Resetting in Silence

 It feels like everything is resetting.

Like I’m starting from scratch again—no momentum, no clarity, just weight.

Today was heavy.

It started early, with a call from my boss. One of those moments where all you can say is, “Yes ma’am, I’ll work on it.” No explanations, no defense—just owning everything. The lapses, the mistakes. And strangely, I still told myself it’s okay. Maybe I needed that. Maybe I needed to be reminded of the things I’ve been overlooking at work.

But it doesn’t make it lighter.

Lately, I’ve been moving on routine, not purpose. Wake up at 6:45 AM. Prepare. Go to the office because I have to. Go home at 5. Sleep. Repeat. It’s a cycle that feels… stuck. Like I’m present physically, but somewhere along the way, I lost the drive that used to keep me going.

My dreams and goals? They’re still there—but I had to pause them. Not because I don’t want them anymore, but because right now, I’m caught in the middle of deadlines, follow-ups, and expectations that don’t wait for you to catch your breath.

And outside of work, it doesn’t get any easier.

There’s family. There’s personal battles. There are things I carry quietly—pain, hurt, things I can’t even put into words, let alone share with someone else. So I keep it in. I swallow it. I deal with it on my own.

That’s the hardest part about being “strong.”

No one notices when you’re already breaking.

Earlier, during a video call with the big boss, I had to hold my breath—literally. Holding back tears, forcing myself to stay composed. I didn’t want anyone in the office to see through me. I wanted to be angry, honestly. I felt it. But I couldn’t let it out.

Things are different now.

I’m not the same person I was before.

And maybe that’s what makes this heavier—realizing that the version of me who used to fight harder, dream louder, and push forward without hesitation… feels distant.

After everything today, I just felt numb.

So I distracted myself in the simplest ways—fixing my blog site, reading random things, playing music without really listening, checking emails with no urgency. Just existing. Just filling the silence.

And I can’t help but wonder—where did that drive go? The one I had a year ago. The one that made everything feel possible.

Maybe it’s because I’m already here—somewhere I once prayed for.

Maybe I just don’t know what the next challenge is yet.

Maybe I’m in between becoming and being.

For now, I think I’ll just let things be.

I’ll keep showing up. Quietly. Privately.

No noise, no pressure to explain.

Just… sailing through it, one day at a time.

My five seconds

 Who could ever forget those five seconds in Eden Nature Park and Resort?

That team building we always go back to, as if it was the beginning of everything—and maybe, it truly was. And then came March 2025, that audit I never expected would change anything… but it did. The energy in that place felt different from every other branch I had been to. I still remember walking through that door, and there you were—five seconds, just five seconds, and somehow, everything shifted.

A year has passed since then, and so much has happened between us.

What we had at the beginning felt magical—effortless, intoxicating, almost unreal. The kind of love you think only exists in stories. But as time unfolded, we found ourselves stepping into something far more real. Beyond the honeymoon phase, we entered the part no one prepares you for—the difficult, messy, painful phase where love is no longer just felt, but tested.

We fought. We broke. We almost let go.

Our differences became louder than our similarities. Our values didn’t always meet halfway. Even the simplest conversations turned into something heavy, something uncontrollable. There were moments we forgot how to respect each other, how to listen, how to understand. And in all honesty—it was hard. It was never easy.

I was carrying so much—my life, my career, my family, my studies, and us. I tried, in every way I knew how, to show up for all of it. Even on the days I felt like I was falling apart. Even on the days I wanted to stop.

But your love… your love kept pulling me back.

It reminded me of something beautiful—something worth holding onto. And yet, there came a point where waking up felt like entering a battlefield. I was afraid of what the day would bring—what argument, what misunderstanding, what pain. Those were the days I felt the most alone. Full of questions. Full of doubts. Full of quiet fears I didn’t know how to say out loud.

Still, we stayed.

And after one year, I find myself asking—what really happened to us?

Why did we hurt each other the way we did? Why did we push each other away, when we were supposed to be each other’s safe place? Ako dapat ang kakampi mo, pero minsan naging kaaway mo ako—and the same happened to us both.

And yet, every time things fall apart, I go back to the beginning.

To those five seconds.

To the way we chose each other.

To the magic that once felt so certain.

I held onto that—so I wouldn’t lose myself completely in loving you, in trying to save us.

I tried to understand you the best I could. I stretched my patience to its limits. And if I’m being honest, somewhere along the way—I lost parts of myself.

But even then, I chose to stay.

I chose to love you.

I chose to hope.

You know I’m not expressive, especially when I’m in front of you. When I look into your eyes, my heart races, my words disappear, and my tears wait at the edges. Not because I don’t feel—but because I feel too much. My heart is full. Full of love. Full of gratitude that you came into my life.

But there are questions I carry quietly.

Am I not enough for you?

With all the patience and kindness I try to give, why does it sometimes feel like it’s still not enough? Why does it feel like I am always being questioned—what I did, what I feel?

I don’t always understand it.

But what I know, deep in me, is this:

I love you sincerely.

I love you with everything that I am.

And I hope you know that.

All I’ve ever really asked from you is understanding… and respect. But lately, it feels like I’ve been quietly begging you for things that should come naturally between us.

I know your love is there—I feel it. But there are moments when it feels different, like it’s not the same as before. And in those moments, you make me feel less… like I’m falling short of something I don’t even understand.

Sometimes, the way you say things, or the way the past is brought up, makes me feel like it was better than what we have now—like I could never measure up to it. And slowly, that feeling settles deep in me… like I’m not just lacking, but like I’ve become something you regret.

And that’s what hurts me the most.

There are so many things I want to tell you in person. But I can’t. I can’t hold my breath long enough. I can’t hold back my tears. I know I will break before I even finish.

So I’m writing this instead.

All I ask is this—please be gentle with me.

I know I’m still growing. I know I don’t always get things right. But even as I grow older, I still need guidance—especially in a love like ours. This is not something I’ve mastered. This is something I am learning because of you.

I don’t usually do this—I don’t open up like this, I don’t say these things. But I did, and I am, because I love you. And I would never do anything to hurt us, to hurt you. I hope you’ve seen that. I hope you’ve felt that.

For this one year, I honor you.

I honor us.

For believing in something not everyone understands. For holding on even when it was easier to walk away. For choosing each other despite the distance, the differences, the difficulties.

Like I always say—we didn’t just choose this.

The universe did.

God allowed this.

Because if it wasn’t meant to be, I don’t think we would have made it this far.

Happy Anniversary, Babi.

I love you—always, in all ways.

I Loved You, Even in the Quiet Breaking

 It came back to me again today—how, one year ago, everything began. I can still remember it in detail: who we were at the start, how I tried so hard to hold on to that unfamiliar feeling. I kept asking myself, am I just curious, or am I confused? I wrestled with that question for a while, until one word settled quietly in me—reciprocate.

And suddenly, I felt something I couldn’t explain.

I tried to brush it off back then. I was at a point in my life where I was finally living the way I wanted, and yet, at the same time, love came knocking—unannounced, without explanation. It felt magical. It was fun. Looking back at our old conversations now, I see two different people—both of us trying to hold on to something we didn’t fully understand, even when the energy already said otherwise.

Then May 2025 came. We met again—and this time, we were already a couple.

I remember telling her before, what’s the point of a long courtship if we end up in the same place anyway? If you court for three months, that could’ve already been our third monthsary. So everything moved fast. Everything felt sudden. And yes, it was overwhelming.

But somehow, in just a year, it felt like we had known each other for ten.

The way we clash, the way we throw things at each other—it feels like a history that’s too deep for just twelve months. People say the more you hurt each other, the more you love each other. But I don’t believe that. I want to believe that love should come with understanding. With restraint. With respect. That if you truly love someone, you learn to think before you speak—you choose words that won’t wound.

And I want to believe we are trying. Trying not just for the relationship, but for ourselves.

I just don’t know how long we can keep holding on to that.

Still, I am grateful for this one year. We celebrated it, and it overwhelmed me in ways I couldn’t even express. I know I’m not naturally expressive—I can be nonchalant—but in this relationship, I’ve been trying. Trying to show up the best way I know how.

But most of the time, when I do show how I truly feel, it feels like it’s taken against me. Like I’m being attacked for it. So I learned to keep things to myself. Not because I don’t feel deeply—but because I don’t want to be mocked or criticized for feeling at all.

I used to think I was strong. Maybe I still am. But now, that strength looks like silence.

I wish I could speak about all of this freely. I wish the world could understand. But there’s always that discomfort—that fear. Because whether I speak or stay quiet, I still end up hurting.

And in between that silence, I carry everything alone.

One year of my life—living the kind of love I once desired, even prayed for. But not the kind of love that comes with words so painful they break me from the inside out. Arguments that I couldn’t always handle, wounds I learned to hide. And yet, my silence became my way of surviving. Even when I was breaking, I held it in. I swallowed it whole.

Quietly.

My quietness, in a way, protected me. It taught me when to speak—and when to hold back. It taught me that not every emotion needs to be proven, not every pain needs to be explained just to be understood.

But I am still learning… how to be heard without being hurt, and how to love without losing myself in the process.

My sunset

My heart feels full, and I can only put into words what I know I may one day forget.

I often think about the future when I may lose my sight, my hearing, even my memory—when I may no longer be able to recognize who I am today. But I write this now so that when that time comes, something of this moment will remain.

Maybe I will lose my sight, but I hope someone will read this to me so I can still hear it.

Maybe I will lose my hearing, but I hope my eyes can still revisit these words.

Maybe I will lose my memory, but I hope this writing can remind me that I once lived something real, something meaningful.

Our anniversary trip was one of the quietest, most peaceful, and most private moments of my entire life. Despite how busy I am, I made a choice to truly show up—to be present, to spend time, to hold onto moments I know will never come back again. Time keeps moving, people grow older, and so do I.

Right now, I feel like I am living the life I wanted. I am living the love I desired. Of course, that includes the reality of fights, pain, misunderstandings, and everything we have thrown at each other in moments of hurt. But even with all of that, I still choose to focus on what is good. I still choose to see what is worth holding onto.

We were in Dipolog City on the last day of our anniversary trip. The sunset was there—calm, quiet, and beautiful. I remember waiting for 6 PM for our dinner date, but what stayed with me more was that sunset turning into a moment of tension. A small misunderstanding almost ruined the dinner she had carefully prepared after weeks of effort.

It may have been petty, yes. I know that. But in that moment, I felt something intense inside me. I had been waiting for that sunset for days, and yet I didn’t even have a single photo with it. It sounds simple, even trivial—but it was the first time in a long while that I felt that kind of peace watching the sky slowly change.

And then, right there in front of that sunset, we argued on a bench.

I stayed quiet. I wanted to speak back, to defend what I felt, but I chose not to. Because I didn’t want to lose the moment entirely. I didn’t want the argument to erase everything we had prepared for that night. I didn’t want weeks of effort to turn into nothing because of a passing emotion.

The only words I clearly remember from her were: “I’m sorry. I will bring you and be with you in all sunsets.”

She is not naturally expressive or overly sentimental, but I believe those words came from somewhere real inside her—because she knew I was deeply hurt in that moment.

I struggle sometimes to express everything I feel. Maybe I carry too many emotions in this relationship, emotions so strong that I fear they might slip away if I don’t hold on tightly enough.

But the truth is, my heart is full. My emotions are real. And I am certain that what I felt in that moment is something I may never feel again in the same way—not in many years, not with many people, maybe only here, only with her.

So I chose silence. I chose to just sit there and watch the sunset until it disappeared.

Because I know nothing in life is certain—not how long I will live, not how long I will stay, and not how long I will get to feel this kind of love again.

And in that uncertainty, I still choose to stay present.

We Stayed: A Year of Loving Through Chaos

 I don’t want to miss a single moment of remembering the year I chose a love that many would call unconventional. A story that not everyone is comfortable to see, to understand—but one that, in my entire being, I know was the bravest decision of my life.

Choosing her. Choosing us. And choosing to stay, even when it would have been easier to walk away.

We were never the kind of couple who only had occasional arguments. We fought—often, almost every week. There were days when love felt heavier than it should, when words cut deeper than intended, when silence was louder than everything else. And still, we made it to one year.

I am proud of us—for staying, for choosing each other again and again, even on the days we were both ready to let go.

I’ve lost count of how many times we almost walked away. How many times we imagined separate lives, thinking maybe that would be easier. We’ve had nights filled with anxiety, with overthinking, with exhaustion from trying to understand each other. A year of adjusting, a year of confronting our differences—it wasn’t easy, and it wasn’t always healthy. But it was real.

And for that, I honor us.

Our story felt magical in the beginning—an organic kind of meeting, something that didn’t feel forced. But magic, I learned, doesn’t mean easy. As she once said, loving me was never the hardest part. It was the fear of not being accepted for loving me. The fear of being misunderstood for choosing me.

And I carry that truth with so much weight and gratitude.

Our story began with one word: reciprocate.

And when I finally chose to reciprocate, I did it with hesitation. Because to me, this kind of love was unfamiliar. It asked me to unlearn things, to go through processes I never thought I would have to face.

But loving her—loving her was never difficult.

She is the sweetest soul I know. The kind that laughs freely, that becomes the brightest version of herself when she’s with me. She cares deeply—sometimes too deeply—that it turns into arguments we didn’t expect. Our age gap, our differences, the way we see the world—it all collides sometimes.

And yet, she is always the one who softens first. The one who lowers her guard when everything burns too hot.

While I… I am still learning how to do that. I was raised to be strong, to hold my ground, to endure. And somewhere along the way, I forgot that love isn’t about winning—it’s about understanding.

One year of proving that our love is something we are both willing to endure. Something we are willing to grow into.

We celebrated quietly. Privately. No grand announcements—just us.

And then she surprised me.

A dinner she planned, something so thoughtful and intentional that I knew—it wasn’t something you do unless you truly love someone. I later found out she had been saving for months, holding back on things just to make that night happen.

It overwhelmed me in ways I couldn’t express out loud.

I wanted to say so much, but all I could do was sit there, holding back tears that were ready to fall at any second. Because in that moment, I felt a kind of love I knew I deserved—after everything I’ve been through, after all the waiting, all the healing.

It felt like peace.

A quiet kind of happiness where nothing else matters. Where the world softens, slows down, and it’s just two people choosing each other without noise, without chaos, without fear.

That night felt like a life I want to keep living.

A life where love is gentle. Where understanding comes easier. Where we don’t throw pain at each other, but instead hold space for it.

And I find myself wishing for more moments like that—

moments where the world is quiet, where everything feels calm,

just like the way our eyes met for five seconds in November 2024.