maybe that is why i call this my massive collection of mistakes.

because if someone asked me what i have collected throughout the years, i don’t think i would say memories anymore. i would say mistakes. a massive, embarrassing, painful collection of all the ways i have failed people who only ever wanted to love me. especially her. i wish i could say that i’m writing this because i have finally learned everything. that i finally understand how to love someone properly. that i finally know how to communicate, how to listen, how to give space, how to apologize without making the apology about myself, how to stop letting my fears become someone else’s burden. but i don’t think i can say that for now. because the truth is, i am still learning. and sometimes i hate myself for needing to learn things that i feel like i should have already known.

i should have known that love is not supposed to feel like constantly asking someone to prove they still want you. i should have known that loving someone does not mean needing them every second. i should have known that when someone says they need space, it does not automatically mean they are leaving. i should have known that being afraid of losing someone does not give me the right to hold them so tightly that they start feeling like they cannot breathe. i should have known that “i love you” means nothing if the way i behave keeps making someone feel unloved.

but apparently, i had to learn all of that through hurting someone. and that is probably the part that hurts me the most. because she did not deserve to become the person who had to teach me how not to hurt her. sometimes i think about the kind of girlfriend i wanted to be when i first loved her. i wanted to be the safe place. the person she could run to when everything became too loud. the person she could tell everything to without being afraid of being judged. the person who would make her feel chosen, understood, and loved. i wanted to be the girlfriend who noticed the small things. who remembered the little details. who knew when something was wrong even when she said she was okay. who could make her laugh when she had a terrible day. who could sit beside her in silence and still make her feel like she wasn’t alone.

i wanted to be that person.

but somewhere along the way, i became someone who was too scared of losing her that i forgot to make her feel free to stay. and there is such a cruel difference between those two things. i loved her. god, i still do. but sometimes i think i loved her with so much fear that my love stopped feeling like love to her. it became questions.

“do you still love me?”

“are you mad at me?”

“did i do something wrong?”

“are you getting tired of me?”

“are you sure?”

“do you still want me?”

questions that were sometimes spoken out loud, sometimes hidden in the way i acted, sometimes buried underneath a mood i could not explain. and maybe she answered them every time. maybe she reassured me. maybe she tried to make me understand. maybe she patiently explained things i was too afraid to accept. but how exhausting must it have been to repeatedly convince someone that they were loved? how exhausting must it have been to love a person who was constantly waiting for the moment that love would disappear? i wonder if there were moments when she looked at me and thought, “why do i have to keep proving this?” and if there were—i know there were, i don’t blame her. because i know how tiring i can be.

i know i have made my fears her responsibility. i know i have made my insecurities something she had to carry. i know there were moments when i needed comfort so badly that i forgot to ask if she needed comfort too. i know there were moments when i wanted to be understood so desperately that i forgot she deserved to be understood too. and that is the ugly thing about being selfish without realizing you are being selfish. you don’t wake up thinking, “today, i’m going to hurt the person i love.” sometimes you wake up simply wanting to be loved.

you just don’t notice when your fear of not being loved begins to hurt the person who is already loving you. i have made so many mistakes as a girlfriend that sometimes i wonder how someone could have stayed as long as she did. i have been needy. i have been overly dependent. i have overthought things that probably did not need to be overthought. i have turned small changes in her tone into entire stories inside my head. i have mistaken silence for anger. distance for rejection. tiredness for disinterest. space for abandonment. and instead of fighting those thoughts inside my own head, i sometimes brought them to her and expected her to fix them.

i know you'll read this once i publish it. i’m sorry. i’m sorry for every time i made you explain yourself when you were already tired. i’m sorry for every time i asked you to reassure me when maybe what you needed was for me to simply trust you. i’m sorry for every time my fear became an accusation. i’m sorry for every time my overthinking made you feel like your love was being questioned. i’m sorry for every time you had to choose your words carefully because you knew i might misunderstand them. i’m sorry for every time i made you feel like loving me came with a manual. and i’m especially sorry for the times when i knew i was hurting you and still didn’t know how to stop.

that is something i struggle to forgive myself for.

i never wanted to hurt you.

but sometimes wanting to do better was not enough.

and i hate that.

i hate that good intentions cannot erase bad actions. i hate that “i didn’t mean it that way” cannot erase how it made someone feel. i hate that an apology cannot travel backward in time. i hate that saying sorry does not give someone back the version of themselves they had before you hurt them. i hate that i can regret something with my entire heart and still not be able to undo it. there are so many things i wish i could take back. conversations. reactions. messages. silences. the times i should have apologized but didn’t. the times i apologized but secretly wanted to be comforted instead of actually taking accountability. the times i made everything about how guilty i felt when the person i hurt was the one who deserved the space to be hurt. i think that is another mistake i have made. sometimes i become so consumed by my guilt that i forget guilt is not the same thing as accountability. feeling terrible does not automatically make me better. crying does not undo anything. hating myself does not repair anything. saying “i’m the worst girlfriend ever” does not magically make me a better girlfriend.

sometimes, self-hatred can even become another form of selfishness. because instead of asking, “how did i hurt her, and what can i change?” i start asking, “am i a terrible person?” and suddenly, the conversation becomes about me again. even my guilt knows how to make everything about me. and maybe that is one of the hardest things i have had to admit about myself.

i am not always the victim of my own emotions.

sometimes, i am also the person causing someone else’s.

and that realization is devastating.

because i know what it feels like to be hurt. i know what it feels like to overthink. i know what it feels like to wonder if you are enough. i know what it feels like to be afraid that someone you love is slowly becoming distant. and somehow, despite knowing those feelings so intimately, i have still made someone else feel them. that is the kind of hypocrisy that keeps me awake.

i have my own collection of mistakes.

but somehow, the mistakes i made as a girlfriend feel heavier.

maybe because she had no obligation to stay.

but she chose me.

she could have chosen someone easier. someone calmer. someone who did not overthink everything. someone who did not need so much reassurance. someone who knew how to give space without interpreting it as rejection. someone who knew how to love without constantly being afraid of losing. someone who could communicate without turning every difficult conversation into an emotional battlefield. someone who did not have to learn all these things while already being in love. and yet, she chose me.

that thought breaks something inside me while i’m writing this.

because sometimes i wonder if i gave her enough reasons to feel proud of that choice. or if i slowly made her question it. i think about all the beautiful memories we have and somehow my mind still finds a way to put my mistakes beside them. the laughter. the dates. the food. the random conversations. the train rides. the little teasing. the hugs. the moments when i looked at her and thought, “how did i get so lucky?” the moments when her presence alone made everything feel lighter. the moments i wanted time to stop because being beside her felt like the closest thing i had to peace.

i remember all of those.

but i also remember the moments where i ruined the peace. and sometimes, the memories i love the most become the ones that hurt me the most because i know how easily beautiful things can be damaged. i wish i had appreciated certain moments while i was living them instead of realizing their value after i had already complicated them. i wish i knew that not every bad feeling needed a reaction. i wish i knew that sometimes you can feel scared and still choose to trust.

you can feel insecure and still choose not to accuse.

you can miss someone and still let them breathe.

you can love someone deeply and still have a life outside of them.

you can be afraid of losing someone and still understand that they are not something you own.

i wish i understood that earlier.

maybe i wouldn’t have made her feel so responsible for keeping me okay.

because she is my girlfriend.

not my therapist.

not my emotional life support.

not the only person who can make me feel okay.

and i am ashamed that sometimes i treated her like she was.

i don’t want to be the kind of person who makes love feel like a responsibility. i don’t want someone to wake up and feel like they have to check my mood before they can enjoy their own day. i don’t want someone to feel guilty for needing time alone. i don’t want someone to feel like they have to constantly reassure me that they are not leaving. i don’t want someone to become exhausted from carrying the weight of my insecurities. and most of all, i don’t want her to remember loving me as something that drained her. because if there is one thing i never wanted to become, it was a burden to the person i love.

but intentions are cruel like that. sometimes, you become exactly what you never wanted to be. and maybe this is what growing up is. not suddenly becoming a better person. but slowly becoming aware of the ways you have been hurting people without meaning to. slowly realizing that you can be a good person and still do terrible things. that you can love someone sincerely and still love them badly. that you can have a good heart and still have terrible habits. that you can be hurting and still hurt someone else. and that being hurt does not excuse hurting people.

i wish someone had told me that love is not just about how deeply you feel.

because i feel deeply. sometimes too deeply.

i can love someone with everything in me

and still fail to love them in the way they need.

i think love is also discipline. it is learning when to speak and when to stop. it is listening even when your ego is screaming to defend yourself. it is knowing when your fear is talking. it is apologizing without immediately asking to be forgiven. it is changing without expecting applause for it. it is giving someone space without making them feel guilty for taking it. it is understanding that your partner is a whole person outside the relationship. they have their own dreams, friends, exhaustion, responsibilities, bad days, good days, and private thoughts.

they are allowed to exist without constantly attending to your emotions. and i wish i had understood that love is not supposed to consume someone. love is supposed to make room. i am still learning how to make room. for her. for myself. for the parts of me that are still immature and afraid. for the parts of me that need to grow up. for the daughter i have been and the daughter i still want to become. for the girlfriend i have been and the girlfriend i desperately want to become.

i don’t want this to become another excuse.

i don’t want “i was scared” to become a justification for everything. i don’t want “i loved you too much” to become an excuse for the times i loved you incorrectly. i don’t want “i didn’t know better” to become permission to never learn. and i don’t want my regret to be performative. i don’t want to simply feel bad. i want to be better. even if being better means admitting that sometimes i was the problem. even if it means sitting with the uncomfortable truth that i have hurt people. even if it means realizing that some apologies will never be enough. even if it means accepting that some people may never see the changes i make because i hurt them before i learned how to change.

sometimes you become better after someone already got hurt by the worst version of you. and you cannot demand that they stay just because you are finally learning. you cannot say, “but look, i’m changing now.” you cannot make someone wait for your character development. you cannot ask someone to keep getting hurt just because you promise the next time will be different.

people are allowed to leave the version of you that they had to suffer through.

even if you are trying to become someone better.

even if you finally understand.

even if you finally regret it.

even if you would give anything to go back.

you cannot force someone to experience your redemption. all you can do is become better anyway. not for praise. not so someone will say, “see? hindi ka naman masamang tao.” not so you can use your growth to erase what happened. but because you finally understand that the people you love deserve a healthier version of you. and maybe i need to stop calling myself a failure every time i remember something i did wrong. not because i want to excuse myself. but because if i keep defining myself only by my worst mistakes, i might start believing that changing is pointless.

i don’t know why i let it reach this point—why i kept holding on so tightly that the person i love began to feel like she was living inside a box i built for her, with walls she never asked for and no room to simply be herself.

i am not proud of who i have been.

there are versions of myself i wish i could sit beside and shake awake.

i want to tell that girl to stop.

stop overthinking.

stop begging for reassurance.

stop turning fear into anger.

stop making everything a test of whether someone loves you.

stop thinking that being needed is the same as being loved.

stop thinking that someone choosing you means they have to choose you every second. stop hurting people and then drowning yourself in guilt. stop waiting until someone is already exhausted before you realize you should have listened. stop saying “sorry” when what you really need to say is “i understand what i did, and i will do something differently next time.”

i’m still sitting here.

writing.

watching these waves.

letting the water move while i stay still for once.

this place feels strangely fitting.

the waves don’t apologize for coming back.

they don’t hate themselves for leaving.

they don’t spend the entire night wondering

whether they moved too far away from the shore.

they just move.

and maybe i need to learn how to do that. to move forward without pretending nothing happened. to carry my mistakes without letting them become my entire identity. to remember the people i hurt without turning their pain into a reason to hate myself forever. to take responsibility. to grow. to love differently.

i don’t know if i will ever be the perfect girlfriend.

honestly, i don’t even think perfection should be the goal anymore.

i just want to be someone who learns.

someone who listens.

someone who knows how to say sorry and actually means the part that comes after it. someone who can love without suffocating. someone who can be loved without constantly questioning it. someone who knows that needing someone and depending entirely on them are two different things. someone who can say, “i’m scared,” without making the other person responsible for the fear. someone who can say, “i need you,” while still knowing how to stand on her own. someone who can love another person and still remember how to love herself.

maybe that is the person i am trying to become.

and maybe i am not there yet.

maybe tomorrow i will still make a mistake.

maybe next week i will misunderstand something.

maybe there will still be moments when my old habits come crawling back.

but i hope i catch myself.

i hope i pause.

i hope i remember this feeling.

this exact feeling of sitting beside the water and

thinking about the person i have ever hurt.

i hope i remember how badly i want to stop repeating myself.

because i don’t want my life to become a collection of apologies. i don’t want every chapter of my relationship to end with “i’m sorry.” i don’t want my girlfriend to only remember the difficult version of me. i don’t want the person i love to remember me as someone who loved her so much but made her feel lonely anyway.

i want to become someone whose love feels safe. not perfect.

safe.

someone who can hold another person’s hand without holding them hostage. someone who can say “i love you” without secretly asking “will you ever leave me?” someone who can hear “i need space” and answer “okay, take your time.” someone who can lose an argument and still protect the person they love. someone who can be corrected without becoming defensive. someone who can be wrong without collapsing into self-hatred. someone who can look at the person she loves and think, “i don’t need to possess you to be grateful that you are here.” and maybe one day, i will be that person. for now, though, i am still sitting here. still listening to the sound of the waves and the wind. still thinking about the massive collection of mistakes i have made. the mistakes i made as a daughter. the mistakes i made as a friend. the mistakes i made as a person. but mostly, the mistakes i made as someone who was given the privilege of loving another person.

and if there is anything i want to say to her, it is this:

i am sorry. not the kind of sorry that asks you to make me feel better. not the kind that says, “i’m sorry, but…” not the kind that expects forgiveness just because i finally understand. just sorry. for the times i made love harder than it had to be. for the times i made you carry emotions that were mine to carry. for the times i made you feel like your love was never enough when, really, i was struggling to believe that i was enough for myself. for every moment you had to become patient because i was scared. for every time you had to explain what you meant because i was too afraid of what you might mean. for every time i made you feel guilty for needing space. for every time i forgot that you were a person before you were my girlfriend. for every time i chose my fear over your peace. for every time i reacted instead of listening. for every time i loved you with my wounds instead of with the understanding you deserved. i am sorry for being a person who sometimes needed to be loved more than she knew how to love back. and i am sorry that you had to experience that version of me.

i wish i could go back.

i wish i could sit beside every past version of us and tell myself to be gentler.

to stop making everything a battle.

to stop being afraid of every silence.

to stop searching for endings inside ordinary moments.

to just look at her.

really look at her.

and realize,

she is here.

she is choosing me.

she is loving me.

I live with these burns like they are birthmarks. Not burns that scar the skin—but burns that scar the soul. Wounds that do not blister visibly, yet throb with every memory, every silence, every unspoken word. The kind of pain that doesn’t need fire to ignite, just a moment—an insult, a failure, a day where everything goes wrong—and it flares again.

We often move through the world carrying silent hurts, shaped by experiences no one sees. A child ridiculed for stuttering learns to stay quiet, even when they have something brilliant to say. A teenager who fails an important test begins to doubt their intelligence, even when their potential is limitless. A grown adult who’s been constantly underestimated in their career starts to shrink into the background, not because they lack value—but because the burns of rejection taught them it’s safer not to shine too bright.

These invisible burns live in us. Like birthmarks, we don’t remember when they first appeared, but they are part of us now. They’re shaped by trauma, ridicule, societal pressure, or internalized shame. And while we don’t talk about them openly, we shape our lives around them. We avoid certain risks. We wear masks. We overcompensate. Or we withdraw entirely.

Imagine a student sitting at the back of the classroom, silent not because they don't care, but because every time they once raised their hand, they were laughed at. Imagine an employee who double-checks every email obsessively, not because they're a perfectionist, but because they were once publicly shamed for a small mistake. These are burns. Not of flame, but of fear. Of being seen. Of being hurt again.

So what does it mean to be flammable? It means carrying these hurts so close to the surface that it only takes a spark—just one careless comment, one moment of rejection, one echo of the past—to feel engulfed again. It means walking through life with a fireproof smile, but a body made of dry paper. You hide your sensitivity because being "too soft" has been treated like a weakness.

But maybe, these burns are not signs of weakness at all. Maybe they are signs that we tried. That we showed up. That we cared enough to get hurt. Maybe they are proof of resilience. Just like calluses form from repeated pressure, our invisible scars tell stories of survival.

And when we realize that most people carry these kinds of burns too—that the confident speaker was once terrified of crowds, or the boss who seems stern is just afraid of being disrespected again—we start to soften. We begin to understand. And through that, we start healing.

Let this be a reminder: not all scars are seen. And just because someone looks composed, doesn’t mean they haven’t been burned.

Lately, I feel like I’ve been drifting—like a paper boat in the middle of a storm, pulled by waves I don’t understand. The world around me keeps moving, but I feel stuck, like I’m living a life that was never truly mine. The world around me moves fast, but I feel like I’m stuck in slow motion, lost between the person I am and the person I thought I was becoming. I wake up each day feeling lost, exhausted from trying to be someone I’m not. Everyone around me thinks I’m okay. They see me chasing something—this career, this version of success—but what they don’t see is the emptiness behind my smile. The truth is, I don’t even know if I want this path anymore. I don’t even know if it’s really my dream.

The silence in my mind is louder than any noise, and the questions I try to avoid seem to echo louder than ever. Everything feels uncertain. The future, the present, even the past—it’s all starting to blur together. I try to remind myself why I started, why I chose this path, why I’ve been working so hard. But lately, I can’t help but wonder… if I’ve lost pieces of myself along the way.

Earlier, a friend of mine asked me a question I wasn’t ready for…

"What would you choose—your love life or your career?"

I paused, unsure how to answer because deep down, I know I would choose her over everything. I should probably say my career. That’s what the world tells me to choose. That’s what they say is the smart answer—the one that secures my future, gives me stability, gives me a name, a place, a purpose. And then I asked back,

“What do you think I’d choose?”

Without hesitation, they said, “Her.”

“How can you be so sure?” I asked.

And they looked at me and said something I’ll never forget.

“Because you don’t even love the career you’re in. You’re only here because this is your mom’s dream. Or maybe… because you’re selfless. But I know for sure that you’ll choose her over everything. Even if it’s you and her. I know you love her. Because throughout the whole year we’ve been together, she’s the only one you ever think about.”

Those words hit me like a wave I wasn’t prepared for. Maybe they’re right. Maybe I’ve been running on empty, forcing myself down a path I chose out of pressure or fear—not passion. Maybe I’ve stayed in this career because I thought it was the right thing, because I thought being responsible meant sacrificing what I really wanted. And maybe, somewhere deep down, what I really want isn’t recognition or success—it’s peace. It’s love. It’s her.

I’ve always been the kind of person who puts others first. I carry the weight for everyone else. I show up even when I’m breaking inside. I try to be strong, even when I’m tired of being strong. And maybe that’s why I’ve been holding on to something that doesn’t even make me happy—because I thought it would make others proud. Because I thought choosing my career over love meant I was doing the “right” thing. But what if the right thing isn’t what I’ve been told? What if the right thing is the one that feels like home?

I’m tired of pretending. Tired of chasing a dream that no longer fits me. Tired of acting like my heart isn’t screaming every time I think of her—of the warmth in her eyes, the calm in her presence, the way she makes the world feel lighter. This isn’t just about choosing between two options. It’s about choosing myself. And right now, I’m slowly realizing that choosing her… might just be the first time I choose myself and what truly feels right.

I wonder if I even deserve someone like her. There are moments when I look at her and feel overwhelmed by her kindness, her strength, her beauty. She deserves so much more than I’ve been able to give. She deserves someone who is always there for her, someone who sees her and understands her completely. I don’t know if I am that person. I don’t know if I have what it takes to be the partner she deserves. But I want to be that person. I want to be the one she deserves.

Her words, her eyes—sometimes they break me. They carry so much love, so much warmth, and yet why I can’t seem to return that love in the way she needs? Her eyes always seem to hold so much hope, so much trust in me, and I can’t help but wonder if I’m letting her down. I wonder if I am breaking her heart just by not being the person I know I should be. I wonder if she deserves someone better. Someone who doesn’t hesitate. Someone who knows exactly what to do and say. But here I am, unsure, unsure of myself.

Am I doing this right? Is this how it’s supposed to be? Sometimes, I feel like I’m failing. It feels like I’m stumbling through this relationship, like I’m not doing enough. I try, but I’m not sure if my efforts are enough. There are times when I look at her, and I feel this ache in my chest, because I don’t want to keep disappointing her. I don’t want her to feel like she’s carrying the weight of this relationship alone. I don’t want her to feel like she deserves more than what I can give.

The thought that maybe I don’t deserve her lingers in my mind like a cloud that won’t go away. She’s so good, so pure, and I wonder if I’m worthy of her love. The guilt keeps growing, and with it, the question: Do I really deserve you? She gives so much of herself, and I can’t help but think that I’m falling short. There’s so much I wish I could do for her. So much I wish I could say. But I feel stuck. I feel like I’m failing her, like I’m not being the partner I promised to be. And it hurts.

When she’s sad, when she’s hurting, I want to be the one who can fix it. I want to be the one who makes everything better. But lately, I’ve felt powerless. I’ve felt like I don’t know how to make things right. I’ve felt like I’m not enough. And that thought, that feeling, is what cuts the deepest. I wonder if she ever looks at me and feels the same. Does she feel like I’m not enough? Does she ever question if she deserves more than what I can give?

Sorry isn’t enough to heal the silence that lingers between us after an argument. Sorry doesn’t make up for the times I’ve been distant when she needed me. It feels like the word is losing its meaning because it’s all I ever say, and yet nothing changes. I wish I could do more than just say it. I wish I could show her that I’m truly sorry, that I want to be better for her, but the words always seem to fall short.

Sometimes, I wonder what she sees in me. How did I get so lucky to have someone like her? She’s everything I’ve ever wanted, everything I never thought I deserved. She’s beautiful in ways I can’t even begin to describe. And I, on the other hand, am just me. I’m just someone who messes up, someone who doesn’t always have the right words or actions. I’m someone who can’t seem to find the balance, someone who wonders if they’re even doing this right. I wonder if I’m good enough for her.

There are days when I feel like I’m failing her in every way. I wish I could be the person she sees in me—the person who can make her feel safe and loved. I wish I could be the person who knows exactly what to do to make everything better. But why do I feel like I’m not that person. I’m not perfect. And that realization is hard to accept. It’s hard to accept that maybe I’m not everything she deserves, that maybe I don’t deserve her after all.

But then I think about the love she gives me. I think about the way she looks at me, the way she cares for me, even when I’m not at my best. And for a moment, I wonder if maybe, just maybe, she sees something in me that I can’t see in myself.

Maybe she believes in me more than I believe in myself.

Maybe she thinks I deserve to be loved the way she loves me, even when I feel like I don’t deserve it.

It’s hard to see my own doubts, but I know one thing for sure: I don’t want to lose her. I don’t want to hurt her. I don’t want to keep feeling like I’m not enough, like I’m failing her every day. But I also know that love isn’t about being perfect. It’s about trying, even when you feel like you’re not enough. It’s about showing up for the person you love, even when you feel unsure of yourself.

So, maybe I don’t deserve her. Maybe I’m not perfect, and maybe I don’t always get it right. But I love her. I love her with everything I have, even if I don’t always know how to show it. And maybe that’s enough. Maybe love is enough to keep trying, even when you feel like you’re failing. Because in the end, love isn’t about being perfect—it’s about being there, even when you feel like you don’t deserve to be.

Sometimes, words break me down. A simple comment, a passing joke, or even silence where I expected words can make my heart feel heavy. I try to tell myself that people don’t always mean what they say. I try to remind myself that not everything is about me. But no matter how much I try, my heart still takes every word in, like a sponge absorbing water.

I don’t know why I am like this. Maybe it’s because I think too much. Maybe I read too deeply into things that aren’t even meant to hurt me. A small change in someone’s tone, a delayed reply, or a forgotten “thank you” can make me wonder if I did something wrong. I try to brush it off, but the thoughts always find a way back to me.

There are days when I remember things people said to me years ago. Words that should have been forgotten still echo in my mind. I wonder if those people even remember saying them. Probably not. But for me, those words became wounds that never fully healed.

“You’re too sensitive.”

I’ve heard this many times. And every time, it hurts. It makes me feel like I’m the problem, like I should be stronger, like I should just “get over it.” But how do I stop feeling things so deeply? How do I make my heart tougher? I don’t know.

I envy people who can laugh things off. People who don’t take small comments seriously. People who can just ignore words and move on. I wish I was like that. I wish words didn’t have such power over me. Sometimes, it’s not even about what people say—it’s about what I think they mean. My mind plays tricks on me. It takes a simple statement and twists it into something else. It makes me believe that I’m not enough, that I’m annoying, that people are just being polite but don’t really like me. I know these thoughts aren’t always true. But knowing doesn’t stop me from feeling them.

When someone tells me, “I’m busy,” I don’t just hear those words. My mind turns them into, “You’re not important right now.” When someone forgets to reply to my message, I don’t just think they got distracted. My mind whispers, “They don’t care about you.” When someone criticizes something I did, I don’t just take it as feedback. I hear, “You’re not good enough.”

I hate that my mind does this. I hate that I let words control my emotions. I try to remind myself that people have their own lives, their own thoughts, and their own struggles. Not everything is about me. But my heart refuses to listen. I don’t want to be like this forever. I don’t want to live in fear of words. I don’t want to let small things ruin my day.

I try to change. I tell myself that not everything needs a reaction. I remind myself that people don’t always think before they speak. I try to focus on what I know is true instead of what my mind makes up. Some days, I do better. I let things go. I remind myself that I am more than the words people say to me. But other days, I fall back into my old habits. I overthink. I take things personally. I let words break me again.

Maybe change is slow. Maybe healing takes time. Maybe I won’t wake up one day and suddenly be free from these thoughts. But I want to try. I want to be kinder to myself. I want to remind myself that I am not defined by the words of others.

I wish I didn’t take things so personally. But maybe, just maybe, I can learn to take things a little less personally each day.

Living with homophobic parents is like living in a house where love comes with conditions. It’s a place where laughter turns into sharp words and where the people who are supposed to protect you unknowingly become the ones who hurt you the most. For those of us who grow up in these homes, every day is a constant battle between who we are and who our parents want us to be. Words are powerful. They can stay with us long after they are spoken. When parents make homophobic comments, they may not realize how deeply those words cut.

“It’s disgusting.”

“That’s not natural.”

“No child of mine will ever be like that.”

To them, it might just be a careless remark. To us, it’s a reminder that their love has limits. Every time they say something cruel, we wonder if they would still love us if they knew the truth. We sit quietly, hoping they don’t notice the way our hands shake or the tears we blink away. The fear of being rejected by the people who are supposed to love us unconditionally is overwhelming. Living with homophobic parents often means hiding. Hiding our feelings, our thoughts, and sometimes even our identity. We laugh along with their jokes, force smiles during conversations, and nod in agreement to avoid suspicion. It becomes a second nature—pretending to be someone we are not, simply to survive.

But that pretending comes at a cost. It is exhausting. It feels like carrying a heavy weight that never goes away. We watch our friends talk freely about who they love, while we remain silent. We hear stories of people coming out and being embraced with open arms, and we wonder if we will ever get that moment. Loneliness doesn’t always mean being physically alone. Sometimes, it means being surrounded by people who will never truly know you. When parents make hateful remarks about the LGBTQ+ community, we don’t just feel sadness — we feel invisible. It’s as if the version of us they claim to love isn’t real, because they only love the parts they approve of.

We sit at family dinners, hearing them mock people like us, and we stay silent. Not because we agree, but because we are afraid. The fear of losing their love overshadows everything else. They may not know it, but every cruel word builds a wall between us. And that wall grows taller with every hateful comment. Every child wants their parents to be proud of them. We want to hear that we are loved, not just tolerated. But when you grow up in a homophobic household, the idea of acceptance feels like a distant dream.

We don’t need our parents to understand everything immediately. We don’t expect them to change overnight. But we do hope for kindness. We hope that they will listen instead of judge. We hope that their love will be strong enough to stand against their fears and misconceptions. Parents often believe their words are harmless. They think because they aren’t directly attacking their own child, it doesn’t hurt. But the truth is, those words are like echoes that never stop. Even when the conversation ends, their voices linger in our minds. They don’t see how their words make us question our worth. They don’t see how we stand in front of mirrors, wondering if we’ll ever be “enough” for them. They don’t see the nights we cry ourselves to sleep, fearing the day we might have to choose between being honest and being loved. But it’s not just emotional pain. Homophobic parents create an environment that teaches shame. They may not realize it, but their child learns to believe that something is wrong with them. And that belief can lead to anxiety, depression, and self-hatred.

To parents who hold homophobic beliefs, I ask you to think about the words you say. What if your child is the very person you’re speaking against? Would your words remain the same if you knew the pain they caused? Your child may never tell you how much your words hurt. They may laugh at your jokes and pretend it doesn’t bother them. But inside, they are breaking. Every cruel remark is a reminder that your love may not be as unconditional as you believe. I ask you to listen. Listen not to respond, but to understand. Educate yourself about the LGBTQ+ community. Challenge the beliefs you were taught. Love your child for who they are, not for who you expect them to be. Because the moment they feel safe enough to be honest with you is the moment you will see their true self — and that self is beautiful.

Despite the pain, many of us still hold onto hope. Hope that one day, our parents will see us for who we are. Hope that their love will outweigh their fear. Hope that we will no longer have to hide. And to every parent who reads this, I ask you to remember the child you held in your arms. The one who laughed at your silly jokes and ran to you when they were scared. That child is still here. They are still the same person, with the same heart. The only difference is that they are waiting for you to see all of them — without judgment, without shame, and without conditions. Your child doesn’t need you to be perfect. They simply need you to try. Because in the end, the words you choose and the love you give can make all the difference.

I can’t shake this feeling—the heavy weight of worry pressing against my chest. My mind keeps circling back to her, wondering if she’s okay. I don’t know for sure, but something feels off. Her smile doesn’t reach her eyes the way it used to. Her words are colder, like she’s holding something back, like she’s carrying a burden she doesn’t know how to put down.

I want to reach out, to take away whatever pain is dimming her light. But I don’t know how. I don’t want to force her to speak if she isn’t ready, but I also don’t want her to feel alone in whatever storm she’s facing. So I stay close, letting my presence be a quiet reminder that she’s not alone, that someone cares enough to notice.

And if she’s reading this, if her heart feels heavy and her world feels dim, I just want her to know—she is loved, she is seen, and whatever she’s facing, she doesn’t have to face it alone. Even on the days when everything feels dark, there is light waiting for her. Maybe she can’t see it now, but it’s there, just like I am. Always.

You held my hand when I was small,

guided me when I was lost.

I trusted you. I believed you.

I wanted to run—to stretch my hands toward a sky of my own, but now, I sit in a life that does not feel like mine. Every choice was made for me. Every step was planned before I could even walk. I let it happen. I let them shape my future, and now I am stuck in a world that does not belong to me.

I should have fought. I should have spoken. But I was too afraid to disappoint you, too afraid to break your heart. So instead, I broke my own.

I want to be angry at you, but I can’t.

You only wanted what you thought was right.

You never meant to hurt me.

So I can’t even hate you. I can only hate myself.

Failure, at its core, is evidence of effort. You cannot fail unless you’ve tried. And isn’t trying the root of every great achievement? It’s easy to admire success, to focus on the polished result of someone’s hard work. Yet, behind every masterpiece is an unseen gallery of failed drafts, unsteady beginnings, and countless attempts that didn’t work out. The difference is how we view these moments.

In a world obsessed with perfection, trying is an act of rebellion. To try is to say, “I’m not afraid of the unknown. I am willing to step forward, to risk falling, because standing still is not an option.” Each attempt, no matter how it ends, teaches us something about who we are and what we are capable of. Think about the inventor who failed a thousand times before perfecting the lightbulb. Or the author whose manuscripts were rejected by publishers countless times before their story finally found a home. These are not failures in the truest sense. These are milestones in the gallery of trying, moments that taught resilience, shaped understanding, and paved the way to success.

If we never allow ourselves to try because of the fear of failing, we deny ourselves the chance to grow. And without growth, what kind of life are we truly living?

Failure is not the opposite of success. It is part of the process. What we often call failure is simply life showing us another way—another door to open, another path to take, another lesson to learn. But this requires us to change our perspective. Instead of viewing failure as an end, what if we saw it as a stepping stone? What if, instead of labeling ourselves as incapable, we focused on what we gained? Did we learn patience, humility, or courage? Did we discover what doesn’t work so we could move closer to what does?

Failure, in this light, becomes a teacher. It may not be a kind teacher—it pushes us out of our comfort zones, forces us to confront our weaknesses, and asks us to keep going even when we feel like giving up. But it is a teacher nonetheless, one that shapes us into stronger, wiser individuals. Trying requires vulnerability. It means putting ourselves out there, knowing full well that we might stumble. It means being okay with the possibility of falling short, knowing that failure doesn’t define us. Vulnerability, though often seen as a weakness, is one of the greatest strengths we can have.

When we are vulnerable, we are real. We strip away the facade of perfection and show the world our authentic selves. And when we do, we give others permission to do the same. Imagine a world where people celebrated their efforts, where failure wasn’t hidden away but shared as a badge of honor. Wouldn’t that be a more compassionate and understanding world?

Picture this: a gallery filled with the moments we dared to dream, to act, to risk. Each piece is a story of courage, determination, and heart. There are scribbles of ideas that didn’t quite work, photos of projects that didn’t go as planned, and letters from people who walked away when we needed them most. Yet, each piece is beautiful in its own way because it represents a moment we didn’t give up. The gallery of trying isn’t about showcasing success; it’s about honoring the journey. It’s about recognizing that every attempt matters, that every effort brings us closer to becoming the person we are meant to be.

So, the next time you face failure, ask yourself: Is this a sign to stop, or is it a reminder that I am brave enough to try? When you look back on your life, will you see a museum of failure, filled with regrets and missed opportunities, or a gallery of trying, filled with stories of courage and growth? We don’t always get to choose the outcome of our efforts, but we do get to choose how we respond. We can let failure define us, or we can let it refine us. We can hide from it, or we can learn from it. The choice is ours.

If there’s one thing we can learn from this, it’s that failure is not the end of the story. It’s a chapter, a scene, a moment. It’s not who we are, but what we experience. And in that experience lies the power to transform.

The museum of failure and the gallery of trying—they’re not separate places. They are one and the same, depending on how we choose to see them. So, let us not fear failure. Let us embrace it as part of our journey, knowing that every attempt, every stumble, every misstep, is a brushstroke in the masterpiece of our lives.

If I were to share my flaws with you, where would I begin? I am undoubtedly an overthinker, a trait that colors my every perception and decision. Simple choices spiral into complex scenarios in my mind, each possibility leading to a maze of potential outcomes.

Being an overthinker isn’t just about analyzing everyday things; it extends to how I see myself and my relationships. Every word, every action is scrutinized, sometimes to the point of obsession. Did I say the right thing? Did I do the right thing? These questions haunt me, and I’m aware that this behavior is not healthy. I don't know when I'll be able to change this kind of toxic behavior in myself because I know I've gotten used to it. One of my friend said, “Just because you're accustomed to something, even if you know it's wrong, doesn't mean you should just let it be.” So I'm still trying to change this behavior, that not everything should be overthought.

What if I tell you I have attachment issues? I struggle with forming healthy attachments, often becoming too dependent or distant in relationships. It’s a constant battle to strike a balance between wanting closeness and fearing vulnerability. I don't want to get too attached to someone I know could possibly leave me, not that I'm saying someone will leave, but I'm afraid of losing someone. Then there are my abandonment issues—a heavy burden stemming from loved ones drifting away. I often ask the person I love, 'You won't leave me, right? Promise you won't leave me, okay?' As if I'm begging them not to leave me, even though deep down, I know that if I feel like they're going to leave, I'll leave them first just because I’m too scared to feel the pain, the pain that will lingers on my heart. How cruel am I to do that to someone who truly loves me. It’s not just a fear of being alone or being left behind; it’s a deep-seated apprehension that those closest to me will eventually leave, leaving behind an ache that lingers long after they're gone. Are you disappointed now that you know who I really am? I find it difficult to express how I truly feel. Words get tangled in my mind, emotions muddled and obscured. Sometimes, what I want to say remains unspoken, lost in the labyrinth of my thoughts. This struggle to communicate effectively adds layers of complexity to my interactions, leaving room for misunderstanding and frustration.

Opening up about these flaws is daunting. It means exposing the raw edges of my soul, revealing parts of myself I often try to hide. Yet, in sharing these vulnerabilities, there’s hope—a hope that by embracing my imperfections, I can find connections that go beyond surface appearances.

With each sip of coffee and each word written, I embrace my imperfections, hoping that one day, someone will see them not as barriers. Yet, I’m still questioning myself. Were you disappointed when you got to know me? If I showed you my flaws—my overthinking, my fear of abandonment, my struggles with communicating, my attachment issues—would you still love me?

Can time really change everything?

In the quiet moments of reflection on this line in a movie, I often find myself pondering the mysterious power of time. It is said to heal wounds, mend broken hearts, and even alter the course of destinies. Can time really change everything? Can I go back to the day when I decided what I should pursue in college? Yet, amidst the ebb and flow of life, we sometimes wonder if time truly holds the ability to transform every aspect of our existence.

Once, I dreamed passionately of becoming a doctor—a calling that gave my life purpose. But when my parents insisted I should pursue architecture instead, I faced a difficult choice: to set aside my dreams. My grandmother, always practical and wise, advised me: "Choose a path that promises a stable future, where success comes easily and burdens are few. We can't achieve all our dreams; just help your mother.” I don't blame them for making me choose architecture over my dream because I understand their intentions. I just… feel sad for myself.

Life takes us through highs and lows we never expect. We pursue dreams eagerly, but often face tough setbacks and limits along the way. But amidst the setbacks, there lies a quiet hope—a belief that time will weave its magic, turning the tide in our favor. Along our journey, we sometimes give up dreams for important reasons. Ambitions that once filled our hearts may fade as circumstances change over time. Still, deep down, we hold onto hope that someday, circumstances might allow us to pursue those dreams again.

But can time really change everything?

As years turn into decades, we witness the evolution of our surroundings and ourselves. Relationships bloom and wither, fortunes rise and fall, and perspectives shift like the changing seasons. Throughout everything, time shows not only the moments passing but also our ability to bounce back and adjust.

The dreams we let slip through our fingers may fade from immediate view, but they linger in the recesses of memory, reminding us of roads not taken and futures left uncharted. They remind us that while time may not reverse every outcome, it offers the gift of wisdom—the understanding that growth often springs from letting go. So, as we navigate the labyrinth of life, let us embrace the enigma of time with open hearts and steadfast courage. Let us cherish the dreams we pursue and the ones we release, knowing that each step forward is a testament to our capacity for hope and transformation.

Can time really change everything? Perhaps not everything, but it can change us, time changes us not by erasing the past, but by guiding us towards a future where every dream, whether realized or relinquished, shapes the essence of who we are.

I just don't want to get too attached, I find myself whispering in the quiet moments of soul-searching. It's not that I don't care deeply or feel the pull of emotions; rather, it's the fear of losing myself in someone else's world, of intertwining my happiness with theirs so completely that their absence becomes unbearable.

In love, there's a delicate balance between giving your heart fully and guarding it against potential pain. We build walls, weave intricate defenses, all in the name of self-preservation. But what are we really protecting ourselves from? Is it the fear of vulnerability or the fear of losing control over our own emotions? There's a precarious dance between holding on and letting go. We tiptoe around our emotions, afraid that investing too much will only lead to pain. Yet, isn't it the intensity of attachment that makes love so profound? To love deeply is to risk the eventual goodbye, knowing that every moment shared is worth the potential heartache.

Every love story carries within it the echoes of attachment and detachment, of longing and letting go. We hesitate to invest too much, fearing the eventual withdrawal that might follow. Yet, isn't it this very attachment that makes life profound? To love deeply is to embrace vulnerability, knowing that the depth of our feelings mirrors the depth of our humanity.

The thought of losing someone I hold dear is a weight too heavy to bear. But in this fear, I realize that love's beauty lies in its impermanence. It teaches us to cherish the present, to savor every fleeting moment, and to be grateful for the souls who touch our lives, even if only for a season.

I just don't want to get too attached, because I know the power of love to consume, to transform, and to sometimes break us. But in this hesitation, I also realize that the most profound connections come from risking attachment. For it is through the willingness to attach that we learn about ourselves, about the resilience of our hearts, and about the beauty of truly loving another.

In a world that sometimes feels overwhelming, it’s easy to question our significance. We may find ourselves contemplating whether our absence would even be noticed. Yet, within this uncertainty lies an opportunity for profound realization.

The uncertainty of whether anyone would truly notice my absence weighs heavily on my heart.

In the midst of our busy lives, it's easy to feel like just another face in the crowd. We go through the motions, fulfilling obligations, chasing dreams, yet sometimes, we wonder if our presence truly matters.

Each of us occupies a unique space in the lives of others, whether we realize it or not. Our presence, however quiet, contributes to the fabric of relationships and experiences that define our connections. A shared laugh, a comforting presence, or a listening ear—these small gestures can mean the world to someone.

Yet, amidst the noise of daily life, it's easy to overlook the profound impact of our smallest actions. The thought of fading away unnoticed underscores a sense of loneliness and insignificance. Will our absence leave a void, or will life simply go on, unchanged?

The thought of needing to disappear for others to acknowledge my absence is a sobering realization.

When I want to disappear, that's the moment I want to be found the most, to be understood, and to let me feel that I am not really alone. But I feel like that’s too much to ask for. It's scary to lose yourself just to please the people around you, yet in the moments of reflection, I realized that you don't need to disappear if you are truly loved.

So, when you question your place in the lives of others, remember this: your presence matters more than you may realize. Your absence would be noticed if they truly love you in every possible way. Embrace the sadness that comes with this realization—a reminder of the bonds we share and the impact we have on each other's lives.