I’m 27—but I feel like I’ve already lived sixty years.

Not because life has been gentle. But because life hit me—hard, fast, and without warning. I didn’t grow up—I was launched into chaos. I didn't learn—I survived.

People see me and say, “You’re lucky.”Lucky? That I made it out alive? That I smile now? That I look composed while standing on rubble I rebuilt myself?

Let me walk you through my life. Maybe then you’ll understand why I don’t take excuses lightly. Why I demand more—not just from others, but from myself.

My Childhood Wasn’t One

My mother left me at 3 months old—to be raised by my grandmother.
No breastfeeding, no warm arms. (No wonder - lactose-intollerance)
I was just another child in the background—birthdays forgotten, milestones ignored. First communion? Graduation? Dean’s List? No cheers, no celebration.
My home wasn’t home—it was a war zone. Physical and mental abuse weren’t punishments—they were lifestyle.
And this wasn’t the belt kind.I’m talking punches, strangling, knives, screwdrivers, guns. Yes, guns.
Our basement turned into a casino. Imagine growing up in that?Surrounded by drunk, older men throwing cards and throwing glances at me—a teenage girl just trying to exist. I got used to rejecting sexual advances from men twice my age.
And when I escaped physical danger, I ran into psychological danger –narcissistic parent. It's the kind of harm that is harder to identify, harder to name, harder to prove, and harder to escape.

Faith? I Grieved That Too

I used to be a church girl. Active. Believing. Hoping.
Until faith became another thing I lost.
Grief isn’t always death. Sometimes it’s waking up and realizing the thing that gave you hope… doesn't anymore.

Men? I Was Always the One Who Lost

Cheated on. Again. Again. And again.
I begged, knelt, pleaded—just to feel wanted.
Labeled a slut for having male friends.
Was the “other woman” more than once—knowingly and unknowingly. Still, I carried that shame.
I even carried the shame of, "maybe I wasn't firm when I said NO", even when the harassment wasn't my fault.
I tried being the heartbroken one.I tried being the heartbreaker.I even tried being the one who only cared about satisfying bodily needs. And yet somehow, all of it still hurt.

My Body? My Enemy.

They told me I was fat and ugly until I believed it.
Developed bulimia, body dysmorphia.
I tried the gym, I tried “loving myself.” Nothing worked because I didn’t know what “love” looked like—not from others, not from myself.
I hated my skin, my face, my entire reflection.

My Lost Loves: Art & Music

I used to dance professionally—felt most alive on stage. But I stopped. Got stuck in a chair, lost my rhythm, lost my art.
My voice? Damaged. Can’t sing like I used to.Something inside me broke the day I realized that.

My Career? A Cycle of Overwork and Betrayal

Underpaid. Overworked. Repeatedly passed over for promotions I was promised.
Felt like I was screaming into a void every time I tried to figure out what I wanted.
Chose the wrong course in school. Cried for days.
Burnout as hell, anxiety, panic attacks.

And Still, I Did It Anyway

I earned two diplomas—Tourism and Software Engineering. Funded by me. One through full scholarships, the other through grit.
I bought land. My money. My name. My future.
I moved out at 23—navigated rent, police, legal rights, shitty landlords, bed bugs infestations.
All while raising my 16-year-old sister and taking care of our dog. Not babysitting. Parenting.

Parenthood Before Adulthood

When I left home, my mother cut ties.
That meant raising my sister alone—with no guidance, no manual.
I learned how to discipline without harming, how to listen without enabling, how to hold space and set boundaries.
And let me be clear—none of this was my responsibility.
This wasn’t the result of some reckless mistake. It wasn’t a teenage pregnancy.
It was a consequence of circumstance I didn’t choose—and a love so deep, so fierce, I chose to step up anyway.
I've been doing that since I was 10 years old.
And still, the one person I stayed alive for? - betrayed me.

Life is brutal like that.

"To the sister who will never know"

You will never know the days and nights I forced myself to sleep, not out of rest, but to escape the weight of worry that never left me.

You will never know how I cooked meals and sat beside you, chewing through the ache in my throat, just so you wouldn’t have to eat alone.

You will never know the jobs I endured, the exhaustion I swallowed whole, just to give you the stability I never had—to give you the things I thought you deserved.

You will never know how many times I held back words sharp enough to shatter you, because I understood too well how easily a person breaks when the world never taught them how to hold themselves together.

You will never know how hard I pushed myself, how desperately I tried to be better, not just for me, but for you—so you could have someone to look up to, so you wouldn’t feel as lost as I did.

You will never know that in every version of my dreams, you are always there—woven into every hope, every future I dared to imagine.

You will never know how many times I said yes when my heart was screaming no, simply because it was you asking.

You will never know that I loved you more than I ever loved myself.

And maybe that was the problem.

Financial Hell

I know what -$500 in your bank account feels like.
I’ve had court orders for unpaid debts.
Couldn’t go to work because I didn’t have $2 for fare.
Skipped meals. Piled debt. No help. No backup.
I’ve been on the edge of homelessness - not just me, but my sister and Izumi.

But Here’s What You Never Saw

I never used any of it as an excuse.
I never disappeared.
I never played the victim card.

I showed up—every day. Problem hits? I problem-solve. Cry? Sure. But then I act. Hide? Never.

I face it all—raw, cold, and unfiltered.

piece I wrote when I was hurting so bad...

"Invisible Scars"

The slash on their wrist should tell their pain.

Their piercings and tattoos, inked a story on their skin.

The shattered things should show you the anger within them.

Hospital visits count the times they've thrown themselves against the wall.

The physical weight they carry should tell you how much they drank to forget.

Their eyes should tell you how high they get just to escape themselves.

But me?

No ink, no scars, no shattered glass.

Just a girl who never strayed, yet carries the same pain.

I wanted to tell someone how hard it is.

But what do I show, when mine is clean?

No proof.

And, how can I say that I am in pain?

When words won't come out.

So When You Say “Easy for You to Say”

I laugh. Not because it’s funny—but because I earned this life. Every smile, every insight, every damn piece of peace I have—I bled for it.

This version of me? The warmth, the clarity, the stability, the strength? I fought for her. Through grief, confusion, debt, abuse, loneliness, betrayal.

I buried many versions of me to become this one.

So if you see me and think, “She has it together,”Just know: I didn’t “get it.” I built it. And I’m still building—from scratch, every damn day.

So when you see me with this so-called “delusion”—that I will make something extraordinary out of this so-called unrealistic goal—understand this:

I’ve never seen clearer. My clarity is crystal.

Because I’ve walked through storms that tried to drown me in doubt. Because I’ve made things work when everyone said I couldn’t. I’ve moved mountains when all I had was my bare hands and no map.

When you see me grounded, soft, at peace—don’t mistake that for a performative glow-up. It's not a filter. It’s not a phase.

That peace is earned.
It’s built from years of isolation,
conversations with a ceiling that never spoke back,
and battles fought without a single witness.

When you see me loving my body—
understand the war it took to get here.
This isn’t vanity.
This is sacred appreciation for the vessel that carried me
through trauma, insomnia, starvation, breakdowns, panic attacks, relapses.
This body didn’t start at zero—it started at minus everything.
I’ve been bloated, broken, breathless—and I still showed up.
So don’t mansplain me nutrition.
Don’t patronize me with your 6-week abs program.
I’ve done the science. I’ve lived the pain.
And what you call a “thirst trap” is really a love letter to the body that never gave up on me.

When you see how damn clear I am about my life path—
career, calling, content, cause—
know it’s not luck. It’s not vibe.
It’s intentional.
Built from years of reflection, reading, ruthless self-inquiry.
I studied how to survive in a world that profits off confusion.
I hacked the matrix of capitalism and found my way to my Ikigai.

When you hear me speak about spirituality,
don’t box me in with New Age hashtags.
I am not performing enlightenment.
I grieved my God.
I burned my beliefs to the ground.
I had to crawl through religious shame and false doctrines
before I could even whisper “Divine” without choking.
What I have now? It’s real. It’s felt. It’s mine.

Read "The Divine I Know"

When you see me unmoved by society’s expectations,
don’t call it arrogance.
Call it rebirth.
I built my standards from the rubble of who I was told to be.
I excavated my truth under layers of programming, pain, and pressure.
I earned my voice—so now I speak only to what aligns.
Not to what pleases.

When you see me winning—
understand I’ve spent 27 years losing.
Losing peace. Losing love. Losing stability.
Fighting for my place. Fighting for a future.
Always in defense mode.

So if you see me finally receiving, finally building, finally thriving—
know this isn’t a peak.
This is a comeback.

So please, don’t call me lucky.
It’s an insult to the blood, scars, and rubble I crawled through to stand here.

P.S. If you see me enjoying life in the Philippines, doing nothing... well, I earned that too - I didn't plan on going vacation for 4 months without a plan.

💡

and yeah know that once you receive this on your email, I am shitting my pants too.

No turning back! Once truth is named, there's no pretending anymore!

The weight of witnessing myself and laying it all out on this page - well that's some heavy shit.