconnect.
Return.

That’s the energy I’m carrying into the week ahead.

No Wifi Weekend

2026-02-08T20:48:00.012+08:00

Last weekend, we found ourselves somewhere surprisingly close to home, yet far enough to feel like a pause button on life. We stayed at Cebu R Resort, just a few minutes away, nothing too planned, nothing too serious. One of those trips you take without expectations, just the need to get out, even briefly.

Then reality hit us almost immediately. No signal. No Wi-Fi. Nothing loading, nothing connecting, nothing cooperating. Panic crept in fast. The kind you don’t admit out loud but feel in your chest. Our phones suddenly felt useless, and for a moment, it was uncomfortable. Too quiet. Too still. Too present.

But once that uneasiness passed, something shifted.

Without screens to retreat to, we started talking. Really talking. Conversations stretched longer, jumping from nonsense to memories to thoughts we usually don’t make time for. There was no rush to check anything, no distractions pulling us away mid-sentence. Just words flowing naturally, pauses that didn’t need filling, laughter that felt lighter.

Time slowed down in the best way. Meals lasted longer. Moments felt fuller. Silence wasn’t awkward. It was peaceful. It turned into the kind of weekend where nothing extraordinary happens, yet everything feels right.

It’s funny how losing connection made us feel more connected.

By the end of it, I realized the panic was never about the lack of signal. It was about being forced to be present. And once we surrendered to that, it became one of the best weekends we’ve had in a long time.

No Wi-Fi. No notifications. Just conversations we didn’t know we needed, and a reminder that sometimes, the best escapes aren’t far at all.

Being a Nurse and Diabetic

2026-01-25T12:40:00.006+08:00

There is a common assumption that being a nurse makes living with a chronic condition easier. That knowledge somehow shields you from the frustration, the fatigue, or the emotional weight of managing illness every single day.

The truth is, it does not.

Being a nurse means I understand the numbers, the lab results, the guidelines, and the possible complications. But knowledge does not cancel out symptoms. It does not prevent flare ups. It does not make the body cooperate on days when it simply refuses to.

Sometimes, being a nurse actually makes it heavier. You know what could happen. You know what to watch for. You understand the long term implications, and that awareness quietly sits with you in moments when your body feels off.

In the hospital, I care for others with empathy and patience. Outside of it, I am still learning how to offer that same compassion to myself. Managing diabetes and digestive issues while working, caring, and showing up professionally is not always easy. Some days it feels like balancing two roles that constantly overlap.

Being a nurse does not mean I have perfect control or flawless routines. It means I am human with medical knowledge, navigating a body that does not always follow the rules. It means learning, adjusting, and forgiving myself when things do not go as planned.

This journey has taught me humility in ways textbooks never could. It has reminded me that strength is not about having all the answers, but about continuing to show up, even on the days when it is hard.

I am sharing this not to complain, but to be honest. To remind others that titles do not erase vulnerability, and that even caregivers need care.

A Gentle Guide to Siargao

2026-01-21T11:53:00.009+08:00

This isn’t a guide for doing everything.
It’s a guide for doing enough.

It’s for the days you don’t wake up wanting to maximize your time, but to feel it. For the moments that don’t make it into highlights or captions, yet somehow stay with you the longest. Siargao is not a place that rewards rushing. It notices how you arrive.

You can come here with a loose idea of what you want and leave with something better than a perfectly planned itinerary. The island has a way of rearranging your days for you. Plans soften. Priorities shift. What felt important before quietly moves to the background.

Siargao rewards presence more than planning. It asks you to slow your pace, to listen more than you speak, to notice what’s happening around you and inside you. The mornings feel unhurried. The afternoons stretch. Even the waiting feels intentional.

Still, a little guidance helps. Not the kind that tells you where to be every hour, but the kind that gently points you in the right direction and then steps back. Consider this a starting point. A way in. What you do with the rest of your time is up to you.

This is what worked for me.

I Didn’t Go to Siargao to Escape — I Went to Listen

2026-01-21T11:43:00.003+08:00

I didn’t go to Siargao to disappear.
I didn’t go to outrun my life, or to reinvent myself, or to post proof that I was somewhere beautiful.

I went because I was tired in a way sleep couldn’t fix.
Because everything felt loud, even the good things.
Because somewhere along the way, I stopped listening to myself.

Siargao didn’t announce itself when I arrived.
It didn’t overwhelm me.
It didn’t demand anything.

It just slowed everything down.

Mornings felt softer there. Not rushed. Not urgent.
Time stretched in a way that felt unfamiliar, almost uncomfortable at first, like my body didn’t know what to do without a schedule to obey. I noticed how often I reached for my phone with nothing to check. How silence made me restless before it made me calm.

And then, gradually, the noise thinned out.

I listened, not in a dramatic, life changing way.
But in small moments.

I listened while riding with no destination in mind.
I listened while watching the ocean do what it’s done long before me and will continue doing long after.
I listened when the sky turned colors I couldn’t name and nobody felt the need to comment on it.

The island didn’t give me answers.
It gave me space.

And in that space, things surfaced. Thoughts I’d been pushing aside. Feelings I’d labeled as later. Truths that didn’t need fixing, only acknowledgment. I realized how often I confuse being busy with being fulfilled. How rarely I let myself just exist without performing productivity or happiness.

Siargao didn’t make me a new person.
It reminded me of an old version of myself, the one who knew when to pause, when to breathe, when to stop explaining.

There’s something grounding about a place that doesn’t rush you into becoming anything. A place that lets you arrive as you are and doesn’t ask for more. No pressure to optimize the experience. No checklist to complete. Just presence.

I left the island without a grand takeaway.
No manifesto. No bold declarations.

Just a quieter mind.
A lighter chest.
And the understanding that listening, really listening, is sometimes the bravest thing you can do.

I didn’t go to Siargao to escape.
I went to listen.

And for the first time in a while, I heard myself clearly.

Rice Alternatives

2026-01-16T09:12:00.001+08:00

Now let’s talk about something that often feels controversial, especially for people living with diabetes. Diet.

When we talk about diet as Filipinos, rice is almost always part of the conversation. Rice is not just food for us. It is culture, comfort, routine, and something that shows up on the table every single day. Growing up, meals felt incomplete without it.

Rice is a carbohydrate, and carbohydrates have a direct effect on blood glucose levels. For many people with diabetes, eating rice can cause blood sugar to rise, sometimes quickly. I have learned over time that it is not just about how much rice we eat, but also the type of rice, the portion size, and what we eat it with. These factors all play a role in how our bodies respond.

This does not mean rice is “bad” or that it must be completely avoided by everyone with diabetes. What it does mean is that rice requires awareness. For me, understanding how rice affects my blood glucose has been part of learning to listen to my body instead of following rigid rules.

Because of this, I started exploring alternatives, one of them being quinoa. Quinoa is also a carbohydrate, but it has a lower glycemic index compared to white rice. The glycemic index refers to how quickly a food raises blood sugar levels. Foods with a lower glycemic index tend to cause a slower, more gradual rise in blood glucose rather than a sharp spike.

Personally, I find quinoa to be more blood sugar friendly for me. It keeps me fuller longer, and my glucose readings tend to be more stable after meals when I substitute it for rice. It is not a perfect solution, and it does not replace rice emotionally or culturally, but it has become a helpful option in my rotation.

Living with diabetes has taught me that diet is not about restriction or punishment. It is about balance, awareness, and making choices that support both our health and our lived realities. What works for one person may not work for another, and that is okay.

This is not about choosing sides between rice and quinoa. It is about understanding how food affects your body and finding what works for you, without guilt.

As always, this is just a personal reflection from my own journey, shared with honesty and respect for how deeply food is tied to who we are.

Finding Comfort in Small, Gentle Routines

2026-01-12T10:45:00.000+08:00

This is just a personal share from my own journey.

Living with Type 2 diabetes alongside acid reflux has taught me that comfort often comes from the smallest, quietest routines. Over time, I have learned that managing chronic conditions is not only about medications, numbers, or strict schedules. It is also about listening to what your body needs in moments of discomfort.

On days when my acid reflux flares up and my stomach feels unsettled, I have personally found chamomile tea to be soothing. It has become one of those simple comforts I turn to when my body feels overwhelmed. The warmth, the calmness, and the act of slowing down to sip something gentle make a difference for me, even if it is a small one.

Chamomile tea does not cure my symptoms, and it certainly does not work the same way for everyone. But for me, it helps ease that burning sensation and gives my body a chance to relax. More than anything, it reminds me to pause. Living with chronic illness often means constantly planning, adjusting, and monitoring, and sometimes what we need most is a moment of calm.

As a nurse and as someone living with chronic conditions, I have come to appreciate these small, supportive habits. They do not replace medical care, but they add a layer of comfort to the daily experience of managing my health. These moments matter more than we often realize.

I am sharing this not as advice, but simply as part of my lived experience. What soothes one person may not soothe another, and that is okay. Finding what works is a personal process that takes time, patience, and kindness toward oneself.

If you are on a similar journey, I hope this reminds you that it is okay to seek comfort in small ways. Sometimes, the gentlest routines are the ones that help us get through the day.

On Both Sides of the Bed Rails: Part 2

2026-01-11T18:08:00.001+08:00

This post is for those who have been asking what kind of glucometer I use.

I currently use the Contour Next, and based on my own experience, this is the glucometer that has worked best for me so far. As someone living with diabetes and as a nurse, accuracy and consistency matter a lot to me, and this device has been reliable in helping me monitor my blood sugar levels day to day.

One thing I really appreciate is that it can be paired with a mobile app, which makes tracking much easier. The app is called Contour, and it connects to your phone via Bluetooth. Whether you’re using an iPhone or an Android device, having your readings automatically saved and organized takes away a bit of the mental load that comes with daily monitoring. It’s helpful to look back at trends rather than just isolated numbers.

That said, it’s not perfect. The main downside for me is the cost of the test strips, which I do find to be on the expensive side. Managing a chronic condition already comes with ongoing expenses, so this is something I had to consider. Thankfully, I was able to find more affordable options online, including on Shopee, which helped make it more sustainable for me.

As always, this is not a recommendation or medical advice, just a personal share. What works for one person may not work for another. I’m simply sharing what has been part of my own routine in case it helps someone who is still figuring out what works best for them.

Managing diabetes is very personal, and we all find our way one step at a time.

On Both Sides of the Bed Rails: Part 1

2026-01-10T23:11:00.002+08:00

I’ve been thinking for a long time about whether to share this part of my life.

I live with Type 2 diabetes and digestive conditions that affect my daily routine more than most people realize. Some days are manageable. Other days are quiet battles that don’t always show on the outside.

I’m a nurse, and this is my sixth year living with diabetes. Even with medical knowledge, navigating chronic illness from the inside has been a humbling, ongoing learning experience.

I’m starting this space not because I have everything figured out, but because I don’t. I want a place to be honest about the ups, the downs, the frustrations, and the small wins that come with managing a chronic condition.

If you’re on a similar journey, I hope this reminds you that you’re not alone. And if you’re not, thank you for listening.

2026 is My Year of Recovery

2026-01-05T22:07:00.003+08:00

I am claiming this year with intention and honesty. Not with pressure, not with unrealistic promises, but with a quiet commitment to heal. This is the year I choose recovery, especially for my health. A year to slow down, to listen to my body, and to respond to it with care instead of neglect.

I want to regain what I have lost. Strength. Energy. Stability. Confidence in my own body. I want better control of my glucose, not just in numbers, but in habits, discipline, and daily choices. I know this journey will require patience and consistency. There will be days when progress feels invisible and days when setbacks try to convince me to give up. Still, I am choosing to show up. Every small step matters. Every mindful decision counts.

This year is about learning balance. Learning that healing is not linear and that perfection is not required for progress. It is about choosing rest when my body asks for it, choosing nourishment over convenience, and choosing long term health over short term comfort. I am learning to be kinder to myself, especially on the days when things feel harder than usual.

2026 is also about emotional recovery, though not everything can or will be restored.

One thing I know I will not recover for sure is broken relationships.

And that truth no longer feels as heavy as it once did.

Some relationships end without closure. Some connections break despite our best efforts. Some people are only meant to walk with us for a season. I am learning that not everything broken is meant to be fixed and not everything lost is meant to be found again. Letting go does not mean failure. Sometimes, it means growth.

This year, I am choosing acceptance over regret. Peace over explanation. Healing over holding on. I am honoring the relationships that remain, the ones that are rooted in respect, support, and understanding. I am also honoring myself by releasing what no longer serves my well being.

2026 is my year of recovery.

Recovery of health.

Recovery of self trust.

Recovery of hope.

I may not get everything back, but I am building something better. Stronger. Healthier. More intentional. And for the first time in a long while, that feels enough.

Goodbye 2025

2025-12-30T21:52:00.000+08:00

2025 has been the most physically challenging year of my life.

It began in February, a turning point that changed everything. That was the month I made the difficult but necessary decision to stop drinking for health reasons. At the time, I did not fully understand how much my body had already been asking for rest, care, and change. I only knew that something had to give, and that choosing my health had to come first.

As the year unfolded, it felt like challenge after challenge followed. There were the natural disasters, the earthquake and Typhoon Tino, moments that reminded me how fragile life can be and how little control we sometimes have over the world around us. In the midst of all that, my own body began to demand even more attention. I dealt with GERD, then diabetic gastropathy, conditions that affected not only my physical strength but also my daily routine, my comfort, and my sense of normalcy.

Eventually, surgery for a hiatal hernia became part of the journey. It was frightening, humbling, and exhausting. Recovery was not instant. It required patience, discipline, and learning to slow down in ways I never had before. Day by day, I worked through the healing process, listening more closely to my body and respecting its limits. Just when the year was drawing to a close, a persistent cough appeared, a small but fitting reminder of how much this body had been through in such a short span of time.

Through all of this, I kept going. I learned patience where I once rushed. I learned gratitude for small improvements. I learned that healing is rarely straightforward, and that progress often comes quietly, one careful step at a time. Most of all, I learned resilience, the kind that grows when you have no choice but to move forward.

2026 will be my year of recovery. It will be a year of rebuilding strength, restoring balance, and choosing health again and again. It will be a year of gentler days, clearer boundaries, and deeper appreciation for what it means to feel well.

Goodbye, 2025. Thank you for the lessons you forced me to learn.

Hello, 2026. I am ready for healing, growth, and renewal.

Let’s Leave Them in 2025

2025-12-28T15:56:00.003+08:00

I lost respect for a lot of people this year.

Not in a loud or dramatic way. Not with confrontations or explanations or big emotional exits. It happened quietly. Slowly. The kind of realization that creeps in after you have defended people one too many times.

I kept telling myself they were just having a bad moment. A bad phase. A bad year. I kept giving them the benefit of the doubt because history made it easier to forgive patterns that should have been addressed a long time ago.

But eventually, the excuses ran out.

They did not change.

They simply revealed themselves.

Their actions spoke clearly once I stopped filling in the silence for them. Once I stopped translating disrespect into misunderstanding. Once I stopped lowering my expectations just to keep the peace.

It is strange how much clarity hurts at first. You mourn the version of people you thought existed. You grieve the relationships you believed were mutual. You realize some connections were built more on convenience than care.

And yet, there is relief in that truth.

Because knowing who people truly are saves you from hoping they will become something else. It teaches you where to place your energy and where to stop pouring from an empty cup.

This year did not make me colder. It made me more aware. More intentional. More selective with my trust and my time.

Losing respect was not the loss I thought it would be.

It was a lesson.

And lessons like that change how you move forward, even when they hurt.

This Time

2025-12-13T21:54:00.001+08:00

I won’t force anyone to make time for me.

This is a boundary I learned through experience, through moments of waiting, hoping, and trying to understand silences that were never meant to be explained. Real love, real friendship, and genuine connection do not have to be chased. They do not ask you to beg for attention or shrink yourself just to be noticed. When something is real, it flows naturally, with ease and consistency.

I have learned what it feels like to give more than what is returned. To show up fully for people who only showed up when it was convenient for them. To make excuses for their absence, to justify their lack of effort, and to convince myself that patience would somehow turn into priority. It hurts to reach the moment where you finally see the truth, that you cared more than they did. That realization can be heavy, but it is also honest.

And in that honesty, there is freedom.

Freedom comes when you stop forcing connections that resist you. When you stop measuring your worth by how hard someone tries to keep you around. When you accept that not everyone who enters your life is meant to stay, and that leaving does not always mean failure. Sometimes it means growth. Sometimes it means self respect.

From now on, I choose to meet people where they meet me. I give energy where energy is returned. I offer presence to those who are present. I love without overextending myself or abandoning my own needs in the process. I no longer chase what does not choose me.

This is not bitterness. This is clarity. This is choosing peace over confusion and alignment over attachment. This is knowing that I am enough, even when someone fails to show up.

If this resonates with you, take a moment to reflect on the connections in your life. Share this with someone who might need to hear it today, or leave a comment to affirm that you are choosing yourself and your peace.

Three Things I’m Letting Go Before 2025 Ends

2025-12-10T15:00:00.006+08:00

The older I get, the more I realize that “letting go” isn’t some dramatic, candlelit ritual where you burn letters and cry in front of a mirror.

Sometimes it’s quiet.
Sometimes it’s slow.
Sometimes it feels like waking up one morning and realizing, “I don’t recognize myself anymore — and that’s why I need to change things.”

Before this year closes, there are three things I’m choosing to release — not because I’m bitter, not because I’m dramatic, but because I finally love myself enough to stop carrying what’s hurting me.

1. The version of me that pretends everything is fine

For years, I mastered the art of being “okay.”
It became my costume, my shield, my passport to surviving days when I didn’t know where to place my pain.

But pretending to be fine is exhausting.
It’s waking up tired even after sleeping.
It’s saying “I’m good” when your voice is cracking.
It’s laughing with friends but feeling hollow.

As 2026 approaches, I’m letting go of this version of me — the one that stays silent just to make sure no one gets uncomfortable.
I want to be honest.
I want to feel things fully.
I want to stop apologizing for having emotions.

I am choosing authenticity over emotional performance.

2. The fear of disappointing people

This one’s heavy because it’s rooted in childhood — in wanting to be liked, accepted, approved.
I’ve lived so much of my life afraid of being misunderstood or judged.
I would go out of my way to please people who wouldn’t even cross the street for me.

But here’s the truth I’m learning:
People will misunderstand you anyway.
People will judge you anyway.
People will talk anyway.

So why sacrifice yourself just to keep the peace?

I’m done shrinking myself to fit into other people’s comfort zones.
I’m done saying yes when my soul is screaming no.
I’m done molding myself into someone who is “easy to love” or “easy to manage.”

I’d rather disappoint others than disappoint myself.

3. Friends who talk shit about me behind my back

Let’s talk about this — because this is the one that stings the most.

This year revealed faces I wasn’t ready to see.
People I trusted.
People I welcomed into my life.
People I held with softness…
turning around and bruising my name in rooms I wasn’t in.

It hurts differently when the betrayal comes wrapped in laughter — when they call you “friend” but drag you the moment you turn your back.

But here’s what I’ve accepted:
Loyalty isn’t just about who stands beside you.
It’s about who stands up for you when you’re not around.
It’s about who doesn’t join the laughter when the joke is at your expense.

So yes — I’m releasing them.
Not with anger.
Not with drama.
Just with clarity.

If you talk shit about me, you lose access to me.
Simple.
Clean.
No second chances.

I deserve honest friendships.
I deserve kindness that’s real — not performative.
I deserve people who protect my name when I’m not in the room.

Letting go isn’t always peaceful.
Sometimes it’s a little painful, a little awkward, a little lonely.
But it’s also powerful.

Because every time you release something that doesn’t serve you, you make space for something that finally will.

As 2026 approaches, I’m choosing peace.
I’m choosing truth.
I’m choosing myself — fully, loudly, unapologetically.

Connections

2025-11-30T19:37:00.010+08:00

Last Friday in therapy, we talked about connections in life, the kind you lose, the kind you find again, and the kind that change you without asking for permission.

I didn’t expect the conversation to hit as hard as it did. Maybe it’s because I’ve been carrying ghosts lately, friendships that once felt like home but slowly became places I could no longer return to. It’s strange how people can be your safe space one moment, then a reminder of everything you had to outgrow the next.

My therapist asked me what I’ve learned from all the comings and goings of people in my life. I wanted to answer something wise or poetic, but the truth that came out was simple: “Nothing is permanent. Not even the people who promised they’d stay.”

And maybe that’s not a sad thing. Maybe it’s just life being honest.

Because the more I thought about it, the more I realized how certain friendships were never meant to last forever. Some people come into your life to teach you gentleness. Others teach you strength. Some remind you what love looks like. Some remind you what love should never feel like. And when their purpose is done, the universe quietly rearranges the distance between you.

What hurts most isn’t losing people. It’s realizing who they really were all along. Time has this brutal, beautiful way of revealing the truth. Masks slip. Intentions show. And when the truth finally crawls out into the light, you are left with no choice but to break the connection, even if your heart still remembers the warmth of it.

But here is the part therapy helped me see:

Treasure the connections you have now, the real ones, the gentle ones, the ones that do not make you shrink. They are rare. They are honest. They show up for you in ways others only pretended to.

And if one day they also find their way out of your story, at least you will know you honored them while they were in it.

Life is not about keeping everyone.

It is about recognizing who is worth keeping and having the courage to let go of those who are not.

How I Created My ‘Rest Routine’ During a Busy Week

2025-11-13T21:03:00.004+08:00

I used to believe rest was something I had to earn.

After the deadlines.

After the work.

After the exhaustion.

But the truth is: rest doesn’t wait for your schedule to clear.

Rest demands space — especially when your week feels like it’s swallowing you whole.

So I started building something I never thought I’d need but ended up saving me:

my Rest Routine.

A routine not for productivity, but for presence.

Not to prepare me for work, but to remind me I am more than my work.

Here’s how I created it — slowly, intentionally, and in a way that holds me through the busiest days.

1. I Stopped Romanticizing Burnout

The first step wasn’t adding anything.

It was subtracting.

I stopped glorifying “I’m so tired” as if it were an achievement.

Stopped pretending that being overwhelmed meant I was succeeding.

Stopped believing that rest was a weakness.

Once I admitted that rest is part of the work,

a whole new version of my week finally became possible.

2. I Built Micro-Rituals (Tiny Rests That Carry Me)

I couldn’t change my schedule overnight, so I changed the moments in between:

a five-minute pause before checking messages

a slow sip of water

breathing deeply with my eyes closed

stretching my back after long hours of sitting

stepping outside for sunlight

playing one song that calms my min

These became my micro-rests — tiny breaths of peace inside a chaotic week.

They reminded me that rest doesn’t have to be long to be powerful.

3. I Allowed Myself One ‘Non-Negotiable’ Comfort

Every busy week needs a non-negotiable.

Something you protect like a promise to yourself.

For me, it’s simple:

I must have one moment of genuine peace — something that feels like exhaling.

Some weeks it’s journaling.

Some weeks it’s a quiet corner with coffee.

Some weeks it’s a soft playlist before bed.

And whenever possible… it’s the beach.

4. The Beach: My Fastest Reset

If the week has drained me beyond reason, I go where my body remembers how to breathe.

To the shore.

There’s a moment — beautiful, fast, almost sacred — when my feet first touch the sand.

And everything inside me loosens.

The noise fades.

The tension drops.

The world feels wide again.

It’s like the ocean pulls all the heaviness from my chest and gives me back a version of myself that’s lighter, clearer, softer.

Even if I only stay for an hour,

even if the week is still waiting for me when I return,

that moment of feeling the sand under my feet resets my entire spirit.

The beach is my rest ritual.

My sanctuary.

My instant recharge.

5. I Designed a Weekend Reset That Doesn’t Feel Like Work

My weekend rest routine is simple, flexible, and never feels like another task:

slow mornings

cleaning one small corner

a walk outside

a slow playlist

sunlight on my skin

no guilt, no pressure, no expectations

Rest is not about doing nothing.

Rest is about doing things that return you to yourself.

6. I Started Choosing Rest Before My Body Begs for It

The biggest shift?

I no longer wait for burnout to force me into stillness.

I choose rest:

before I’m overwhelmed

before I’m too tired to think

before my body starts sending warning signals

Because the best time to rest is not when you’re collapsing —

it’s when you’re still standing.

The Gentle Ending

My rest routine is not perfect.

Some weeks I follow it.

Some weeks I forget.

Some weeks life gets too loud.

But I always come back to it.

Because in the middle of a busy week, rest is not a luxury.

It’s a lifeline.

And every time the sand touches my feet,

every time the waves greet me like an old friend,

I remember:

There is a version of me that is calm, grounded, and whole —

and rest is how I return to him.

Fragile

2025-11-07T20:38:00.001+08:00

Today in therapy, I was asked to describe myself in one word.

I said, “fragile.”

The therapist looked at me and asked, “Why fragile?”

And I answered, “Because I’m fragile like dynamite.”
If you don’t know how to handle me, I’ll explode.

That moment stayed with me. It made me pause and think about what that really means. For so long, I associated being fragile with being weak, soft, or too emotional. But that’s not the kind of fragile I am. I’m the kind that holds power in quiet ways. The kind that can shake the ground when pushed too far. The kind that carries both gentleness and destruction inside the same body.

Being fragile doesn’t mean I’m helpless. It means I’m aware of how deeply I feel things. It means I know that when something touches me, it doesn’t just pass through—it stays, it lingers, it changes me. I absorb things: pain, joy, disappointment, hope. And sometimes it all builds up until it needs to release.

I think being fragile like dynamite is both a warning and a truth. It’s not about being unstable; it’s about being human enough to admit that certain things can trigger me, and brave enough to say that I’m still learning how to control the blast.

So yes, I’m fragile. But not because I break easily. I’m fragile because I’m powerful, because I feel everything, because I care too much. And that kind of fragility deserves respect, not pity.

Enough

2025-11-04T17:52:00.004+08:00

Yolanda. COVID. The earthquake. And now, Typhoon Tino.
How many more times do we have to be tested before real accountability begins? Every calamity seems to expose not only the cracks in our land but the deeper fractures in our system and society.

Time and time again, it’s the people who rise first. We rebuild our homes with our own hands. We share food even when there’s barely enough for our own families. We open our doors to neighbors, we send help to strangers, we comfort each other when it feels like the world is falling apart. We’ve proven, again and again, that resilience is not our problem. Compassion is not our problem. Unity is not our problem.

What breaks us is the cycle of neglect and impunity. The leaders who only show up for photo ops. The promises that vanish as quickly as the floodwaters. The funds that never reach the ground where they are needed most. It’s the same story, only rewritten every time disaster strikes.

We can and will make it through this. We always do. But what we must start doing is holding them liable—for the negligence, the corruption, and the apathy that have turned every natural disaster into a man-made catastrophe. Accountability should no longer be optional. It should be demanded. Loudly. Consistently. Fearlessly.

Read my full thoughts here:
👉 Some Random Thoughts After Earthquake

Because the truth is, we’ve survived enough. We’ve endured enough. We’ve been patient enough. It’s time to demand better. What are we waiting for?

when you are not the favorite child and you know it.

2025-11-02T19:37:00.003+08:00

this has been a recurring topic in therapy—one that keeps circling back no matter how much i try to outgrow it. i’ve tried to laugh it off, reason with it, even convince myself that it doesn’t matter anymore.

but it does.

i just couldn’t wrap my head around the “why.” why it hurts the way it does, even now as an adult. why it still echoes in the smallest moments—like when i accomplish something and instinctively wish they’d be proud.

it’s strange, isn’t it? how something so old can still feel so fresh.
this has been my quiet struggle for as long as i can remember.
and maybe naming it here, admitting it out loud, is part of finally facing it.

but therapy has been teaching me something.
that not being the favorite doesn’t mean i was unworthy of love—only that some people didn’t know how to give it in the way i needed.

and that’s not my fault.
it never was.

so now, i’m learning to stop chasing the version of love that kept overlooking me. i’m learning to give myself the warmth i kept trying to earn.

there’s peace in realizing i can be my own favorite.
that i can show up for myself the way i always wished someone would.

some days it still stings, i won’t lie.
but i’m gentler with that pain now.
because maybe healing isn’t about pretending it didn’t hurt—
maybe it’s about holding the hurt and saying, you’re safe here now.

I’m Done Playing the Villain

2025-10-20T22:07:00.007+08:00

For years, I’ve carried a version of your story that never belonged to me.
I let you paint me as the villain just to make your life’s script make sense. I stayed quiet. I played along. I didn’t correct the whispers, even when they hurt because at the time, I thought protecting your peace was more important than defending my name.

But not anymore.

I’m done being the convenient scapegoat in your narrative.
I’m done shouldering the weight of your insecurities and your incompetence.
I’m done being silent while you twist the truth to fit your agenda.

Every day, I see it now, the manipulation, the dominance disguised as leadership, the way you project your failures onto others so you never have to look in the mirror. For the longest time, I tolerated it, thinking that staying “professional” or “peaceful” meant letting it slide. But silence is not peace. It’s surrender.

And I’m not surrendering anymore.

I’ve learned that calling people out isn’t about revenge, it’s about reclaiming your power. It’s about saying, “I see you for who you really are,” and refusing to play small just to make someone else comfortable in their delusion of control.

So here’s my truth: I’m done playing the villain.
I’m done dimming my light to make your darkness look justified.
You can keep your story, I’m writing my own.