In all the ways I turned 25

Some women fear the fire, some women simply become it.


I turned 25 this year. The last few hours of my early 20s were spent covered in my Disney sheets, in my cartoon-poster-filled room. I didn’t know how much I’ve been looking forward to this inbetween-age as I purposely wore a red blouse on my birthday. I turned 25 on the 20th of August, and when I blew my candles. But also..

I turned 25 when I heard the words “when can you start” 3hours after an online interview I prayed so hard for. At the same time, I turned 25 when I cried in front of my old boss because I never really wanted to leave the place that has grown so much in me but it felt like I needed to do some growing up of my own, too.

I turned 25 when more and more people of my age group are getting married and are having children purely by choice.

I turned 25 when I got a one-way ticket. When I fought off the tears hugging my parents as my one-way flight was announced and I was carrying 25kg worth of baggage (emotions excluded). I turned 25 when the plane landed in the city everyone warned me about. And eventually it felt like home somehow.

I turned 25 when I finally saw my name and works on print. And it’s funny how I needed to achieve such only to realize a byline is not what makes me a writer.

I turned 25 when I began to embrace what the stars. I am born under the fire sign. A Leo–the mightiest and proudest of all zodiacs; Also, if you google my name it also actually means “the ruler of all.” I can’t help but think as to how it might mean I’m destined for something great – like powerful, YAAAS KWEEEN kind of great. Although I may not embody it, I guess having those altogether should mean something.

I turned 25 knowing that living the dream is also about keeping the dream alive.

I turned 25 when I bought my first tube of lipstick. Just three days before I wrote this to be exact. Ant it felt like the most mature thing.

I turned 25 when I realized not everything that happens to me is not always about me. That some people hurt you because they are what they are, and that the universe plays simply because you are a part in it. And so I turned 25 when I told my heart to stop investing too much in things I could not control.

I turned 25 when I’ve been wearing more dresses than pants on a regular basis. But I will always be a closed-shoes kind of girl.

I turned 25 when I decided to speak up about my worth (career-wise) I turned 25 when I realized working on my passions isn’t the route for me (at least not yet) and so I gave up the comforts of writing in exchange for a work that’s more demanding, people-facing, and everything I’m barely qualified for–all because I wanted to challenge my self.

I turned 25 when I checked off more than a few things from my 13year-old self’s bucket list. Or when I fulfilled the hopes of this post.

I turned 25 when I was more thankful for the things that didn’t go my way.

Turning 25 finally felt like I no longer need to explain my self, yet here I am writing a blog post about it. 25 is when I’m at peace with my age and my self, perfectly in the inbetween.

Turning 25 felt calm. The only thing I’m unsure of if it’s the kind of calm before the storm, or after. Or that maybe I’m the storm.


Things I Miss


Being without a smartphone. Truth be told, I only had a smart phone in 2015. I can’t say I became more unproductive or all the ‘bad’ things we associate tech with. All I can say is that there was more sincerity in me and other people back then.

The after-school-slash-school paper duty walks in the heart of Colon at 10pm. And can I just say, those walks felt more safer for me than anywhere else on those times of night.

Chelsea Football team back when Terry, Lampard, and Drogba were still in the same side. Just because.

That swing at my grandparent’s house. It was my childhood’s official clubhouse with my cousins. Eventually, it became a shelter to my friends’ what-nots back in college, where conversations swung back and forth ’til the sun came up–still in our uniforms, in the middle of a school week.

The thrill of a notification after being offline for days, or weeks. The feeling of only getting to listen to your favorite song by happenstance on the radio, or MTV.

Saturday morning cartoons.

My mama’s snoring in the living room after a hard day’s work. My papa’s footsteps, even if he’s still outside–a house away. My sister’s complaints whenever I ask her annoying favors, and she does it anyway.

Reading thru the blog posts of these writers.

Writing for events. The Christmas tree lighting ceremonies this time of the year. All the PR folders and papers to which I loved collecting.

Creating notebooks. Specifically when I just made and gave them away because I liked to.

Us. Us is just not us when we’re not unsure, crazy and careless.

When responsibilities now were once just dreams. And coffee was more of a luxury than a necessity.

This. This space right here. The blog I left in hopes to start new. I’m a different person now since I last left a trail of thought here. Not necessarily better, just different.

I Need To Talk About Fleur Delacour

Fleur Delacour came to us as an icy unimpressed by everything foreign student. No-nonsense, unfiltered with no regard for celebrity status. She can say no without saying a word. She was fierce and grace topped with a blue pretty Beauxbatons hat.


Fleur is my wand-character for a reason, fyi


She then returned to our books as a verified part-veela who struggles with ‘er eenglish, who falls inlove a red haired pony-tailed guy with a rockstar-esque career. True, Bill and Fleur were the stereotypical gross couple–too perfect for each other and too over each other. But together they were the right mix of glamour and adventure.

In a whim, Fleur instantly became a shadow, a joke in the background, a phlegm; it was easy to side with Ginny, Hermione and Mrs. Weasley’s dislike for her.

For one, Fleur embodies the struggles of pretty girls. It might sound mundane and first-worldly, but we seem to give Fleur a lesser credit when she fought just as bravely as the others did. What’s not to love about a woman who stands up for her self and is confident about who she is? We admire Hermione for her wits and Ginny for her cool-girl persona but it seems difficult to admire Fleur because above all that, she’s exceptionally pretty.

We thought it was a pivotal moment for her when she snatched the ointment from Mrs Weasley saying:

“you thought i would not weesh to marry him? Or per’aps you ‘oped? said Fleur, her nostrils flaring. “What do I care how ‘e looks? I am good looking enough for both of us, I theenk! All these scars show that my husband is brave! And I shall do zat!”

After this scene, the future in-laws wept and hugged each other. And Fleur became a solid character, un-scatched and un-phlegmed. She won us with her fierce devotion.

But she was admirable before that, only more admirable after. She was a courageous witch who put family first, who was a Beauxbatons champ for a reason incase we forgot. Fleur is a very capable witch not only of magic but in heart, too. She forgave Molly and others for disliking her. She treated the Weasleys like family,  she loves Bill and she takes him fang-earrings, scars and all.

Fleur could easily have chosen to escape the war and return to her homeland, but she stayed. She stayed and made home to where Bill’s family is, and opened it for Harry and others as well–without limit or question. She was loyal and brave enough to volunteer as one of the 7 Potters and to fight alongside her friends in the battle of Hogwarts. She was an unsung hero.

Bill sees and loves her for who she is, too. I’d like to believe he sees the core of steel in Fleur hiding beneath the fairy-princess exterior. And as a couple, they function together as a unit. And it takes a love as magical as Bill and Fleur’s to blossom amidst war, to bring light in times of tragedy, a love that lights hope and a beautiful distraction with little development on its own.


Bill and Fleur–a soul and a love that resides largely in the background of others, but what they both have is extraordinary.

Date a girl prompts

Don’t you just miss the early days of Thought Catalog and Tumblr where articles were written as if it were diaries unintentionally gone public. Little by little, these early entries became templates of inspiration til well, TC became what it is now. One of the enjoyable ones to read was the “Date the Girl” posts, although I always felt like each one gets so mundane.  Anyway, in case you felt like making excuses for your self- to write or to be dated, here are prompts that someone is bound to write:


Date a girl who wears contact lenses
because the only thing that’s not perfect about her is her vision. besides, four-eyed girls can’t get all the fun, right?

Date a girl who has not traveled yet, ever.
Be the someone who opens her world to a better one. Hold her hand as you board the plane, she may not show it, but she’s terrified. Let her know that there’s no place like home and that she is your home.

Date a girl who does not own a smartphone
If you’re lucky enough to come across this rare creature, you’ll find more meaning in conversations across dinner tables. Time with her will leave no digital trace, and this is why she makes it more memorable as much as she could.

Date the girl you’ve purposely ghosted before
because you’re an asshole.

Date a girl who proudly admits that she’s not part of the bandwagon
past all those moments when you just want to watch GoT and be like everyone else without being called out, she’s just the girl who’s just possessive enough because she knows no one cares about things deeply more than she does. Because she knows it requires more than just posts and hashtags to show your dedication.

Date a girl who pays on the first date
There’s a lot more to lose than your ego if you lose her.

Date a girl who has a creative curated IG feed
because it took a lot of trials and errors for her ’til she found the one thing that works for her; she’s consistent and she’s never letting go. 

Date a girl who loves uncomplicated ice cream flavors
like a good ol‘ plain chocolate, vanilla, mango, ube or strawberry ice cream. Because in a world that demands a bit of everything, she finds joy and contentment in simplicity.

Date a girl who’s in post-graduate school
she only needs three things: coffee, simple messages throughout the day and extra trendy highlighters. 

Date a girl who owned a PlayStation one
see her eyes sparkle in awe as she talks about Crash and Coco of Crash Bandicoot or Spyro the Dragon like they were her best friends. Talk about the games you played to and it will feel like you’ve known each other since you were eight.

Date a girl who does not know how to swim
Drown her with your love instead.

Date a girl who has a religious skin care routine
she’s the girl that’s completely unaware that her personality is enough to keep her glowing.  you’ll learn to take care of your self too in the process

Date a girl who commutes
she’s smart on the streets..and she rocks the sheets — cause commute life is just exhausting.

Date a girl who eats rice with spaghetti
A girl who is not without Rice has good taste and is her own person. Be someone who finds no need to pretend to be someone else with her. Take a giant leap of faith on this girl — or an extra cup of rice.

Date the girl with a winged eyeliner
she may not have those VS wings, but she will leave your heart soarin’. and these one-liners are sure to match with her on-fleek eyeliner.

Date the girl with an uncommon college degree
unlike her degree – she does not need to explain her self and to get validation from your or anyone. she’s feisty, mysterious and always uncertain but her uncertainties are not enough to stop her from celebrating her life.

Date the girl with the same height as you
 There’s absolutely no reason to think highly of her (resulting in unrealistic expectations), or to look down on her – no one should ever be treated that way. Instead, you’re equal in all ways – and that’s what relationships are about.

Date the girl who believes in astrology
The internet has blessed you with all the guides, much more helpful than the stars do. You can never go wrong..unless the mercury is in retrograde.

Date a girl who orders the same thing at Jollibee EVERY.TIME.
Don’t confuse this with her being too stiff, she also lives to experience things. But when it comes to the things she has set her heart to, she’s loyal to it AF.

Date the girl who’s into Spanish telenovelas
She’s a breather in this world of K-dramas and American SitCom fangirls, this girl is not afraid to take passion to its emotional and visual context — and unapologetic about it. She loves the drama of countrysides and horseback rides..she gives giddy an extra up. 

Date a girl who breathes
…unless you’re into necromancy and stuff.

ps: this list has nothing to do with what I am. Although yes, spaghetti goes with rice!

Standard Book of Spells, post-grad

Basically my Hogwarts graduation speech

Not much is told about the Hogwarts graduation, of how the ceremony consisted of leaving the castle riding the enchanted boats – exactly the ones that took us into Hogwarts for the first time in our first years. And the huge wave of nostalgia that just hits you, like you were struck with the an  unforgivable curse.

I remember my first train ride. I remember packing my things after my first O.W.L exams because I was pretty sure I’d get a ‘Troll’ on every magic-related test. (or worse, Expelled)

I remember the long breaks on our NEWT years. I remember spending most of my existence in the Ravenclaw common room, with its midnight blue carpets and ceiling donned with the night stars. I remember not ever wanting to get our because a.) calling it Home was an understatement and b.) because I’m afraid of never being able to answer the eagle’s questions by the door.

I remember how my first question took me almost an hour to wait for someone to answer it for me, ‘What caused the inter-country apparition to be banned?’. I remember how the eagle on the door ignored my answer ‘because they need to have a passport’ (that was so muggleborn of me!). I was *this* close to googling it, and then I remembered how muggle devices go haywire inside the castle. I remember how the Ravenclaw prefect saved me. The answer was extreme flinching, by the way.

I remember faking a prediction on Divination class like I faked my illness on the day we had to practice on slugs during Transfiguration. I just can’t with slugs. I remember staying up ’til midnight on Wednesdays because Wednesday nights mean Astronomy classes and I just couldn’t get enough of the Universe – magical or no.

I remember having to polish the candelabra on the great hall as part of my detention because I was consistently late on my first period (which was almost always Defense Against the Dark Arts). I never had the chance to discover the escape routes of the detention chamber which I would’ve gladly shared.

And I also remember gaining house points because I was outstanding in Muggle Art (an extra-curricular activity) by simply creating caricatures of witches and wizards (something of which muggles artists can always do better at). I say Muggle art because Art in Hogwarts’ context consisted of magical tools and paint.

I remember how it made me double proud as it was the year we won the house cup as well. I remember the night we celebrated every house victory, of how our common room stank of butterbeers and of how we woke up on the common room floors the next day. I couldn’t count the number of times someone slipped on the staircases to the dormitories because they transformed into slides quite a lot that night (this happens when an opposite sex tries to enter the opposite sex’s dorm rooms, fyi).

I remember the screams we cheered on every quidditch match, I remember how they grew louder when there was an inter-school game. Though I’m positively convinced they were mostly fan-girl screams for the Durmstrang guys. I remember how I only had eyes for the Gryffindor prefect during our 5th year (hi, Remil!).

And I remember how Hogsmeade trips break me financially, but I’m glad I always had a friend to share Honeydukes expenses and goods with (Hi, Jatin!); and emotionally by seeing that Gryffindor prefect in Madame Puddifoot’s with a girl too cute an accent. I remember buying socks to send them to my dad, I didn’t know they screamed when they get too smelly. Imagine the heart attack it gave my mum and dad.

I remember making new friends over Tomen and scrolls: Kaitlin the Slytherin girl, Charmaine Inah who reads too much she must be a Ravenclaw, Raisa who gave us Zonko’s treats (I should really check if they’re safe), Ashley the proud Hufflepuff, Cherie and Patrice both over-achieving prefects – of which I never really knew their houses..and a lot more whose faces I only knew.

I remember how meeting up with the lot on Diagon Alley at Forlean and Fortescue’s became a routine before we head to our respective houses as the term starts. I remember the familiar faces with the same fascination I have with Scribbulus – the wizard writing implements shop, and I remember always having to pick secondhand wardrobes – and I’m not even complaining.

I couldn’t thank Hogwarts enough for making me the person I am today, although I never really excelled in its craft and I never figured out Arithmancy. I was almost always cramming spells over breakfast til my 7th year and I never really got used to ghosts floating through walls, like I will never get used to leave the place that has been more than home.

I remember hugging everyone (regardless of house) on that fine graduation day; of fifth helpings of treacle tart and having our moving pictures taken. I remember how we raised and lit up our wands with respective house colors and threw our caps in the air as we sang the Hogwarts hymn on that final day.

I remember the castle fading into view, I remember refusing to take one last look behind as I got out the enchanted boat.

Because I was pretty sure I’d only to see and old ruin with a sign over the entrance saying ‘DANGER, DO NOT ENTER, UNSAFE.’ Because it makes me remember how only those who have not received their Hogwarts letter can see what I refused to see.


And of course, the obligatory grad photo.
“Draco Dormiens Nunquam Titillandus”


Shoutout to Jatin, my fellow Ravenclaw, for insipring me this idea to write. Here’s to trying to open the chamber of secrets assuming that Parseltongue was said in our native language.

Writing on Writing pt. 2

When people ask me what I do, I hesitate to answer. I write stuff, I respond; when the proper answer would’ve been, I’m a writer.


How I went from writing stuff to finally admitting (with pride) that I’m actually a writer had to involve the following truths:

Losing the artistic attachment:

Writers have feelings – even more than what an average person has. I get that, that what we write are pieces to our selves — it’s our craft.

But at some point you would have to accept that what you put out is not always what you want it to be.

The detachment to artistic integrity is not absolute; save some for your self. But you should also be able to write anything should the need arise. All the best writers do.

It’s a long and painful journey to separate the idea that what you do is not always about you. Not everything you work on is a masterpiece. But that shouldn’t mean you love your work or exert effort any less.

Love it while it’s in your hands then let it go.

It does not have anything to do with a by line.
or a job position, or an award or your work on paper.

If you have those, then that’s great.

How your work is presented to the world does not determine your credibility or pride as a writer. Just because the print has been around longer shouldn’t mean digital folks get lesser claims to the writer fame.

The validation feels good, there’s no denying to that. But claim it with the hopes to empower yourself to write more and to inspire others.

It’s okay to write about the most superficial things.
Or even care about them. or even about the things you don’t care about.

That doesn’t make you any dumber or lesser of the person you are. There should be no shame in it.

I love writing for brands and to chameleon behind different voices.

Some for click bait and mostly for money these enterprises make from the words I write; some for making famous people even more famous. It’s fun and mind opening. I get to live different lives, influence decision, and talk about things beyond me that other people are actually passionate about.

When you do get to care about something so deeply (or not even care at all) but are able to put it into words, that’s a writer right there.

There’s no such thing as dull writing jobs.

I worry about my self, that perhaps I get lesser credit for my craft, that I should be writing more soul and voice. Not labels on the back of shampoos or the tips on how to be the next *name of celebrity.*

But I don’t mind that at all. It allows me to practice, to find new ways to say something being said a hundred times already. And it takes a certain skill to find creativity in constriction.

You are not a failure for writing the most mundane things, you fail only when you do stop writing.

Write without so much of a goal or the concept of failure. Write what is needed at the moment and build from there. Simply write because you want to. Whether you take writing as a career or a side gig, write because no one can do it the way you can and because no one can see things the way you do and be able to write it down.

Write for an audience, whether you have 5 followers or 5k fans – it does not matter.

What matters is you keep. getting. better.

Write in such ways that if you were to publish your laundry list, they’d read that too. Now that’s a goal.

I Stopped Defending.

As quoted from one of my favorite writers, Chelsea Fagan: Writers get asked a lot of questions on why they do their jobs. Nobody asks a janitor, why do you clean toilets?

And that being said means what we have is something that’s meaningful and valuable. Something that’s not going to be automated — ever. Take pride in that.

#PublishingMillions is not a myth, but it’s not that real too.
You shouldn’t write for the money, although it doesn’t hurt to hope. 

I am thankful (and lucky) that my words have brought numbers to my bank account even in the tiniest digits. Although to be honest, it worries me too.

Yes, the work can be rewarding. But it can be such a struggle to. And sometimes you have to separate the work that brings numbers to your bank account and the work that makes your heart happy, or your self brand happy. And that can be difficult, and luck can be such a factor.

But what I would worry more about is about me doing open heart surgery and make money from that because that is something I’m not good or confident at.

I do not regret pursuing the writing career path contrary to what I wrote previously.
I only regret not writing more often.

Believe You Are a Writer.

Call your self a writer. Believe that you are despite what your day job is, or what your education was.

When in doubt, write — cause that is just the most writer thing there is.

Writing On Writing pt.1


It’s extra interesting to know people who have dreams and passions beyond, apart and/or different from their careers

I used to think that fusing both passion and career should be THE dream, but now do I begin to grasp that it isn’t always ideal to.

Being this so-called (self-confessed) passionate creative, sometimes it feels bland how I’m lucky enough to have it working for me.

Maybe because it’s the only thing I know, the only thing I’ve invested in, the only thing that’s working for me. And that’s not lucky at all.

At this point, I wish I have had different dreams – practical, life-saving, family-sustaining, stability assuring dreams.

The road to creative pursuits can sometimes (or most times) be a selfish path.

Currently, the world does not need more writers, or artists, or musicians. That is evident enough in this country with so little opportunities for such.

Even then, the struggle is always extra difficult – no set of external, standard metrics to success – no titles, nor numbers.

I wish I opted for skills that one can only actually learn from years of schooling. Because then I can always still write, draw or create things with my hands.

And I say, people with the opportunities to earn templated titles and skills are luckier, and should be able to dream bigger (or more).

To be able to feel needed useful – these are the things they could thrive on and be driven by. And I hope they don’t take that for granted.

This series of phrases / sentences originally appeared as a twitter thread. And hopefully be a thread of posts as I write my way through Writing – as a hobby, career, passion or escape.

Twenty Four

Twenty-four felt like taking a pause from a life that felt like a race and I wasn’t even running, yet I am exhausted. I was always afraid of moving too fast or too slow, or any movement at all. I talk a lot about being so confused and just living in the moment rather than having a focused goal like it was cool, or romantic. It wasn’t. It isn’t.


The way towards 24, the not-so inviting intro to mid 20s, was like being sung a Happy Birthday chorus and you’re just there waiting for it to end, with a forced smile, anxiety heightening to a maximum, and you realize that Happy in Happy birthdays have lost its meaning. And now the song is over.

Everything becomes less romantic: coffee, the nth chug of beer before feeling all woozy, all-nighters, late night texts, growing up, relationships, success.

Being 24 is saying it’s fine and actually meaning it. That it’s okay to not have it figured out just yet; it’s accepting that we can’t get any younger but that doesn’t mean we have to get any older soon.

Twenty four is about coffee choices becoming simpler, friends lesser but realer, dreams scarier and scarier by the minute.

They say it gets worse before it gets better, and I think the dust is starting to settle. I know where exactly do I want to go. I am beginning to see what I want to be my self in 3–5 years from now. And this is saying a lot from being someone who has so dreaded the thought of the future. ’Cause there’s not a lot of stability in store for me in a BA degree, there is a whole different world it has not taught me.

Life’s been okay; And 24 is about being able to appreciate that okay is actually okay. It’s accepting that we are growing up, and we actually do appreciate it now.

We realize adulting is not about paying taxes, or getting married or a successful career. But we are entitled to create (and celebrate) these milestones – the irrelevant ones to the serious ones.

It’s being aware that the world does not fall into place simply because you want it to. Like how your job does not magically reciprocate to love you in return because you love it; in fact, you don’t have to love it (or anything else) everyday. But that shouldn’t stop you. There will be some of those days. And waking up, forcing yourself to still do what you can to challenge the circumstances could simply be the most adult decision there is.

As we go, life entails us to make a mess — to fix, to cry on, to move on from. Twenty four has also taught me that it’s okay to ask for help. Cause even the most successful adults do. I bet the best adults don’t give adulting a second thought (or a blogpost), they just live and do. There are no shortcuts, no automated ways to become one, no bible or formula – just circumstances and opportunities for growth.

Twenty four made me realize that there will never be a moment of having everything figured out. All we can do is live — and life demands us so.

That it’s all okay.

As for me, I rest at night knowing I have brought food into a home that had little to almost none years and years back. I pray in my disney sheets, defaultly dozing to a fetal position, dreaming dreams and chasing them; and so far, I am not worried Zayn Malik will divorce me. And perhaps I’ll sing with the chorus on my next birthday, happy birthday that is.

Breadwinning in the age of risks

This is the part where I say: fuck those think pieces telling us how our 20s should be our selfish years, our self-discovery years. That Stability can wait.


Sure, the 20s post-grad life – it’s the perfect years to travel, to dream, to take risks, to not worry about not having it all figured it out, that money should be the least of our problems. It’s all about making mistakes and growing from them. I wish.

Most times it felt like the weight of the world is on my shoulders, because it actually is. And that if only circumstances were right, I would be my potentials, my expectations, perhaps living my uncharted dreams. That if I was given one less struggle, I know what I would choose to break free from.

Do not talk to me of risk and sacrifices when giving up on one thing mostly involves a family’s three meals a day, an education or future stability. So who’s to say we shouldn’t worry too much and that we’re young.

 But, being such has led me to premature independence, and like everything else I am proud of today, it all started with being too unfortunate to be able to afford even the cheapest thrills of my life. And I guess I’m fearing that I will become too comfortable at being grateful for what I have and what I am now. It’s not so bad afterall.

But I am always this drifting soul, a passion parasite; I am aware of my potentials and ideals. But passion does not always pay the bills so they say. Not all passions though, but mine happens to be either in a dying art or a big risk with an unsure chance of a reward.

My relentless creativity, bigger city daydreams and life lived taking risks is caught up in an industrial mindset, that stability can’t wait.

But maybe this is my purpose for now. That being in the age bracket that teaches me to not be contented so easily, to not waste potential, to chase dreams with uncertainty — the world has pre-made me into this template rather than wander around aimlessly in search for purpose.

I am not writing this for sympathy, but rather for empathy. While some of us had to put our dreams (or to dream) on hold, it is comforting to know that we may have made someone else’s. That while we wake up thinking of all the potential and the could’ve been’s thinking that we’re too behind, at least we get to sleep well knowing we have been responsible, and if you allow me, successful.

disclaimer: I may sound angsty and bitter, because maybe I actually am , seeing how people waste their potentials with lesser responsibilities.

I still don’t blame my parents (or God, for this matter) who were just victims to circumstances. They never stopped being the parents they are – and that they are still the best. They are not perfect, but they should never be treated any less. And that I am eternally grateful for my steady crazy non-industrialized job.

I’m still an unrisen dough in this.

On Love

One of the greatest lessons I had with 2016 was going thru emotional breakdowns and allowing myself to see how much it could contain.That being said, I’m proud of ending the year with my name on my list of the strongest people I know.

Did that mean I loved my self any less for allowing such circumstances to happen?  Love, being a difficult concept to grasp its entirety is being dumbed down into countable metrics – less, more, settle, #goals etc. Here’s my take on it.

On Love


I am no stranger to these internet articles telling us about what love is and what we shouldn’t settle for. All these thought pieces on love and relationships scattered all over the internet, and yet people search for love with difficulty – sometimes desperately.

Why people struggle with love, why strong independent women have surfaced the need to take down vulnerability to be called so, and the romanticized concepts of being alone and broken. Is maybe because we have always associated love with brokenness.

With that, I’ve come to narrow it down the understanding of love /brokenness into two things:

We made being broken by or the absence of love an excuse to:
-to break people who will eventually break people and so forth.
-to break your self resulting into an indifference that will just break someone else.
A neverending cycle.

Without ever meaning to, love entails us to hurt or be hurt.

I say, we simply just love. And if we do get broken again, least we know we sleep at night knowing we tried. And it could only mean we can love and be loved again.

To love is the easiest thing there is; how we are reciprocated with it (or how we think we should be loved in return) creates the cracks.

I’ve come to see that parents are not perfect, that friendships drift apart naturally, and relationships get only realer, harder and scarier. And as we grow, we get hurt – a lot. But this does not have to mean we have to treat them or ourselves any less. And this shouldn’t also mean that we learn to love less and build walls higher – it’s the same pattern to the chain of brokenness still.

I simply choose to break the destructive cycle, because love is infinite – only if we let it.