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Raw Drafts, Casanayan (2026)

08/07/2026

The Art of Letting Go.

Some people enter our lives quietly, almost by accident. Whether it was coincidence or fate, I'll never know.

There was a time when the nights felt heavier than the days. Daylight was loud enough to drown out my thoughts, but when silence arrived, I was left alone with them. During those nights, your presence—through simple words and quiet kindness—became enough to help me make it until morning.

You carried me through one of the hardest seasons of my life while quietly carrying your own.

I always wished I could give you the same comfort you gave me. Instead, I let fear and misunderstanding speak louder than honesty. Whenever things became difficult, I disappeared. I never meant for it to become a habit, but each time I left, I know it hurt you.

Months passed before I found the courage to ask,

"Are you here?"

Everything felt uncertain.

If you had chosen not to answer, I would have understood. Maybe I had already used every chance you had given me.

Yet...

You came.

We talked.

You asked me why.

Why now?

Why did I disappear when our last conversation seemed completely normal?

How could a misunderstanding turn into months of silence?
You poured out everything you had been carrying—your hurt, your disappointment, your confusion.

And I listened.

As you spoke, I realized that some things can never go back to the way they were.

There were questions I couldn't answer and feelings that had waited too long to be spoken. I apologized, but I also knew that some apologies come too late. Trust becomes fragile after being broken too many times.

Chances are not infinite.
Neither is trust.

Perhaps the kindest thing I can do now is to stop asking for another chance simply because I regret losing the ones I was already given.

Maybe I should return to what I've always known—making peace with pain.

Accepting it.

Living with it.

And quietly wishing happiness for the people I've hurt.
I hope you never have to carry the kind of pain I caused you.
I know what it feels like.
I grew up accepting things, even when they broke me.
I grew up learning to forgive, even without hearing an apology.
Time helped me move forward, but it never erased the scars.

Maybe healing was never about forgetting.

Maybe it was about carrying those scars without letting them harden my heart.

Maybe...

This is the art of letting go.

23/04/2026

𝗥𝗮𝘄 𝗗𝗿𝗮𝗳𝘁𝘀 004

𝗟𝗼𝘀𝘁 𝗶𝗻 𝘁𝗵𝗲 𝗦𝗲𝗮 𝗼𝗳 𝗟𝗶𝗳𝗲

______________

Graduation is often painted as a finish line—a moment of triumph, certainty, and new beginnings. But in reality, it feels less like arriving at a destination and more like being pushed into the middle of a vast, unfamiliar ocean.

To be honest, life after graduating feels like the beginning of what real life actually is. Every day, your mind races with possibilities—career paths, responsibilities, expectations. You think about the next steps, the grind, the future you’re supposed to build. But somehow, your body and heart don’t always cooperate. You feel stuck, floating, unsure which direction to sail...or swim.

There are mornings when getting out of bed feels like the hardest task. Nights become heavier, filled with quiet tears and lingering questions:

“𝘿𝙞𝙧𝙞 𝙣𝙖 𝙡𝙖𝙣𝙜 𝙠𝙤 𝙗𝙖𝙡𝙖 𝙖𝙨𝙩𝙖?”
(Is this all there is for me?)

“𝘼𝙣𝙤 𝙣𝙖 𝙖𝙠𝙪𝙣 𝙝𝙞𝙢𝙪𝙤𝙣 𝙠𝙖𝙮 𝙣𝙖𝙠𝙖 𝙜𝙧𝙖𝙙𝙪𝙖𝙩𝙚 𝙣𝙖’𝙠𝙤?”
(What am I supposed to do now that I’ve graduated?)

In this vast sea, you start noticing other people’s boats.

Your batchmates seem to be sailing smoothly, already charting their paths even before graduation. Some are reviewing for the boards. Others have flown to Manila, working in big firms. Some have even gone abroad, living what looks like their best lives.

And then there’s you—𝙖𝙙𝙧𝙞𝙛𝙩.

You have time, yet it feels wasted. You question yourself constantly. Instead of pride, you feel guilt creeping in:

“𝙏𝙖𝙗𝙞 𝙠𝙤 𝙠𝙖𝙮 𝙣𝙖𝙠𝙖𝙩𝙖𝙥𝙤𝙨 𝙣𝙖’𝙠𝙤, 𝙢𝙖𝙗𝙪𝙡𝙞𝙜𝙖𝙣 𝙠𝙤 𝙣𝙖 𝙖𝙠𝙪𝙣 𝙜𝙞𝙣𝙞𝙠𝙖𝙣𝙖𝙣… 𝙥𝙚𝙧𝙤 𝙣𝙜𝙖𝙢𝙖𝙣 𝙙𝙖𝙬 𝙢𝙖𝙨 𝙣𝙖𝙜𝙞𝙣𝙜 𝙥𝙖𝙗𝙞𝙜𝙖𝙩 𝙥𝙖 𝙜𝙙 𝙖𝙠𝙤 𝙜𝙖𝙣𝙞 𝙡𝙖𝙡𝙤?”
(I thought that once I graduated, I could help my parents… so why does it feel like I’ve become more of a burden instead?)

Then, eventually, you find work.

For a moment, it feels like relief—like finally catching a wave after struggling to stay afloat. You tell yourself, this is it. This is the beginning of everything you’ve been waiting for.

But as the days go by, something doesn’t sit right.

You wake up, go to work, follow a routine, earn your salary. On the outside, it looks like you’re moving forward. But inside, the same questions quietly return:

“𝙄𝙨 𝙩𝙝𝙞𝙨 𝙧𝙚𝙖𝙡𝙡𝙮 𝙬𝙝𝙚𝙧𝙚 𝙄’𝙢 𝙢𝙚𝙖𝙣𝙩 𝙩𝙤 𝙗𝙚?”
“𝘼𝙢 𝙄 𝙖𝙘𝙩𝙪𝙖𝙡𝙡𝙮 𝙜𝙚𝙩𝙩𝙞𝙣𝙜 𝙘𝙡𝙤𝙨𝙚𝙧 𝙩𝙤 𝙩𝙝𝙚 𝙡𝙞𝙛𝙚 𝙄 𝙞𝙢𝙖𝙜𝙞𝙣𝙚𝙙?”

Instead of feeling anchored, you begin to feel like you’re drifting even more.

It’s as if the current is carrying you somewhere—but not toward the place you once dreamed of reaching. You are moving, yes, but not necessarily in the direction you hoped for.

And that realization is just as heavy as being lost without a job.

The waves of comparison hit hard. The current of self-doubt pulls you deeper. And before you realize it, you’re no longer just lost—you’re struggling to understand where you truly belong.

But maybe… being lost in this sea is not the end of the story.

Maybe it’s part of learning how to navigate.

Because the truth is, not everyone sails at the same time. Some people have maps early on, while others have to draw their own along the way. Some ride fast currents, while others drift longer—but drifting is not the same as failing.

Sometimes, the sea teaches you things that calm shores never could.

It teaches you 𝗽𝗮𝘁𝗶𝗲𝗻𝗰𝗲—because not everything happens when you want it to.

It teaches you 𝗿𝗲𝘀𝗶𝗹𝗶𝗲𝗻𝗰𝗲—because staying afloat is already a quiet victory.

It teaches you 𝘀𝗲𝗹𝗳-𝗱𝗶𝘀𝗰𝗼𝘃𝗲𝗿𝘆—because in the absence of direction, you begin to ask who you really are and what you truly want.

𝘼𝙣𝙙 𝙢𝙖𝙮𝙗𝙚, 𝙟𝙪𝙨𝙩 𝙢𝙖𝙮𝙗𝙚, 𝙩𝙝𝙞𝙨 𝙥𝙝𝙖𝙨𝙚 𝙤𝙛 𝙛𝙚𝙚𝙡𝙞𝙣𝙜 𝙡𝙤𝙨𝙩 𝙞𝙨 𝙬𝙝𝙚𝙧𝙚 𝙮𝙤𝙪 𝙨𝙩𝙖𝙧𝙩 𝙗𝙚𝙘𝙤𝙢𝙞𝙣𝙜 𝙛𝙤𝙪𝙣𝙙.

20/04/2026

𝐑𝐚𝐰 𝐃𝐫𝐚𝐟𝐭 003

𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐓𝐢𝐝𝐞 𝐓𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐓𝐚𝐮𝐠𝐡𝐭 𝐌𝐞 𝐭𝐨 𝐒𝐰𝐢𝐦
_______

"𝙄 𝙬𝙖𝙨 𝙤𝙣𝙡𝙮 𝙨𝙞𝙭 𝙬𝙝𝙚𝙣 𝙩𝙝𝙚 𝙨𝙞𝙧𝙚𝙣𝙨 𝙩𝙤𝙤𝙠 𝙩𝙝𝙚 𝙨𝙞𝙡𝙚𝙣𝙘𝙚 𝙖𝙣𝙙 𝙧𝙚𝙥𝙡𝙖𝙘𝙚𝙙 𝙞𝙩 𝙬𝙞𝙩𝙝 𝙖 𝙝𝙤𝙡𝙡𝙤𝙬 𝙨𝙥𝙖𝙘𝙚 𝙩𝙝𝙖𝙩 𝙬𝙤𝙪𝙡𝙙 𝙩𝙖𝙠𝙚 𝙛𝙤𝙪𝙧𝙩𝙚𝙚𝙣 𝙮𝙚𝙖𝙧𝙨 𝙩𝙤 𝙛𝙞𝙡𝙡."

______

For fourteen years, I would always wake up in the morning feeling that something was missing.

It began as a hollow space in the house—an echo that lingered after the night the sirens came wailing. I remember the chaos: being hurried into the middle of the fields, running through the dark where there was nothing but the moonlight to guide our way.

I was too young to understand the weight of why we were running.
When morning came, I did what was normal. I prepared for school. I was used to a quiet house, knowing my parents had already left for the port to buy the fish we would sell. Despite the confusion of the night before, I picked up my bag and went to class.

The world felt the same until I started the walk home.

Near the old native coffee shop, the atmosphere shifted. I noticed the stares—heavy looks of pity and curiosity. The silence was broken by a man’s voice, cold and blunt: “𝗬𝗼𝘂 𝗻𝗼𝘄 𝗱𝗼𝗻’𝘁 𝗵𝗮𝘃𝗲 𝗮 𝗳𝗮𝘁𝗵𝗲𝗿.”

I rushed to my mother at her stall. “𝗠𝗮, 𝗱𝗶𝗶𝗻 𝘀𝗶 𝗣𝗮𝗽𝗮?” She hesitated before answering: “𝗪𝗮𝗹𝗮 𝗻𝗮. 𝗚𝗶𝗻𝗸𝘂𝗵𝗮 𝗻𝗮 𝘀𝘆𝗮 𝘀𝗮𝗻𝗴 𝗽𝘂𝗹𝗶𝘀.”

The realization hit me like a physical blow. Last night wasn’t a nightmare; it was real. I ran home crying, mourning the man who, only twenty-four hours ago, was my hero. Just the day before, my older sister and I were playing at the beach, screaming for him to save us from the rising tide and the violet jellyfish. He was the hero who could cross any tide. Now, a door had closed that no hero could walk through.

Days turned into years. The house stayed hollow. I buried the loneliness deep. In school, my classmates knew my stories would always be about him—about how much I missed him.

Life moved on; Mom found a new partner, but that relationship became its own kind of nightmare. Through it all, I carried that six-year-old girl inside me, rehearsing the words I’d say if he ever walked back through the door.

But time is a relentless teacher.

From six to twenty, I had to learn the things a father usually teaches. I didn't have a pillar, so I became one. I learned to sell fish so well that customers called me a "pro" despite my young age. I balanced heavy modules with even heavier responsibilities. Each year was a brick in the foundation of my independence. I stopped "waiting" and started "doing."

Now, I'm twenty-two and the ghost has fully returned too—free of restrictions. He is with Mom again, helping out. But the reunion didn't feel like the movies. The girl starving for affection had been replaced by a woman who had already fed herself. I had survived the hardest chapters—the graduations, the long nights—while he was separated from us.

Watching him in the audience at my college graduation, I felt peace. I wasn't angry for the fourteen years he missed; I was proud that I didn't let his absence break me. I didn't need him to "complete" me. I had reached the finish line on my own two feet.

I welcomed him back, not as a savior, but as a guest in the life I worked so hard to build. The "missing" feeling is gone—not because he returned, but because I realized that as long as I have myself, I am fine.

____________________

𝐓𝐨 𝐦𝐲 𝐟𝐚𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐫: 𝘛𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘴𝘵𝘰𝘳𝘺 𝘮𝘦𝘢𝘯𝘴 𝘯𝘰 𝘩𝘢𝘳𝘮 𝘵𝘰 𝘺𝘰𝘶. 𝘐 𝘢𝘮 𝘴𝘰𝘳𝘳𝘺 𝘪𝘧 𝘐 𝘧𝘢𝘪𝘭 𝘵𝘰 𝘣𝘦 𝘺𝘰𝘶𝘳 "𝘗𝘢𝘱𝘢’𝘴 𝘨𝘪𝘳𝘭" 𝘢𝘯𝘺𝘮𝘰𝘳𝘦. 𝘐 𝘢𝘮 𝘯𝘰𝘵 𝘥𝘦𝘨𝘳𝘢𝘥𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘰𝘳 𝘨𝘪𝘷𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘱𝘦𝘰𝘱𝘭𝘦 𝘢 𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘴𝘰𝘯 𝘵𝘰 𝘭𝘰𝘰𝘬 𝘥𝘰𝘸𝘯 𝘰𝘯 𝘺𝘰𝘶. 𝘛𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘪𝘴 𝘴𝘪𝘮𝘱𝘭𝘺 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘵𝘳𝘶𝘵𝘩 𝘰𝘧 𝘩𝘰𝘸 𝘐 𝘧𝘦𝘭𝘵 𝘧𝘰𝘳 𝘢𝘭𝘭 𝘵𝘩𝘰𝘴𝘦 𝘺𝘦𝘢𝘳𝘴. 𝘐 𝘢𝘮 𝘴𝘵𝘪𝘭𝘭 𝘺𝘰𝘶𝘳 𝘥𝘢𝘶𝘨𝘩𝘵𝘦𝘳. 𝘠𝘦𝘢𝘳𝘴 𝘢𝘨𝘰, 𝘐 𝘸𝘳𝘰𝘵𝘦 𝘢 𝘴𝘵𝘰𝘳𝘺 𝘦𝘯𝘵𝘪𝘵𝘭𝘦𝘥 "𝘊𝘳𝘢𝘷𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘧𝘰𝘳 𝘢 𝘍𝘢𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘳’𝘴 𝘓𝘰𝘷𝘦." 𝘛𝘰𝘥𝘢𝘺, 𝘐 𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘭𝘪𝘻𝘦 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘤𝘳𝘢𝘷𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘸𝘢𝘴 𝘴𝘢𝘵𝘪𝘴𝘧𝘪𝘦𝘥 𝘢𝘭𝘭 𝘢𝘭𝘰𝘯𝘨—𝘯𝘰𝘵 𝘣𝘺 𝘺𝘰𝘶𝘳 𝘳𝘦𝘵𝘶𝘳𝘯, 𝘣𝘶𝘵 𝘣𝘺 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘴𝘵𝘳𝘦𝘯𝘨𝘵𝘩 𝘐 𝘧𝘰𝘶𝘯𝘥 𝘪𝘯 𝘺𝘰𝘶𝘳 𝘢𝘣𝘴𝘦𝘯𝘤𝘦. 𝘐 𝘢𝘮 𝘢 𝘧𝘶𝘭𝘭-𝘨𝘳𝘰𝘸𝘯, 𝘪𝘯𝘥𝘦𝘱𝘦𝘯𝘥𝘦𝘯𝘵 𝘭𝘢𝘥𝘺 𝘯𝘰𝘸. 𝘐 𝘢𝘮 𝘰𝘬𝘢𝘺. 𝘛𝘢𝘬𝘦 𝘤𝘢𝘳𝘦 𝘢𝘭𝘸𝘢𝘺𝘴 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘯𝘬 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘧𝘰𝘳 𝘣𝘦𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘳𝘦 𝘧𝘰𝘳 𝘮𝘢𝘮𝘢.
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Photo is from pinterest.

17/04/2026

𝗜 𝗦𝘁𝗮𝗿𝘃𝗲𝗱 𝗠𝘆𝘀𝗲𝗹𝗳 𝗝𝘂𝘀𝘁 𝗧𝗼 𝗙𝗶𝘁 𝗜𝗻𝘁𝗼 𝗦𝗼𝗰𝗶𝗲𝘁𝘆'𝘀 𝗦𝘁𝗮𝗻𝗱𝗮𝗿𝗱𝘀 𝗢𝗳 𝗕𝗲𝗶𝗻𝗴 '𝗦𝗲𝘅𝘆'

𝗥𝗮𝘄 𝗗𝗿𝗮𝗳𝘁𝘀 002: 𝗧𝗵𝗲 𝗪𝗲𝗶𝗴𝗵𝘁 𝗼𝗳 𝗪𝗵𝗶𝘀𝗽𝗲𝗿𝘀

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“𝙄 𝙨𝙥𝙚𝙣𝙩 𝙨𝙤 𝙢𝙪𝙘𝙝 𝙩𝙞𝙢𝙚 𝙘𝙤𝙪𝙣𝙩𝙞𝙣𝙜 𝙘𝙖𝙡𝙤𝙧𝙞𝙚𝙨 𝙩𝙝𝙖𝙩 𝙄 𝙛𝙤𝙧𝙜𝙤𝙩 𝙩𝙤 𝙘𝙤𝙪𝙣𝙩 𝙩𝙝𝙚 𝙢𝙤𝙢𝙚𝙣𝙩𝙨 𝙤𝙛 𝙟𝙤𝙮 𝙄 𝙬𝙖𝙨 𝙢𝙞𝙨𝙨𝙞𝙣𝙜 𝙗𝙚𝙘𝙖𝙪𝙨𝙚 𝙄 𝙬𝙖𝙨 𝙨𝙤 𝙛𝙤𝙘𝙪𝙨𝙚𝙙 𝙤𝙣 𝙗𝙚𝙞𝙣𝙜 ‘𝙡𝙚𝙨𝙨' 𝙩𝙝𝙖𝙩 𝙄 𝙖𝙡𝙢𝙤𝙨𝙩 𝙗𝙚𝙘𝙖𝙢𝙚 𝙣𝙤𝙩𝙝𝙞𝙣𝙜 𝙖𝙩 𝙖𝙡𝙡.”
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I used to think my worth was something that could be measured in inches and lost in pounds.

In 2024, I was at my heaviest weight. I was a college student, drowning in the pressure of my studies and the constant anxiety of survival. There were weeks when I’d look at the 500 pesos in my wallet and have to calculate how to stay alive until Sunday. I wanted to make "healthier" choices, but when you're in survival mode, you choose what you can afford. I was doing my best just to keep my head above water.

But people don't see the struggle; they only see the surface. They are so quick to run their mouths without considering the damage they leave behind. The finger pointed at my waist. The whispered, "𝗛𝗮𝗹𝗮, 𝗱𝗮𝘄 𝗴𝗮𝘁𝗶𝗻𝗮𝗺𝗯𝗼𝗸 𝗸𝗮 𝗻𝗮 𝗯𝗮𝗹𝗮.” (You're getting bigger, aren't you? ). The "advice" to wear black to look small or oversized clothes to hide my rolls.

I became a very good liar back then. I told everyone I wanted to shred the weight "for my health." I smiled and nodded when they praised my "discipline." But deep down, it wasn't about health at all. Little did they know, it was because their words had become my greatest nightmare. I wasn't running toward fitness; I was running away from the shame they forced me to feel. I just wanted to fit in.

I tried to disappear. For three agonizing weeks, I treated rice (my cheap, faithful lifeline) as my greatest enemy. My existence shrunk down to a single bowl of watery soup and the shaky, bitter high of black coffee. I thought the dizziness was willpower. I thought the hollow, gnawing ache in my stomach was the sound of winning.

But as the weight fell away, the most terrifying thing happened. I was shrinking, but I wasn't happy. I was becoming the silhouette society wanted, but I was dying inside to maintain it.

I have finally let go of the "why" that was killing me. I am dropping the burden of trying to "fit in" because I realized that no matter how small I got, it would never be enough for a world that profits from my self-hatred.

I may still be on a journey to lose weight, but the heart behind it has shifted. I am no longer punishing the woman I am to become the woman I think I should be. I am moving because I love my body, not because I hate it. I am choosing health because I deserve to be happy, and I am choosing strength because I want to be confident.

I have learned that I cannot hate myself into a version of myself that I will love. I’ve learned that being "sexy" isn't a measurement of a slim figure. It is the fire of a woman who is empowered, independent, and finally at peace with her reflection.

I am done starving for a seat at a table that doesn't care if I'm alive.

"Raw Drafts" is my confession: I’m trading the "small" look for a happy, free, and contented life. I am finally coming home to myself—not as a ghost, but as a masterpiece. And for the first time, I’m not hungry for their approval. I’m full of my own.

Photo from pinterest.

16/04/2026

𝗥𝗮𝘄 𝗗𝗿𝗮𝗳𝘁𝘀 001.

𝗧𝗜𝗧𝗟𝗘: 𝗧𝗵𝗲 𝗛𝗼𝗻𝗼𝗿 𝗠𝘆 𝗠𝗼𝘁𝗵𝗲𝗿 𝗖𝗼𝘂𝗹𝗱𝗻'𝘁 𝗔𝗳𝗳𝗼𝗿𝗱 𝘁𝗼 𝗔𝘁𝘁𝗲𝗻𝗱—𝗔𝗻 𝗘𝗰𝗵𝗼 𝗧𝗵𝗮𝘁 𝗛𝗮𝘂𝗻𝘁𝗲𝗱 𝗠𝘆 𝗘𝘃𝗲𝗿𝘆 𝗪𝗮𝗹𝗸.

(Featuring my graduation experience)

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"𝙈𝙮 𝙢𝙤𝙩𝙝𝙚𝙧’𝙨 𝙝𝙖𝙣𝙙𝙨 𝙬𝙚𝙧𝙚 𝙘𝙤𝙫𝙚𝙧𝙚𝙙 𝙞𝙣 𝙛𝙞𝙨𝙝 𝙨𝙘𝙖𝙡𝙚𝙨 𝙨𝙤 𝙩𝙝𝙖𝙩 𝙢𝙞𝙣𝙚 𝙘𝙤𝙪𝙡𝙙 𝙝𝙤𝙡𝙙 𝙖 𝙙𝙞𝙥𝙡𝙤𝙢𝙖. 𝙒𝙚 𝙗𝙤𝙩𝙝 𝙥𝙖𝙞𝙙 𝙖 𝙥𝙧𝙞𝙘𝙚 𝙛𝙤𝙧 𝙢𝙮 𝙢𝙚𝙙𝙖𝙡𝙨—𝙨𝙝𝙚 𝙜𝙖𝙫𝙚 𝙪𝙥 𝙩𝙝𝙚 𝙘𝙚𝙧𝙚𝙢𝙤𝙣𝙮, 𝙖𝙣𝙙 𝙄 𝙜𝙖𝙫𝙚 𝙪𝙥 𝙩𝙝𝙚 𝙘𝙤𝙢𝙥𝙖𝙣𝙮."

[LINGERING THOUGHT: DID I SMELL FISHY WHEN I RECEIVED MY AWARD?]
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Recognition Day, 2021. We were still in the thick of the pandemic when the notification flashed in our group chat: we would receive our awards in person, following strict protocols.

I ran outside, heart racing with excitement, to find my mother resting on the wooden sofa near our fish stall. “𝗠𝗮, 𝗺𝗮𝗽𝗮 𝗲𝘀𝗸𝘄𝗲𝗹𝗮𝗵𝗮𝗻 𝘁𝗮 𝗺𝗮 𝗸𝗮𝘆 𝗺𝗮𝘆 𝗿𝗲𝗰𝗼𝗴𝗻𝗶𝘁𝗶𝗼𝗻 𝗸𝗮𝗺𝗶. 𝗠𝗮 𝗿𝗲𝗰𝗲𝗶𝘃𝗲 𝗸𝗮𝗺𝗶 𝘀𝗮𝗺𝘂𝗻 𝗺𝗲𝗱𝗮𝗹 𝗸𝗮𝗴 𝗰𝗲𝗿𝘁𝗶𝗳𝗶𝗰𝗮𝘁𝗲.” For a split second, I saw it—a flash of pure pride in her eyes. But it was cut short. Her partner at the time interrupted: “𝗠𝗮 𝗹𝗶𝗯𝗼𝗱 𝗮𝗸𝗼 𝗶𝘀𝗱𝗮, 𝗮𝗹𝗮 𝘂𝗻𝗮 𝘆 𝗺𝗲𝗱𝘆𝗮 𝗼 𝗮𝗹𝗮𝘀 𝗱𝗼𝘀 𝗺𝗮𝗽𝘂𝘁𝗼𝘀 𝗻𝗮 𝗸𝗶𝘁𝗮.” (I'm going out to sell fish; by 1:30 or 2:00, we need to have them packed.)

My heart ached. It was a specific, hollow pain that I can still feel whenever I look back. I looked at my mother, hoping she would stand up for me, but she simply agreed. “𝗗𝗮𝗺𝗼 𝗽𝗮 𝘁𝗮 𝗶𝘀𝗱𝗮 𝗻𝗴𝗮 𝗻𝗮𝗯𝗶𝗹𝗶𝗻, 𝗸𝗶𝗻𝗮𝗻𝗴𝗹𝗮𝗻 𝗶𝗹𝗶𝗯𝗼𝗱.” (We still have so much fish left; they need to be sold.)

Disappointed, I felt my excitement drain away. Instead of getting ready for my big moment, I spent the afternoon packing fish into the "Pot-Pot" sidecar. As the clock ticked, I moved with a frantic pace, desperate to change into my uniform and get to school.

I went, but I received my award alone.

Masking the pain, I remember thinking: “Mas importante pa gali ya ang malibod ang isda kaysa sa pagsuksok sang akun nga medal.” (Selling fish is more important than me wearing my medal.) It felt like a cruel déjà vu of my elementary graduation, where only my aunt stood on stage to pin my ribbon. I wondered then if my mother stayed away because I wasn't "Rank 1," Or she is blaming herself—thinking I could have achieved more if she was able to support me more both emotionally and financially?

Class Salutatorian in Elementary because I lack participation in extracurricular activities. Highschool, I graduated With High Honors but not as the Rank 1, as during our modular/blended learning, I was selling fish while working on my modules. Sometimes, I submit my homeworks late, sometimes I can't join in the class or I couldn't focus on the lessons because I was too busy persuading customers to buy the fish that we are selling.

This lingering thought always come: "Were my modules smells like fish that time? Did I smell fishy when I received my award? Because I even saw scales on my arms.

But I can’t blame the fish, and I can’t blame my mother. Those fish were the reason we survived. They were the reason I could finish my studies at all. We lived a hard life, but I was lucky enough to have the privilege of an education.

The fear followed me into college. Even as I sat through my final lectures, a familiar anxiety hummed in the back of my mind—a ghost from 2021. I kept bracing myself for the "Pot-Pot" to call her away again. I kept rehearsing the feeling of standing on a stage alone, masking the ache with a practiced smile. I wondered if, once again, survival would demand her absence.

But as the day of my college graduation arrived, the air felt different.

For the first time in my life, there was no rush to pack fish before the ceremony. There was no "1:30 PM deadline" looming over my head. I looked down at my arms—they were clean. No silver scales, no scent of the market. Just the crisp fabric of my gown and the weight of a goal finally reached.

The greatest honor, however, wasn't the diploma in my hand; it was the view from the stage.

As I looked into the crowd, the empty seat I had feared for fourteen years was finally filled. My mother was there—not just in spirit, but in person, her hands resting not on a fish basket, but on her lap, waiting to applaud. And beside her stood my father. After nearly fourteen years of absence, the man who had been a ghost in my childhood was now a witness to my success.

I realized then that I wasn't just parading for myself. I was walking for the girl who smelled of fish in high school. I was walking for the mother who traded her presence for our survival. And I was walking for the family that was finally, against all odds, whole.

The "solo parader" was gone. I stepped forward, not in a rush, not in hiding—but fully seen.

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