Healing Isn’t Always Linear

 I had to make an appointment with my therapist today, because honestly, life has been feeling heavier than I know how to carry on my own.

The things I once prayed for don’t feel the same anymore. The job, the routines, the relationships no longer bring the comfort they used to. I feel disconnected from myself, from my purpose, even from the people I love. Some days it feels like I’m just trying to hold everything together with shaky hands.

It feels as if everything around me is shifting at once. Relationships I thought were solid start to feel fragile. My health feels unpredictable. Finances are tighter than ever. In the middle of all that, I find myself asking if any of this still makes sense, if I even chose the right path.

There are moments I catch myself longing to go back to the start, to figure out where I went wrong, to fix everything all at once. But the truth is, I’m exhausted. Carrying all of this weight has left me drained. And yet, even in this heaviness, a small part of me remembers that I’ve been through storms before. I’ve made it through days I was certain would break me. Somehow, I survived what I thought I couldn’t.

So today, I chose to pause. I chose to ask for help. I chose to admit that I can’t do it all alone. Making that appointment wasn’t easy, but it was necessary. Because even when everything feels like it’s falling apart, I know deep down I still want to fight for myself, for my healing, for the life I deserve.

I don’t have it all figured out, and I don’t feel okay right now, but I believe I will be. Step by step, breath by breath, I’ll get there.

The Question That Shook Me in Therapy

 Last Friday in therapy, I was asked a question I wasn’t ready for:

“When was the last time you truly felt loved?”

Not the kind of love you get from family, not the loyalty of friends, but the kind of love where someone chooses you. The kind that makes you feel safe, wanted, and deeply seen.

And for a moment, I just sat there in silence. My mind went blank.
Because the truth was… I had no memory to hold onto.
No moment I could point back to.

So I said it out loud.
“Never. I don’t think I’ve ever truly felt that kind of love.”

And as the words left my mouth, it stung. Because I realized how much of my life I’ve spent being “needed” but not “wanted.” Being used, but not chosen. Being there for others, but never really feeling like anyone wanted to be there for me.

It’s a painful thing to admit.
To acknowledge that I’ve been carrying this emptiness for so long.
But maybe that’s also the beginning of healing—finally seeing the wound for what it is.

I don’t know what the future holds, but I do know this: I’m learning to stop settling for scraps of affection disguised as love. I’m learning that I deserve to be chosen. To be loved for who I am, not just for what I can give.

And maybe the first step is choosing myself, fully and unapologetically.

✨ Have you ever felt the same way—that you were needed, but not truly wanted?

Healing, Even on the Days I Spiral

 Healing isn’t linear. Some days you rise, some days you spiral. Both are part of the process.

Last Friday’s therapy session was heavy. I sat across from my therapist, heart wide open, unpacking layers of pain I didn’t even know I was still carrying. We talked about my struggles with abandonment and attachment. How I tend to hold on tightly to people, even when they were never meant to stay.

I’ve always worn my heart on my sleeve. I love deeply. I trust easily. I give without asking much in return, and because of that, I often get attached to people who are only just passing through my life.
People with their own timelines, their own purposes. People who sometimes leave without warning.

And every time, it hurts like hell. Because I placed so much weight and value on people who didn’t even see my worth.

But something clicked last week. Something inside me shifted.
I realized that not everyone is meant to be a forever. Some are just temporary. Here to teach a lesson, bring clarity, or reveal something about ourselves. And I have to stop giving permanent space in my heart to people who were never meant to stay.

Still, healing doesn’t always feel empowering.

Today, I spiraled a bit.
I got invited to an event, a chance to go out, meet people, maybe have a little fun. But I chose to stay home. Not because I didn’t want to go… but because I was scared.
Scared of feeling again.
Scared of connecting.
Scared that if I opened up, I’d get attached to someone new… and get hurt all over again.

That fear. It’s real. And today, it won.
But I’m not beating myself up over it.
Because sometimes protecting your peace looks like saying no.
Sometimes it’s staying in instead of forcing yourself to “be okay.”
Sometimes it’s giving yourself grace when your heart feels too fragile to risk again.

I’m still learning. Still healing. Still trying to balance my softness with strength.

But I know this much now:
My heart is not broken. It’s rebuilding.
And I’m not done yet.

🕊️ One day at a time. One breath at a time. 🤍

I Don’t Know If Filipinos Have Heard of Zarna Garg But You Should

 

I don’t know if many Filipinos have heard of Zarna Garg, but she’s someone worth discovering, especially if you grew up in a household full of expectations, tradition, and comedy that wasn’t always meant to be funny.

Zarna Garg is an Indian American comedian, writer, and mom who took a wildly unexpected path to stardom. Born and raised in India, she ran away from home at just 14 to escape an arranged marriage. Years later, she rebuilt her life in the United States, becoming a lawyer and then a stay-at-home mom for over 15 years.

Then, in her 40s with zero showbiz background, she stepped onto a New York comedy stage for the first time. And people couldn’t stop laughing.

Her stories? They're about things we know all too well—strict immigrant parenting, in-laws who have opinions, kids growing up in two cultures, and the never-ending question: “Why aren’t you a doctor yet?”

In 2023, she released her first Amazon Prime special One in a Billion. Just recently, she followed it up with a Hulu special called Practical People Win. She also released a bestselling memoir called This American Woman, where she shares how she reinvented herself, one laugh at a time. If that wasn’t enough, she’s acted in a feature film (A Nice Indian Boy), tours comedy clubs across the U.S., and has over a million followers across TikTok and Instagram.

What makes Zarna stand out isn’t just that she’s funny. It’s how she’s funny. She brings immigrant family life to the stage with authenticity, warmth, and boldness. Her jokes are personal, but they resonate with people from all backgrounds, especially in places like the Philippines, where family dynamics, parental pressure, and cultural pride are just as real.

Zarna doesn’t curse, doesn’t use shock humor, and isn’t trying to be “cool.” She just tells the truth in a way that makes you laugh and say, “Wait, that’s my mom!”

In a world where comedy is often fast, loud, and edgy, Zarna’s brand of storytelling stands out because it’s honest, relatable, and full of heart.

So if you’ve ever argued with your parents about career choices, lived with a relative who overshares everything, or tried to raise kids in a culture different from your own, Zarna Garg’s comedy might just be your next favorite thing.

Check her out on YouTube, Hulu, or TikTok. You might laugh so hard you’ll text your nanay or lola about it.

A Little Bit Personal

 

Therapy last week was heavy.

Not in a way that broke me but in a way that peeled back layers I didn’t know I still carried. It was one of those sessions where a single question lingered long after the room got quiet:

“Do you feel like you’re still the same person you were in high school?”

And I didn’t even have to think about it. I said no.

I’m not that person anymore.
Back then, I had no boundaries. I didn’t know I was allowed to say no. I made myself so available to everyone that I didn’t leave anything for myself. I was everyone’s friend, sometimes to the point of losing who I actually was. I wore my people-pleasing like armor thinking it kept me safe, thinking it made me lovable. I said yes to things that didn’t feel right, stayed in spaces that drained me, and smiled when I should’ve spoken up.

But I’ve grown.

Now I can stand on my own even if that means standing alone.
I’ve learned that solitude is not loneliness. It is clarity. It is power.

I’ve built boundaries not as walls to shut people out but as doors to protect what I’ve worked so hard to rebuild in myself. I know what I tolerate. I know what I deserve. I know what I will never accept again.

And it’s wild, honestly, to look back and see how far I’ve come. To grieve the old version of myself while still feeling so much compassion for them. Because that person—naïve, tired, too nice for their own good—was just doing their best with what they knew.

But now I know better. I am better.
And that deserves to be honored.

🧠✨ #TherapyReflections #SelfGrowth #HealingIsNotLinear #ThenAndNow #PeoplePleaserNoMore #BoundariesAreLove #InnerPeace #ForTheSoulPh

Why Is It So Hard for Filipinos to Say “No”?

 Have you ever invited a Filipino friend to a party, a gathering, or even just a casual hangout — and instead of a direct yes or no, you got a vague answer like “Tingnan ko pa,” “Bahala na,” or the classic “If I can, I will”? You’re not alone. Many people, both Filipinos and foreigners alike, notice this cultural quirk: we rarely say “no” outright.

But why is it so hard for us to say no?

1. Pakikisama: The Need to Maintain Harmony

At the core of Filipino culture is pakikisama, or getting along with others. We value relationships and social harmony so deeply that we often prioritize them over personal comfort or honesty. Saying no can feel like a form of rejection — not just of the invitation, but of the person extending it. So instead, we give a non-committal answer, hoping it softens the blow.

2. Hiya: The Fear of Embarrassment

Hiya, or shame, also plays a huge role. We avoid confrontation and the possibility of making someone feel awkward or offended. Saying “no” directly might feel bastos (rude), even if the reason is valid. So instead, we say something that leaves room for interpretation. It’s not that we’re being dishonest — we’re just trying to save face (both ours and yours).

3. Utang na Loob and Obligations

Sometimes, we feel pressured by unspoken social debts. If someone has done something for us in the past, saying “no” feels like a betrayal of utang na loob. Even if we’re tired, busy, or uninterested, we’ll still hesitate to decline, out of a sense of moral or emotional obligation.

4. Fear of Missing Out — or Being Left Out

There’s also a cultural version of FOMO. We want to be included, to be part of the community, to not miss out on shared experiences. So even if deep down we know we can’t go, we’ll still entertain the idea, just in case plans shift in our favor.

5. We Were Raised That Way

From childhood, many of us were taught to be polite, respectful, and agreeable — sometimes to the point of self-sacrifice. Disagreeing with elders, declining an offer, or refusing a favor is often seen as walang modo. So we learn to cushion our rejections with vague answers or white lies: “May lakad ako,” “I’ll try,” or “Di ko pa alam eh.”

---

So What Now?

We’ve inherited a culture that leans toward indirectness and people-pleasing — and while it comes from a place of kindness, it can also lead to confusion, false hope, or even burnout. The good news? Cultural awareness can lead to cultural evolution.

There’s power in learning how to say no with kindness and clarity. It’s okay to honor your boundaries. It’s okay to disappoint others sometimes, especially if it means being true to yourself.

Because at the end of the day, isn’t honesty also a form of respect?

150 Days Sober

 150 Days of Sobriety: A Journey from Grief to Healing

Today, July 16, marks a significant milestone in my journey—150 days of sobriety. That’s five months of taking back control, reclaiming my peace, and learning that alcohol was never the answer to my grief. It was just a temporary solution, one that only masked the pain for a little while before it came rushing back, stronger than before.

For so long, I believed that a drink could numb the ache inside me. I thought it would make the sadness, the anger, and the confusion go away. But every time I woke up, the emptiness was still there. The truth I was avoiding remained unchanged. Alcohol, for me, became a coping mechanism, but it wasn’t helping me heal. It was only prolonging the inevitable. The pain didn’t disappear; it just got buried under layers of numbness.

Now, as I celebrate this 150-day milestone, I realize that the journey towards healing isn't about running away from the pain—it's about facing it. It's about allowing myself to feel what I need to feel, without judgment or shame. Sobriety has taught me that healing doesn’t come from drowning in a bottle but from processing emotions, seeking support, and finding healthier ways to cope.

There have been tough moments, times when the urge to reach for a drink felt overwhelming. But with each passing day, I’ve learned to lean into my feelings instead of running from them. I’ve found solace in journaling, in deep conversations with close friends, and in moments of stillness. I've started to rediscover what it means to live fully, not through the haze of alcohol, but with a clear mind and an open heart.

This milestone isn't just about being sober for 150 days; it's about the growth, the self-discovery, and the healing that has taken place in those days. I've learned that grief is a process. It doesn’t just go away. But every day I choose to face it, I get a little stronger, a little more resilient.

To anyone out there struggling, I want to say this: It’s okay to grieve, it’s okay to feel lost, but it’s also okay to seek help and choose a path that leads you to healing. Alcohol isn’t the answer, but you are. You have the strength inside you to move through the pain, one day at a time.

Here’s to 150 days, and to the countless more of growth, healing, and peace ahead. Thank you for being part of this journey.

Weekend Break

 Weekends are usually spent soaking up the sun on the beach—but today, we took a different route. We’re cruising around Nailon, Bogo City, and loving every bit of it. 🌤️🚗 From scenic coastal roads to charming local spots, this little barangay has its own magic if you just slow down and explore. Whether it’s a quick food stop, a peaceful seaside view, or a casual drive with friends, Nailon offers a refreshing take on weekend relaxation.There’s so much beauty in our own backyard—sometimes all it takes is a spontaneous drive to remind you of that.#NailonBogoCity #BogoCityCebu #CebuRoadtrip #NorthernCebu #LocalAdventuresPH #WeekendCruise #HiddenSpotsPH #ExploreBogo #CebuTravel #SupportLocalTourism #PhilippineDestinations France C. Bacasm Frezelia Dela Cruz

Support Like This

 Pay Full Price. Hype Them Up. Be a Real One.

Let’s talk about something that doesn’t sit right with me anymore: the way we treat our friends who are building something for themselves—whether it’s a business, a brand, a side hustle, or a creative pursuit.

You know the ones. The friends selling clothes, baking cupcakes, freelancing their design skills, offering home services, starting their own clinics, or curating thrift drops online. They’re putting themselves out there, taking risks, learning as they go, and working hard.

So why is it that when it’s our friend offering the service, we feel entitled to a discount?

“Pila man ang friends price?”
“Tagai ko ug hangyo beh, ikaw ra gud.”
“Libreha na oi, barkada man ta!”

Don’t get me wrong — maybe those words aren’t meant to hurt. Maybe they’re meant to be playful. But behind that banter is a pattern of not taking your friends’ hard work seriously. Of assuming that their time and effort are worth lessjust because you know them.

And honestly? That needs to stop.

When I support a friend’s business, I pay full price. Not because I’m rich. Not because I can’t use a discount. But because I see the value of what they do. I respect the grind. I know what it takes to build something from scratch, and the last thing I want to do is devalue that.

I don’t just buy from them either. I like and share their posts. I hype them up. I repost their announcements. I leave glowing reviews when I’m genuinely happy with the service. I treat them the same way I’d treat a big business I admire because if I won’t support the people closest to me, who will?

And when they post about me? I don’t mind at all. That’s love. That’s community. That’s how we help each other grow.

This is your reminder that your support doesn’t always have to come in the form of money, though paying full price is a huge help. Support can also look like sharing their posts, commenting “🔥🔥🔥” under their launch photos, tagging them when someone asks for recommendations, or simply telling them, “Hey, I’m proud of you.”

So let’s stop making our friends feel awkward for charging what they’re worth. Let’s stop expecting free labor from the people we say we love. Let’s normalize saying:

“I’m happy to pay.”
“You deserve this.”
“Let me post about your business real quick.”

We rise by lifting each other.
Support your friends like you support influencers you’ve never met. Because your friend’s hustle? That’s something to be proud of, not bargained with.

The Filipino LGBTQIA Community Has A Long Way To Go

 

Lately, it’s been heartbreaking to see members of our own community tearing each other down in the comments section. We should be lifting each other up, not breaking each other apart.

The words we use carry weight. They can heal or harm. They can empower or destroy. Just because someone doesn’t share your exact view doesn’t make them any less valid. Diversity in thought doesn’t have to lead to division.

Inclusivity means no one gets left behind.
Not the femme, not the masc, not the loud, not the soft-spoken. Not the ones still figuring it out. Not the ones who’ve known all along. We are all part of this fight, and together we stand—divided, we fall.

Beyond those words, I see fear. I see pain that has been in us for so long. Pain that stems from years—decades—of rejection, ridicule, and having to constantly defend our right to exist. That kind of trauma doesn’t disappear overnight. But it’s time. It’s time to move away from the pain and the ridicule. It’s time we stop projecting that pain onto each other and begin healing as one community.

Trans women are women. Let’s start from there.
If you don’t share the same belief, at the very least—listen. Listen without attacking. Learn without mocking. Disagree without dehumanizing. You can’t claim to be for equality and then draw the line where your comfort ends.

We’ve all felt what it’s like to be silenced, invalidated, erased. Let’s not recreate the very same systems of exclusion inside our own spaces.

Let’s educate ourselves, listen more, and judge less. The goal is progress, not perfection. We are all learning. Let’s build a community where we can grow and evolve together, with respect, empathy, and love at the center.

Because if we can’t stand for each other—who else will?