Laura in Montreal

08/18/2025

08/07/2025

🌱 🪴 😂

08/07/2025

Peace is when the things that used to disturb your serenity no longer have the power to ruffle your feathers. It’s when you can gaze at the same situation, the same person, or the same memory—and feel nothing but profound tranquility. That quiet detachment isn’t apathy; it’s crystal clarity. It means you’ve navigated the turbulent storm, and now, it no longer shakes you to your core like it once did. There’s a certain liberation in no longer being triggered by what once wounded you. You’ve transcended the chaos, the overthinking, the need to mend what was never yours to carry. That’s peace—not pretending things never mattered, but knowing they no longer dictate your emotional world. When it stops bothering you like it used to, you know you've discovered the inner strength to truly move forward.

08/07/2025

The Worn-Out Wallet: Tatay’s Hidden Sacrifice

It may look like just an old, torn wallet—faded, stitched over again and again, corners already peeling. But for many Filipino children, this worn-out item holds something deeper: the love and silent sacrifices of a father. Tatay may never say much, but he always makes sure there's something inside that fragile wallet—coins for your baon, enough to get you through the day.

Even when money was tight, somehow he managed to slip a small amount into your pocket. You didn’t see the nights he skipped meals or the times he walked instead of riding a jeepney, just to save a few pesos. He always put your needs first, hiding his struggles behind a tired smile and a humble leather pouch he never thought of replacing.

This wallet may not look like much, but it has carried years of quiet sacrifices—bills paid with sweat, coins earned from long hours under the sun, and dreams wrapped in humility. For every child who never went hungry because of it, that wallet was more than an accessory—it was a symbol of a father’s unconditional love.

08/06/2025

👵🏼 Mrs. Mary spent more than three years sitting on the same bench at the Central Bus Station in Puebla — the place where her children left her, saying “We’ll be back soon.” And she believed them. 💔
She never moved. That bench became her home — not out of need, but out of hope. 🪑💭
She slept leaning against the wall. Ate when kind strangers offered her a piece of bread 🥖, a blanket 🧣, or just a gentle smile 😊.
Sometimes she sang 🎶. Sometimes she spoke with people who asked why she was there. And always, her answer was the same:
“My children are coming.” 🕊️

DIF tried to help — they wanted to take her to a shelter. But she refused.
“I can’t leave,” she whispered. “They’ll come for me.” 🚫🏠
And so, days turned into months. Months into years. Years into silence.

Until one Thursday, her fragile body gave in. At 80 years old, Mrs. Mary passed away… on that same bench where she had once deposited her faith. 🕯️
There were no embraces at the end. No children. No goodbyes.
Only the eyes of strangers who had come to care — not by blood, but by compassion. 🤍

Mrs. Mary didn’t die of cold ❄️.
Or hunger 🍂.
She died of abandonment. Of hope slowly slipping away, day by day… waiting for people who never came back. ⏳💔

This story isn’t to judge. It’s to remember. 🫶
To never leave someone waiting on a bench again.
To call. To show up. To keep our promises — while they can still be heard.
Because sometimes, it’s not time or illness that ends a life…
It’s the ache of a heart that waited too long. 🪷