Some time ago, I made a playlist for my highest self or the person who I thought I was supposed to become. The songs spoke of confidence, manifestation and reinvention. It was curated for the version of me who had it all figured out. The best, coolest, most unstoppable version of myself.
So I made another playlist. This one is softer. It feels or has the vibe of my favorite version of me.
Most songs I added on this playlist have the waltz rhythm. I didn’t realize how much I like those. I also like when there’s a sound of tambourines and that soft, echoey “ooOooh” sound that is like a gentle howl.
My favorite version of myself is not especially radiant but she is kind and a little dreamy. She acts with intention. She may not always be happy, but she is content. She loves life and romanticizes the little things without pretending it is always beautiful. There is a sweetness to her yet she doesn’t believe she owes herself to anyone. She knows that peace is a choice. She knows how to say no but she’s soft, still. And most importantly she knows how to stay curious.
She writes things like this—not to prove anything, but to remember who she is when the world gets too loud.
I used to hate the colors yellow and orange. They felt too bright, too loud—too much. But at some point, I made myself like them. I looked for reasons: warmth, joy, sunlight. I told myself they symbolized happiness. Eventually, the resistance softened. And now? I can’t stop liking them. I get a little obsessed, even.
It happened with Keroppi too. Back in grade school, all my notebooks were Keroppi-themed. I had no choice but to use them. So I stared at his strange little face until I got used to him. Then I wanted to like him. Then I did.
It’s strange how that works. Maybe even sad.
You really can learn to love almost anything if you try hard enough. And that’s kind of beautiful. It means joy can be sculpted from very little. That you can fall in love with life, piece by piece, just by noticing.
But there’s another side to it.
Sometimes, you train yourself to stay. In the job. In the city. In the relationship. You learn to tolerate what once made your skin crawl, not because it changed, but because you did. What was once unbearable becomes familiar. Then comfortable. Then permanent.
We like to call that adaptability. We praise it as a strength. And sometimes it is. Other times, it’s surrender in disguise. You start reshaping yourself to survive something you were never meant to stay in. Until one day, you wake up and barely recognize the shape you’ve become.
I’ve done that. With colors. With characters. With music. With entire chapters of my life. But I’ve also seen what it looks like to choose something different. To want something because I am free to want it. To reach for something good out of clarity.
That was the turning point. I realized I no longer want a life built on endurance. I want a life built on intention. Not love born from pain, but love chosen freely. Quietly. Because I asked for it. Because I could.
Nothing’s Gonna Hurt You Baby (except getting late to a CAS concert)
Turns out concerts don’t wait for you 😂. My friend and I arrived at the concert at 8:25 PM. The show schedule says it will start at 7 PM. That’s a solid hour and a half of them probably playing the best songs while we’re not there. I’m pretty sure we missed three or four songs.
They’d already played “Nothing’s Gonna Hurt You Baby,” and it hurts 😭. I got over getting late fast because they played “K” (which I used to think was called Krystal), “Sweet”, “Sunsetz”, “Apocalypse” and “John Wayne”.
Watching them live was like suddenly realizing that you’ve been too tense for a long time and now you can finally relax. Their music makes me feel like I’m floating and dissolving at the same time. There’s something about watching live concerts too… knowing it won’t last forever makes you want to feel it more. Just me dropping some random deep thoughts heehee.
I had a theory that people start showing their real selves after 3 months. Its kinda like the three month rule that psychologists talks about.
The longest most people can pretend is 3 months. Even shorter if you made them comfortable enough and believe that no matter what they do is ok with you. That’s the paradox of comfort at least, in my experience. I used to think it would bring closeness or intimacy. But sometimes, the more at home people feel, the more they start treating you like an object or something they own, or worse, something they can use.
There’s this song I used to listen to where the lyrics go: familiarity breeds indifference. And we all know that indifference is the opposite of love right? Not hate but indifference. I don’t believe that though. I think familiarity breeds the truth. Sometimes, it uncovers a persons unfiltered versions. Sometimes, that truth is hard to look at. Sometimes it’s beautiful.
Comfort gives you the space to say every single thought in your head, even the weird ones, even the ugly ones, even the ones you didn’t realize were bothering you until they spilled out. It lets you verbalize the constant stream of noise that lives in your brain and know that someone’s listening and not judging you for it. When you find that with someone, it feels like magic.
What kind of person do you become when you know that there will not be any consequences or judgements on your actions? Because that maybe is the real you. Maybe it’s not black and white and people are soft on good days and sharp on bad ones. It seems like we’re all just trying to figure that out as we go. Before I spiral into an existential confusion, I’ll just say my conclusion: I don’t think comfort ruins a connection. I think it just reveals what’s already there.
Update at 3:16 am in May:
I’ve come up with another theory! Sometimes when we get too comfortable with someone we start to mirror them. In our eyes everything they do is acceptable no matter how extreme to the point that it blurs your own sense of right and wrong, and you don’t even realize it because being with them makes everything feel normal even when it’s not.
Update at 12:50 pm in June:
Sometimes we start treating the people close to us the same way we treat ourselves. I guess that’s why they say you can only truly love another person if you learned to love yourself.
Last year I went to an Olivia Rodrigo Concert. I’ll be writing down the things that I remember so far from what happened on that day. To be honest a lot has already happened to me so this isn’t going to be a perfect recollection of what happened.
What I do remember is starting the day with a cold Yumburger from the night before. I gave one to my friend in case he hadn’t eaten. We left Lipa around 10-something. Somewhere along the road, we stopped for McDo for lunch. I’m just glad we already ate, because the group chat from our van was blowing up with “we might be late” panic, and I can’t deal with stress on an empty stomach. Before heading back, we grabbed some water.
On the way someone managed to plug their phone into the van speaker and they played Olivia Rodrigo’s songs and some from Chappell Roan and Sabrina Carpenter. The people in the van were belting the songs like they were about to headline the concert themselves. It was loud, chaotic, and weirdly wholesome. Maybe they were warming up their vocal cords, before the concert.
We got to the venue around 1-ish and had to hunt for my other friend under the unforgiving sun. I forgot to bring a fan and an umbrella. Thankfully my friend came through like an angel with an umbrella and a fan. Once we found her and got in line for the concert. It was hot like the sun-is-cooking-my-soul kind of hot.
When we got in, we looked for our gate and ended up on the side but close enough to the stage that when people screamed, I felt the sound physically enter my skull. I’m not even kidding, I thought my right eardrums were going to retire. Then Olivia came out, and its like I was hit by a truck in the best way. I watched her, and for a moment, I wasn’t thinking at all. She was stunning. She was beautiful, beautiful in a way that made you reevaluate what you thought you understood about yourself. And when she performed Brutal and Jealousy, Jealousy, I don’t know—I felt weirdly emotional. I left the concert slightly deaf, deeply confused, and very inspired. Would absolutely do it all over again.
Isn’t it weird how flowers can shift your whole mood just by existing? There’s something about flowers that just instantly brighten your entire mood and makes the world feel better. There must be a scientific explanation for that.
I went to Kyoto in early April 2023, hoping to finally see the cherry blossoms in full bloom. But by the time I got there, most of them were already gone. Just bare branches and a few petals left behind on the pavement and floating on the canal. I could’ve just sulked (okay, I did for a bit), but I kept walking. And that’s when I started noticing other flowers, not the cherry blossoms I came for, but different ones. Small, blooms growing out of sidewalk cracks, tucked along fences, or just randomly planted around. They weren’t the main event, but they still made me stop and look.
I saw tulips lining the sidewalks and a single dandelion growing from a crack in the pavement. It looked so out of place, but also like it had a purpose. It made me smile a little. Then I saw a white flower that looked like bells hanging in clusters that made soft sounds whenever the wind blew. I thought it was Lily of the Valley at first and turns out it is but just a different version from what I knew. It looked like a dream I forgot I had. The flowers were so vibrant and healthy that I thought they were fake at first.
It made me think of the seeds I left sitting back home in a drawer. Still unplanted. Still waiting. Just like parts of me, maybe…
In that moment, I thought to myself how nice would it be to have a home surrounded with different kinds of flowers and plants. Pots on every windowsill, vines hanging from bookshelves. But that’s going to have to wait for a while because I don’t think I have a green thumb yet. Like, how do some people do it? Is there a course I need to take so plants don’t just die on me? Haha. Maybe I should take up a gardening job to unveil the secrets. But seriously, wouldn’t it be amazing to be surprised by beauty in the most random places?
And maybe that’s the lesson here: You don’t always get what you came for. But sometimes, what you do get is something that means more? A new perspective, an idea or an epiphany.
What it is about flowers? they just bloom and I’m over here getting emotional. For what? You’re literally a plant.
Maybe because they reminded me that even how ugly and overwhelming the world is, you can still find beauty in it. Like that dandelion I found growing from a crack on the pavement. So small and stubborn. It didn’t have much yet it still bloomed so beautifully.
There was a time I became deeply fixated on someone. Not in a grounded, healthy kind of way—more like a spell I couldn’t shake off. Everything felt heightened, confusing, and irrational. My mind knew better, but my heart refused to listen.
I spent a lot of time trying to make sense of it. I excused things I shouldn’t have. I tried to empathize my way into feeling okay—telling myself he probably acted that way because of something going on in his life… or maybe something I did… or maybe it’s just who he is. I stretched my compassion past its breaking point, until it stopped being kindness and became self-abandonment.
I even made a pros and cons list. The cons ran like a grocery receipt. The pros? Mostly vague feelings and the fact that he had a nice face. And somehow, that still felt enough. At least, at the time.
Looking back, I wonder—was it love? Or just my ego trying to prove something? Was I in love, or was I just addicted to the emotional high of being chosen by someone who never really chose me?
I used to tell myself it was chemistry. That I’d never find this kind of connection again. But the truth is, it wasn’t chemistry. It was emotional confusion. And no matter how much I wanted it to mean something deeper, it never really did.
What I didn’t know then was that I was caught in cognitive dissonance—that mental tug-of-war when your actions and beliefs don’t align, and your brain fills in the gaps with excuses. I knew he wasn’t right for me. But I had already invested so much emotionally, I kept trying to make the story work.
It’s like luxury branding. When something feels out of reach, we automatically assign more value to it. We do the same with people. If someone is mysterious, inconsistent, and emotionally unavailable, it’s easy to turn that into a puzzle worth solving.
I grew up watching films and reading stories that romanticized this dynamic—the emotionally distant love interest who “softens” for the main character. So when someone was emotionally open with me, it felt boring. When someone was unclear, I became obsessed. That’s not love. That’s conditioning.
The truth is: if someone leaves you confused, anxious, or constantly second-guessing, that’s not your person. Maybe they’re not cruel. Maybe they’re just not emotionally mature enough to show up. And maybe it’s not your job to wait around while they figure it out.
In reality, not everyone who likes you genuinely wants to love you. Some people enjoy the comfort of knowing they can have your attention, even if they’re not prepared to fully show up. And when you’re still building your self-worth, that push-and-pull can easily be mistaken for love. You might think, if this feels so intense, it must be real.
I don’t look back in regret. I understand why I held on. But I also see now that I wasn’t choosing love—I was reacting to a pattern. I was mistaking intensity for meaning. And that kind of emotional guessing game can quietly reshape how you see yourself.
But here’s the hopeful part: it doesn’t last forever.
The more grounded you become in your self-worth, the easier it is to spot the difference between emotional unavailability and real connection. You stop projecting potential and start seeing people clearly. You stop chasing clarity and start expecting it. You stop craving the thrill of uncertainty and start choosing the calm of stability.
You realize love isn’t something you fight for—it’s something that flows when both people are ready.
And if you’re still in that confusing place, just remember: If it brings more anxiety than peace, it’s not love. If it feels like a puzzle, walk away. The right person won’t make you feel small or unsure. Real love doesn’t need decoding.
They say a woman’s hair is her crowning glory—though sometimes it felt more like my clowning glory. Looking back, my hair has mirrored nearly every emotional shift I’ve ever gone through. It was never just hair. It was identity, rebellion, change, and sometimes even a silent cry for help.
Back in school, I kept my hair short most of the time. Every time I came back from a haircut, my teachers would ask, “Heartbroken ka ba?” I wasn’t, but I guess a drastic haircut tends to give that vibe. I liked my hair short—it felt light. My mom said long hair made you look older, more mature. Whenever I tried to grow my hair out, it always felt off. I’d see other girls with their long, flowing hair and think, they look beautiful. Then I’d look at myself and think… Does this make my face look fat? Maybe it was just in my head, but it stuck with me.
I tried to grow it out a few times, but boredom always won. And weirdly, every time I cut my hair, the guy I liked would disappear or start pulling away. Coincidence? Maybe. Or maybe my subconscious already sensed the ending before I did, and my hair was my way of cutting ties.
They say when a woman cuts her hair, she’s about to change her life. I believe that. The first time I ever cut my bangs was when I was around three or four years old. I’ve been cutting them myself ever since. It’s become a little ritual—a way to reset or feel in control again.
In 2023, something in me shifted. I cut my hair short again, brought the bangs back, and bleached it into a bright champagne blonde. It was bold. It felt like a rebirth. But deep down, I wasn’t okay. I was chasing brightness on the outside because I couldn’t feel it on the inside.
I went through a full-blown identity crisis that year—trying to figure out who I was by constantly changing how I looked. I bought color-depositing conditioners and dyed my hair a different shade every month. Pink, violet, green, blue, orange, brown (that turned back to orange). It was fun… until it wasn’t. At one point, I looked at myself in the mirror and thought, Wow. I’m literally falling apart. My hair was damaged, dry, breaking. And maybe I was too.
By the end of the year, I dyed it jet black. Strangely, it felt like the most honest version of me. The hair was brittle, sure, but it felt right—like I was finally showing up as who I truly was. Not trying to hide anymore.
Around that time, I lost someone. And it hurt. But strangely, the grief didn’t last as long as I thought it would. I thought I’d be stuck in it for years, but I found peace within a few months. And that’s when I realized—I had grown stronger. I had changed.
Now, whenever someone compliments my old blonde hair, I smile. But internally, I remember the version of myself who felt the need to dye it that way. Who wasn’t okay but didn’t know how to say it. It reminds me that sometimes, the most beautiful phases on the outside can come from the messiest parts of us.
Today, my hair is still healing—some of the tips are dry, but the roots are strong. Just like me. I’m letting it grow out again, but this time it’s not out of boredom, or heartbreak, or a desperate need to escape. I’m just letting it be.
And I’m learning to let myself be, too. A sign of growth.
Today I had a weird and terrifying dream and I knew instantly I had to write about it while it’s fresh. Before I forget the details.
I was walking toward the dining table, where my sister and a few unfamiliar people were already seated. There were empty seats, and I was about to take one across from two women I didn’t know. One of them looked distressed, like something unseen was bothering her, her head was down while the woman beside her looks like she’s trying to comfort her. The air was heavy, thick with something invisible but undeniably there. A bad spirit. We all felt it.
Just as I was about to sit, my sister stopped me and said: “You have to cut your leg before sitting down.”
What?! She didn’t mean literally cutting my leg for sure, so I asked what she meant. She gestured for me to trace a line across my leg with my finger. I didn’t fully get it, but I sat down anyway. While I’m about to fully sat on the chair that’s when I felt something heavy like something like a big bird perching on my right shoulder. It’s not visible but I feel its claws on my shoulder and feel some of its feathers. In my imagination it was a grey dark bird that doesn’t really look like a bird but it has feathers like a bird but its figure doesn’t really look like a bird. It looks abstract. Then I thought it was the spirit. I’m not sure if its the one disturbing the woman or a different one.
I felt panic. My sister, told me to do it again properly this time. I followed her instructions, drawing a firm, deliberate horizontal line across my right leg before sitting down and the weight lifted.
The spirit is still around. It lingered even when there were snails scattered around us. Snails that, for some reason, we believed had the power to ward off evil in that dream.
Then someone in the table mentioned that keeping a snail as a pet was a sin. Maybe that was why it wasn’t working. I remember my nephew found a snail outside their house and decided to keep it as pet. Was that the flaw in our protection? The reason the spirit wouldn’t leave? I can’t remember what happened after that maybe I woke up.
After waking up, I started researching if the dream meant something. Some parts in the dream were also interesting like a nice concept for a book or a movie maybe.
I had never heard of snails being used for spiritual protection, but on my research it turns out they are. In some Asian cultures, they symbolize resilience and cleansing. In parts of Africa and the Caribbean, they’re used in purification rituals. European folklore links them to warding off misfortune, while Buddhism associates them with protection. Christianity, on the other hand, often depicts snails as symbols of sin rather than guardians.
Then I searched for anything about “cutting legs before sitting down” and found eerie parallels. In the Philippines, people say tabi-tabi po before sitting to eat to avoid disturbing spirits—but even if I’m from PH I’d only ever heard it used in forests or near anthills. Some traditions believe failing to follow certain rituals allows spirits to perch on you. In Japan and China, marking the ground with a foot gesture or tool can sever a spirit’s hold. In some European and Afro-Caribbean traditions, foot movements prevent spirits from attaching to a person.
As someone who likes watching horror and supernatural films it’s so interesting to me. It could all just be a strange meaningless dream but what if my brain tapped into something ancient? What if our subconscious holds memories older than we are? things we once knew but have long forgotten. That sounds cool yet scary at the same time. Either way, the next time I sit down to eat, I might pause for just a second 🤣.
Years ago, I watched a movie that left me with a question—one I still haven’t quite answered. Which is better: an unfinished ending or a tragic one? I don’t remember the title of the movie. I tried searching for it, but nothing looked familiar but I think it was about a girl who dances ballet. It was popular on Netflix at the time, which is why I watched it, though I remember not particularly liking it but I liked parts of it especially the ending.
My memory is unreliable, so forgive me if I get the details wrong. What I remember at the end of the movie is this: two characters, standing at the edge of a building. They were torn between killing themselves or leaving to start a new life. The latter one was just what went in my mind haha. I was at the edge of my seat waiting for what’s gonna happen next. I’m also torn on which would be the best choice for them and for the movie as a whole. Then, just as it seemed they would step forward, the screen cut to black.
I felt relief as the ending credits rolled. A real, physical kind of relief, as if by cutting to black, the film had spared not just its characters but also me. Although it seems like they’re going to jump when the movie ended, it still leaves a possibility that they changed their minds and chose to live. The relief I felt back then after how the movie ended was my answer. I’d rather choose the unfinished ending than continue even if I knew that the ending will more likely be a tragedy. I’d rather not know than witness something tragic. For a movie I think it’s a good choice cause it leaves a room for interpretation and hope. You get to decide how the movie ends for you.
But is that the right choice? If you know—if you are 80% sure—that a story will end in tragedy, do you still want to watch it unfold? Or do you leave before it happens? Even now, I still wonder: am I being practical, or is it just avoidance? Is it better to know, even if it hurts? Or is it better to let the story remain unfinished, existing in the space where anything is still possible?
And if we apply it to life—would you pursue something you know won’t end well, or would you walk away and live with the weight of what-ifs?
