16/08/2026
๐๐๐บ๐ฎ๐ป ๐๐ป๐๐ฒ๐ฟ๐ฒ๐๐ | ๐๐น๐น๐๐๐ถ๐ผ๐ป ๐ผ๐ณ ๐ง๐ต๐ฒ ๐๐๐ฟ๐ฒ; ๐ง๐ต๐ฒ ๐ฎ๐ฟ๐ ๐ผ๐ณ ๐บ๐ฒ๐ป๐ฑ๐ถ๐ป๐ด ๐๐ต๐ฎ๐ ๐น๐ผ๐๐ฒ ๐ฎ๐น๐ผ๐ป๐ฒ ๐ฐ๐ฎ๐ป๐ป๐ผ๐
All my life, I followed a certain and silent principle from a quotation I saw long ago said by Mother Theresa at a young ageโโSpread love everywhere you go. Let no one ever come to you without leaving happier.โ It has long been engraved in me, my mind, my nature, my whole personality even, that kindness, empathy, and specifically, loveโcan all mend what is broken.
Everytime I awake, I would often stare at the ceiling where I am under, mind in shambles, eyes heavy of sleep and worry, long enough for me to internally map out what I should do throughout the dayโwith every intention to be of help, and be present to the people with a mask glued on their faceโa facade so hard to see through, a smile so vague, I could not decipher it.
And I am, and was, conscious of how it was recklessly selfless.
As time goes by, it is inevitable, and painfully obvious that everyone carries an invisible weight on their shoulders, be it light or heavy at the moment, hence, why I was hyper-aware of that fact since I was in first grade, that even my homeroom teacher, Maสผam Shie, by that time, was constantly worried by how much I was handing out my hand so easily to, that I might get taken advantage of, that I might be deceived by how much I was giving, and how naive I seemโand I was still incapable of grasping what she meant that time, I was seven. I was happy helping.
I grew up believing that my future should be as light as the sun rays, that I should be more helpful, kinder, as if my presence itself screams home and comfortโmore than the shadows in our so-called home, because the thought of not being able to save them from their own darkness, from the poison of it, terrified me, so as much as I could, at seven, I tried my best to suck out what I believe is poisoning them, not realizing what it could do to me.
I believed that healing has its own face, a voice, enough to lull someone, a heartbeat that beats differently than mineโmeant to save someone.
Not until I heard Olivia Rodrigoสผs, โThe Cure,โ which I came across to while doom-scrolling on a random Saturday night.
It poetically, even excruciatingly, challenges the belief of how love can rescue a person falling apart, choking in the depth of their own poison. It did not dismiss love, but it also did not present that love, can untangle the self-doubt and ache that has taken root in our bloodstream itself.
โBut it donสผt matter how your love feels anymore,
Itสผll never be the cure.โ
At first, it did not dawn on me immediately, that love alone will never be the cure to a corrupted soul, covered in thorns and tears, scars and doubt. Ever since I was able to consciously predetermine how my life should go onโit already revolved in saving oneสผs torn being, solely because it pains me that a person could go through their own storm, and still someone will look at them shamefully, noticing the changes in their demeanor, thinking that they are going through a phase meant to easily end, outlooking possible factors. But I did not think so.
โI thought I found the antidote in you.โ
I do not know how many times I tried to reach out to oneสผs hand, hand that sought for help as they drown, not second-guessing whether I am to drown with them or to triumphantly pull them up.
Once, I tried to fix a broken home, as everything was falling apart in pieces, anchoring an abode meant to nurture and embrace me, when I too, was hoping to be anchored, instead, took charge of ensuring it from its destruction. It kept me up at night, wondering where I should put myself into the mess I set foot to, because even as I grew old, I still could not save the shadows I have been trying to save since I was seven, it darkened more.
It did not stop there, I attempted to rescue someoneสผs heart full of toxin and doubt, striving to erase the consuming thought of being unworthy, hoping that choosing them will undermine the gnawing loneliness and not being enough in them. I thought it was working. I thought. Reassurance made them comforted. The love seemed like the last piece to an incomplete puzzle in their life, curing them.
Until it is not anymore.
Was it even in the first place?
As I aspire to save my loved ones, it made me wept, question where I went wrong, worry about my purpose, as I swallow the pill of truth, momentarily sticking down my throat, rubbing it on my faceโlove failed, not because it is not sufficient enough to save someoneโbut because it is not meant to carry the weight of healing alone. When the world feels unbearable, when everyone seems to have pointed their swords to our throat, the comfort of love cannot unravel recovery. It cannot fully rewrite someoneสผs present and their perception about themselves.
Healing asks for something beyond I can give, as I could not extract the toxin out of them.
It was to let them face their own shadows, parts that they hide from everyone else.
Reality is far less gentler than I thought it was.
Perhaps, that is why โThe Cureโ resonates deeply, it shows the intangible, the uncomfortable truth that healing is profoundly personal. Love can accompany someone through it, but it is not what will complete it for us.
That realization was perhaps not blinding, it was freeing.
That I, weโwe cannot be the cure to their internal sickness. Growth is not something someone can measure just by how quickly a pain disappears, how someone could fill the void momentarilyโand that becoming whole cannot be handed out by another being.
It begins on their own.
โ๏ธ | Marielle Beralde
๐ป | Kurt Alzate
