About a year ago, I woke up from a dream with my heart pounding so hard I could hardly breathe. I sat up so abruptly that I felt my head spinning. I held my hands to my chest in an attempt to get my heart to calm down a bit.

“That was one awful dream,” I muttered to myself.

In the dream, my dad asked if he could sleep on our old folding bed. I told him he could use it.

Easy enough. Nothing wrong there, right?

But the thing is—my dad passed away years ago.

It wasn't the first time I dreamt of Dad, but in that particular dream (nightmare is more like it), it was the first time he was talking to me directly. In my other dreams, he usually invites me to go with him—either to walk with him or take a ride on his motorcycle. There was even this one vivid dream where he let me follow him inside a house made of wood. In that dream, I saw wooden sculptures and an old lady. I remember hearing (more like feeling) the rain outside the house and saw a number of people looking out the windows, seemingly waiting for the rain to stop. The rest of the dream I can’t remember.

But this one felt different. It wasn’t just surreal—it was disturbing.

In the dream, my dad “cheated” on my mom. I saw his “other daughter” came to our house—the house where I live now. My sisters were furious with Dad. You could see obvious hurt and resentment showing in their faces.

I, on the other hand, found it ridiculous. Knowing who Dad was, it didn’t make sense. He loved Mom, and she loved him. I think at some point I was even jealous of their love for each other because they always found time to be together, making me feel left out. They always had to go somewhere for work, and we always had to wait for them to come home late at night. I remember one time, I and my sister, waiting for them by the roadside, counting every motorcycle that wasn’t my dad’s. I had to count the minutes we stayed there waiting until they finally arrived.

So, imagine my surprise when a daughter—his—came over to the house on his behalf.

The only consolation is that it was just a dream. Nevertheless, I was crying in my dream and wanted so much for Dad to tell me it wasn't true. Instead, all he said was,

"I'd like to sleep here (referring to my mom's sister's house). Do you think I could use the folding bed?"

I couldn’t shake the dream. It lingered like a fog, not just because of its strange details, but because of how it made me feel—like I had lost my father all over again. I needed to understand why it hit me so hard. So, I turned to something simple: a dream app, hoping whatever I find helpful can erase the awful feeling I’ve had about that dream.

Dreaming About My Dad and Mom

The app said that dreaming about both parents often reflects unresolved emotions or a longing for comfort and stability. That made sense. My parents were always together, always working, always moving. I admired their bond, but I also felt left out. Maybe the dream was my heart’s way of revisiting that feeling—of wanting to be seen, to be chosen.

Seeing a Dead Person Alive in a Dream

This is said to symbolize unfinished business or a message from the subconscious. I’ve dreamt of Dad before, but he never spoke directly to me. This time, he did. And what he said wasn’t comforting—it was confusing. Maybe that’s the point. Maybe grief doesn’t always come wrapped in clarity.

Talking to My Dead Father in the Dream

Conversations with the dead in dreams are often interpreted as a need for closure or guidance. I didn’t get either. I wanted him to tell me it wasn’t true—that he hadn’t betrayed Mom. But he didn’t. He just asked for a place to sleep. Maybe that was the message: that he was tired, that he needed rest, and maybe I did, too.

I still don’t know what the dream meant exactly. I guess I’ll never know. But I know how it made me feel—like I was standing at the edge of something old and unresolved.

Maybe the folding bed was more than just a place to sleep. Maybe it was a symbol of all the things we carry, fold away, and sometimes unfold when we least expect it.

Clearly, there are things we just need to let go because they simply don’t make sense and do not serve us right.

I went to Germany for two weeks and came back with a new preference in water.
That wasn’t the plan. Back in the Philippines, I’d tried Summit sparkling water a couple of times and enjoyed it casually, the way you enjoy a snack you never bother buying again. So when I landed in Frankfurt — jet‑lagged, hungry, and already calculating my side trip to Paris — I reached for still water like a responsible, predictable traveler.

What I didn’t know: Germany had other plans for me.

The Mistaken Bottles

One early morning, before we headed to the Frankfurt Book Fair, I stepped into our team members’ room — and that’s when something shifted.

They had somehow bought two or three whole packs of sparkling water by mistake — a full lineup of green‑capped bottles standing there like abandoned soldiers. They thought “Classic” meant regular mineral water, not the fizzy kind, and were already plotting to pour them down the sink.

I told them I’d happily rescue a bottle or two — offering to trade them my still water, as if we were negotiating precious supplies instead of grocery‑store hydration.

The First Sip

And then came that first sip.

Sharper. Cleaner.
Almost… energizing.

Soon enough, I found myself coming back for another bottle.
Then another.
Maybe even a third — I honestly lost count.

I bought them a pack of still water to make up for the bottles I’d taken — I genuinely can’t remember if it was six or eight, but in that moment, it felt like the right kind of hydration diplomacy.

The Unexpected Favorite

From then on, whenever we ate out or grabbed drinks for the day, I chose sparkling water without hesitation. Somewhere between their almost‑mistake and my sudden curiosity, I realized I’d stumbled into a new, unexpected favorite — one that made my tummy feel surprisingly calm for two whole weeks, and that still reminds me of that quiet, ordinary discovery in Frankfurt.

Some people find themselves in Europe;
apparently I found carbonation.

The Quiet Magic

But maybe that’s the quiet magic of travel — how the smallest, most forgettable things can reveal something about who we’re becoming. A bottle of sparkling water isn’t profound on its own, but the way it found me — through a mix‑up, a trade, a moment of curiosity — feels like a reminder that not every discovery arrives with fanfare.

Some arrive in green caps
and clumsy exchanges,
in sips we don’t expect to enjoy,
in comforts we didn’t know we needed.

And maybe that’s enough.
Maybe part of growing is letting these tiny, fizzy surprises nudge us toward new preferences, new habits, new versions of ourselves we never expected to meet.

I got curious that day. During our layover last October, on the way home from Germany, I caught sight of the Sky Garden—an open‑air terrace tucked into the upper level of the Hong Kong airport, a soft patch of green against all the glass and metal. I hadn’t set foot in that airport since December of 2000, and something about that little space pulled at me.

When the automatic doors slid open, a cool drift of morning air met me, carrying the faint scent of leaves and a quietness that felt out of place in an airport. All I knew was that I wanted to walk toward it, to see what had changed in twenty‑five years, and to give myself the small privilege of discovering something again.

From the outside, it looked promising—calming, even. I expected a space where the green would soften everything around it. Maybe even surprise me a little.

I was right about one thing—it took my breath away.
Just not in the way I imagined.

When I stepped inside, I was met with heavy cigarette smoke from travelers taking their break. The plants were real, the greenery was real, but the purpose of the space wasn’t what I thought. It wasn’t a garden for lingering. It was a smoking area dressed in leaves.

Life often hands us these tiny contradictions.
You walk into something expecting wonder or ease, and reality offers you the opposite. Nothing dramatic—just enough to shift something in you.

I didn’t stay long. It wasn’t a space I wanted to be in. I stepped out quickly, and as soon as the door closed behind me, I breathed in deeply—long, grateful, almost like remembering what clean air felt like. I didn’t realize how suffocating it was until I walked out.

Back at my high chair, waiting for boarding, I pulled out my MacBook. And that’s when the memory hit me: the last time I’d been in this airport was a lifetime ago, in 2000. I vaguely remember the terminal feeling almost museum‑like. I’m nearly sure there was a suspended biplane overhead—but that could be my mind mixing fragments of different trips. That’s the thing about time: it rearranges the details without asking for permission.

Maybe that’s why I went to see the garden in the first place. I didn’t remember it from my last visit, and it felt like something I owed myself—to see what had changed, to compare who I was then and who I’ve become now. Most of the group went out to explore Hong Kong during the layover, but I stayed behind with Mary and Karl. We chose quiet wandering over the rush of squeezing a whole city into a few hours.

So yes, I was disappointed when the garden—with its promise of green—turned out to be something else entirely.

But as the hours passed, I realized my disappointment wasn’t really about the garden.

It was about noticing how I had changed.

Back in 2000, I would’ve lingered a little longer.
Tried to endure it.
Tried to be okay with what was in front of me.
Tried to adjust myself to the space instead of admitting the space wasn’t for me.

But last October?

I walked out as soon as I knew it wasn’t right for me.
No guilt.
No internal negotiation.
Just a simple, quiet exit.

Age does that. It softens you in some ways, but sharpens your self‑awareness in others. It teaches you that you don’t have to stay in spaces that suffocate you—literal or otherwise. It teaches you that you’re allowed to choose where you breathe.

Maybe that’s all growth really is—quietly noticing who I am in each space, letting the small discoveries shape me, and trusting that they matter more than the number of years behind me.

Author’s Note

This piece was written from a memory during our long layover in Hong Kong last October. We arrived from Frankfurt at around 7:30 a.m., and our flight to the Philippines wasn’t until 3:15 p.m. Most of the group went out to explore the city, but I stayed behind with Mary and Karl. The three of us decided to keep things slow—to wander the airport, rest, and let the hours unfold quietly. I didn’t expect anything meaningful to come out of that morning. But sometimes, the smallest, most unassuming moments stay with you the longest, revealing their meaning only when you finally pause long enough to write about them. This was one of those moments.

Before You Dive In

I never imagined that losing my way in Paris would teach me more about courage than any planned adventure. This isn’t just a travel story—it’s about what happens when everything familiar disappears and instinct becomes your only guide.

Why I’d Choose to Get Lost Again

Sometimes, the best way to find yourself is to lose your way.

The First Realization

I didn’t plan to get lost in Paris. But the moment I realized I had no data, no map, and no one to call—I felt more alive than ever.

That desperate need to find my way back, and actually finding it, was the most exhilarating experience I’ve had. It wasn’t just about navigating streets and metro lines; it was about discovering what happens when everything familiar is stripped away and all you have left is instinct.

Paris: Beautiful and Intimidating

That was the first time. I was too busy being scared to notice anything else. My eyes were glued to my phone as I walked, mentally kicking myself for forgetting it was the fifth day—the end of my roaming package. Inside my head, I was screaming, “What am I supposed to do now that I just lost internet connection?”

The streets felt like they were closing in, suffocating me as I walked in circles, fear pressing down with every step. Eventually, I found myself on a train—still unsure if it was the right one, but grateful to be moving instead of circling the same streets. And then, as the train climbed from the underground to an elevated track, Paris gave me a gift.

Through the window, the Eiffel Tower appeared—silent, majestic, glowing against the sky. The first time, I froze, too stunned to move. It felt like the city was whispering, “You’re here. You made it.” The second time, when I realized I’d taken the wrong train again, I didn’t waste the chance. I pulled out my phone and captured a 26-second video, proof that even mistakes can hold beauty. That view reminded me why I came—to feel small and infinite at the same time, to stand in awe of something bigger than fear.

Paris was huge, breathtaking—and intimidating. The subways were dark and confusing, the station names hard to pronounce and even harder to remember. I’ve always been afraid of trains, yet there I was, gripping a cold metal rail while strangers rushed past me like they belonged there. Maybe they were locals. Or maybe they were just like me—foreigners trying to find their way.

I had no internet. About 45 euros and some coins in my wallet. And one hell of a pair of boots to run across Paris streets and metro platforms. It was exhilarating finding my way back to the right station, but bittersweet too—because it meant leaving.

Not Once, But Twice

Paris wasn’t done testing me. I didn’t just get lost once. I got lost twice. And being lost didn’t sink in right away—not until Anna hugged me tight the next morning at the hotel and said, half-joking, “You did it on purpose, didn’t you?” I laughed, but inside I was still replaying the frantic moments when I thought I’d miss my bus back to Frankfurt.

The Long Way to Bercy

The second time was worse. After riding what I thought was the right train to Bercy, everyone started getting off—except me. I sat there, frozen, until a station attendant stepped inside and spoke in rapid French. I caught “dix minutes” but nothing else. My confused face must have said it all. So I stepped off and found myself back on the streets of Paris, boots pounding the pavement.

I spotted two uniformed officers—maybe police, maybe traffic—and asked if they spoke English. One woman said, “Only a little.” I clung to that little. She explained, with gestures and broken words, that I needed to reach Daumesnil Station, switch from Line 10 to Line 6, and then head toward Bercy. Easy, right? Except it wasn’t. Every wrong turn felt like a countdown. My bus to Frankfurt was at 9:30 p.m., and even though it was only past six, panic was my only companion. I whispered to myself, “One more mistake and it’s over.” My brain spun contingency plans, but my heart refused to accept them.

Then came the moment of relief: when I looked up at the station indicator inside the train and saw “Bercy” appear on the list of upcoming stops, I almost cried. It meant I was finally on the right line after switching at Daumesnil. I gripped the metal rail, breathing hard, feeling the weight of fear lift off my shoulders. My face must have been a portrait of pure relief—eyes wide, lips trembling into a smile I couldn’t hold back. I was going to make it.

I forgot about the cold entirely as I sprinted from the subway to the bus station, weaving through streets and crossing a massive park without even pausing to appreciate its beauty. Every muscle burned, but adrenaline drowned out everything except the thought: Get there. Don’t stop.

I also felt regret—because I’d planned to see the Eiffel Tower glitter at night. But the sky had started to drizzle, and I worried that if I stayed and waited for the lights, the rain might turn heavy and leave me drenched. I had no umbrella, no spare clothes. Traveling light seemed smart at first, a way to avoid scammers and complications. Now it felt like a gamble I might lose.

And yet, when I finally reached the bus terminal and saw the glowing timetable, relief washed over me like a quiet victory. The night wasn’t what I imagined—it was better. It taught me that sometimes freedom doesn’t come from standing under the Eiffel Tower lights, but from running through uncertainty and finding your way back. Paris didn’t just challenge me; it changed me.

The Glove and the Uber

Earlier that day, before my frantic race to Bercy, I had my own mini-drama. If there were three words to describe that experience: exhilarating, scary, humbling.

I didn’t want to cause anyone trouble if I missed my bus. I worried more about the people who’d be affected—the ones waiting in Frankfurt, the flight out of Germany the next day. So I pushed forward. I asked questions. I stood in corners watching locals use ticket machines until I had the courage to try. I had bought a Navigo Easy card earlier that morning at Bercy Seine, proud of myself for planning ahead. But when I saw the crowded platform, panic won. I left and booked an Uber—27.86 euros gone in minutes.

And somewhere between the Arc de Triomphe and the backseat of that Uber, I lost a glove. The left one. Funny how small things stick with you. In Frankfurt, strangers always handed my fallen glove back. In Paris, it disappeared without a trace.

What I Learned

Still, I made it. I made it to and out of Paris on my own—with courage as my currency. I didn’t have much in my wallet, but I had enough will to see the one place I’d dreamed of. I never imagined traveling to Europe this way. It was awesome to the nth level.

If I ever go back, I’d still travel alone. But this time, I want to see the Eiffel Tower lit. I want more pictures. I’ll ride the tram, the bus, and the subway instead of calling an Uber. Maybe I’ll walk more—even if it means losing my way again. More time in Paris means more chances to find my way.

There’s something about how sharp we become when we realize we’re lost. Maybe it was the frantic sprint to the other side when someone told me I was in the wrong place. Or maybe it was the rush of finally finding my way back. Me. I did it.

That kind of freedom—the kind that makes you smile because it’s real—feels like liberation.

Have you ever been lost—and loved what you found? Tell me your story in the comments. I’d love to hear where you discovered yourself.

C'était déchirant. Traumatisant. Mais surtout déchirant.

Sofia ne s'attendait pas à pleurer dans l'avion. Mais les larmes sont venues—rapides et impitoyables.

Elle a entendu les sanglots étouffés—les siens.

Au début, elle n'arrivait pas à croire que c'était elle qui pleurait. Mais c'était réel.

Des joues baignées de larmes. Un cœur trop plein pour tout contenir.

Elle se sentait piégée, là où elle n'avait pas sa place.

Elle murmurait les mots dans son esprit, comme si Gabin pouvait les entendre.

Tu n'avais pas besoin de briser mon cœur pour te sentir moins seul. Ce n'était pas nécessaire.

Tu fais partie de moi. Te voir souffrir comme tu souffres me tue à petit feu.

Et le pire ? Tu crois que je ne tiens pas à toi.

Que fait une mère face à un message de méfiance totale ?

Tu n'avais pas à me faire choisir.

Partir alors que tu souffres est la chose la plus difficile que j'aie jamais faite.

Mais je ne me déteste pas pour autant.

Ce que j'ai fait m'a libérée.

Elle espérait que Gabin comprendrait un jour.

J'espère qu'un jour tu auras l'occasion de faire la même chose—

T'éloigner de quelqu'un qui ne veut pas que tu sois heureux.

Quelqu'un qui te demande d'abandonner quelque chose de bon juste pour le choisir.

Quelqu'un qui croit que rester prouve l'amour, et partir signifie que tu l'aimes moins.

Quelqu'un qui pense que l'empathie signifie s'oublier pour l'autre.

Mais l'empathie n'est pas l'effacement de soi.

C'est choisir de ressentir avec quelqu'un.

C'est partager la vérité amère de sa situation parce que tu tiens vraiment à lui—

Pas parce qu'on t'a forcé à avoir pitié.

L'Allemagne devait être un cadeau joyeux.

Sofia voulait le partager avec Gabin.

Mais au lieu de cela, elle avait l'impression que c'était le seul moyen de lui échapper.

Pourquoi voudrais-tu que je m'oublie ?

Elle pensait à la chose la plus cruelle que quelqu'un puisse faire.

Faire croire à quelqu'un que la seule façon de prouver l'amour

Est d'abandonner ce qui compte pour lui.

Le faire renoncer à ce qu'il aime juste pour te choisir—

Ce n'est pas de l'amour.

L'amour ne se force pas.

C'est cruel de vouloir que les gens qui tiennent à toi se noient dans la solitude

Juste parce que tu es en train de sombrer.

Mais c'est encore pire de leur demander de s'oublier

Pour que tu te sentes aimé et moins seul.

Pourquoi voudrais-tu blesser ceux qui t'aiment ?

Pourquoi voler leur joie pour qu'ils soient tristes avec toi ?

Aimer signifie que tu ne voudrais pas qu'ils ressentent exactement ce que tu ressens—

Parce que tu sais à quel point c'est insupportable.

Tu voudrais les protéger de la même douleur qui te brise.

Il faisait sombre. Froid.

Sofia regardait par la fenêtre, le ciel indifférent à sa douleur.

Elle pensait à Gabin, cherchant l'amour là où il n'était pas vraiment aimé.

Choisir de partir est ma façon de te montrer :

Aucune distance ne pourra jamais changer ce que je ressens pour toi.

Mais me forcer à rester ?

C'est le moyen le plus sûr de créer la distance que nous ne voulons pas.

Partir laisse un goût amer.

Mais choisir de partir, c'est te montrer que faire ce qui est juste pour moi

Ne diminue en rien ce que tu représentes pour moi.

Tu viens de moi.

Tu es ma chair et mon sang.

Je souffre quand tu souffres.

C'est ma façon de te dire :

Tu as tort de penser que j'ai besoin que tu souffres pour que je t'aime.

Les larmes finiront par sécher un jour. Tu verras.

Nos choix n'ont pas besoin d'être les seuls témoins de notre amour.

Pour toutes les autres fois où tu as brisé mon cœur,

Je te pardonne.

Et je me pardonne de t'avoir laissé faire.

Ever feel guilty about eating something you were told not to? Or buying something for yourself when you know you should be sticking to the weekly budget?

Guilty as charged.

I knew I should’ve looked the other way. I should’ve just kept walking past the shop. But I didn’t. I walked in. I lingered. I looked at the bags a little closer. And worst of all—I touched them. Held them in my hands.

I tried to convince myself: This is me taking care of myself. I deserve this. I’ve been putting others first for years, haven’t I?

I went on and on.

But the more I tried to justify the purchase, the worse I felt. I started asking myself if they were even worth it.

Impulse buying. That’s what I did.

And it felt good. For once.

Restraint—that’s what I chose not to do. And in that moment, it made sense. It felt like kindness. A small rebellion that reminded me I mattered too.

I got two tote bags. A buy-one-get-one promo. Yep, they got me. I told myself it was a birthday gift. Not too much to ask.

That was last year.

Thinking about it now, I realize two things:

One, it was worth it.
Two, it wasn’t really about the bags.

It was about permission.
To want something.
To choose myself.
To feel joy without needing to explain it away.

Impulse buying gets a bad rap. But sometimes, it’s not about recklessness—it’s about responding to a quiet need. A need to feel seen, to feel worthy, to feel joy. In that moment, the bags weren’t just things. They were a gesture of care.

Sometimes, the smallest acts—like buying a tote bag—can carry the weight of years of self-denial. They become symbols of something bigger: a quiet reclaiming of space, of voice, of worth.

I didn’t just walk out of that shop with two bags.
I walked out with a reminder:
That I am allowed to be generous with myself.
That care doesn’t always look like restraint.
Sometimes, it looks like saying yes.

I didn’t need the bags. I needed the reminder that I matter.

I didn’t expect it to hit me this hard.
But it did.
And it keeps hitting.

Liam Payne would’ve turned 32 on August 29.
Instead of a birthday celebration, we got tributes.
Instead of new music, we got memories.
Instead of laughter, we got silence.

I saw the posts—fans sharing old videos, photos, interviews. Clips of him dancing, laughing, being the Liam we all knew. The one who made us laugh with him. The one who made us feel like we were part of something joyful, something light.

And now, he can’t laugh.
He can’t sing.
He can’t make us laugh with him.

That truth sits in my chest like a stone.
It’s not sharp. It’s not loud.
It’s just there.
Heavy. Constant.

I’ve been almost afraid to write about him.
Because writing makes the pain more real.
It turns the ache into words, and once it’s written, I can’t pretend it’s not there.
I’m not sure I’ll be able to get out of that raw feeling of loss and grief once I step into it.
But here I am.
Writing anyway.

What broke me most was seeing that photo—Liam’s hand and Bear’s little hand on the piano.
That image undid me.
Because Bear will never get to hold his dad’s hand again.
He’ll grow up with echoes, with stories, with videos—but not with Liam.
And I often wonder how Cheryl is coping.
How Bear is coping.
It’s never easy to lose a parent, so much more at such a young age.

It took me five years to accept my mom’s death.
And even now, I still cry when I remember her.
Grief doesn’t follow a timeline.
It just lives with you.
Sometimes quietly.
Sometimes loudly.
But always there.

I keep thinking about how much Liam gave.
How much joy he carried.
How much pain he must’ve hidden.

And I ache.
I ache for the songs we’ll never hear.
For the laughter we’ll never share.
For the life that should’ve kept going.

It’s the kind of ache that doesn’t scream.
It just stays.
Quiet.
Unrelenting.

I miss him.
Even though I never knew him.
Even though he never knew me.

I miss him.

Have you ever found yourself in the middle of a crowded mall—people rushing past, each absorbed in their own errands, their own lives?

You’re just standing there. Still.

Not shopping. Not searching.

Just… suspended.

You don’t know where to go. You don’t even know why you’re there.

Then you asked yourself, “Was I looking for something to take home? Or just something to feel?”

You couldn’t tell. You only knew that you wanted to stop feeling so far away from everything.

Eventually, you move. You step into a Japanese shop, hoping something might spark a feeling. But nothing does. You drift through the aisles, touching objects without wanting them. Looking, but not seeing.

You tell yourself: There are things here I want, but nothing I need.

Or maybe it’s the other way around.

And that’s the disturbing part—not knowing which is which.

You take a deep breath. One last look around. Then a step toward the door.

Outside, you turn back. Just once. And whisper to no one in particular:

“All I wanted was to see my kids happy.”

Motherhood is strange like that.

You carry their joy like a compass, even when you feel lost.

You walk into places hoping to find something for yourself, but end up measuring everything against their smiles.

And sometimes, you realize you’re not really looking for things.

You’re looking for a feeling.

A memory.

A moment that says: They’re okay. They’re happy. I did alright.

But here’s the truth I hadn’t admitted until now:

Even as I thought of them, I also needed that time for myself.

To be alone with my thoughts.

To feel me… feeling me.

Maybe I didn’t buy anything because I wasn’t looking for something to take home.

Maybe I just needed to remember who I was when I wasn’t carrying everyone else’s weight.

Finding a new job hasn’t been easy. It made me wonder how much more I could do without any means of getting a paycheck for my bills and debts.

“This, too, shall pass.” I’ve been telling myself that on repeat to make sure I don’t forget that everything is temporary.

I wanted so much to cry. But I couldn’t. I haven’t cried. Sure, there were times tears welled up in my eyes, but they never escaped them. They blurred my eyes multiple times in the past two months. However, it seems difficult to cry. Not even a sniffle.

Anyway, I’ll figure out why soon enough. For now, let me talk about how things have been.

It sucks. It’s been crazy.

But in the middle of all that, there was one thing that kept me grounded—my iPad.

Yes, that pad.

It wasn’t just a screen. It became my anchor. My bridge. My quiet companion when I didn’t want to talk to anyone but still needed to feel connected to something—anything.

When I hit The Wall, I felt like I had nothing left. No home. No plan. No voice. But I had this one device that let me write when I couldn’t speak, search when I didn’t know what I was looking for, and reach out when I was too afraid to ask for help out loud.

It was on that pad that I started writing again. Not for anyone else—just for me. It reminded me that I still had something to say. That I was still here.

It was on that pad that I searched for jobs, sent emails, updated my resume, and applied to places I never thought I’d hear back from. It was my ladder in digital form—one tap at a time, I was climbing.

And it was through that pad that I reconnected with people. I messaged friends I hadn’t spoken to in years. I read stories that made me feel less alone. I found communities that reminded me I wasn’t the only one trying to rebuild.

I used to think asking for help meant showing weakness. But the pad taught me otherwise. It showed me that help doesn’t always come in grand gestures. Sometimes, it’s a small screen lighting up in the dark. A message sent. A story read. A job application submitted. A prayer typed out in the notes app.

It was my bridge to the world when I wanted to disappear. It was my mirror when I forgot who I was. It was my ladder when I didn’t know how to climb. And it was my pad—my soft place to land—when everything else felt too hard.

I didn’t expect to find hope in a device. But maybe it wasn’t the iPad itself. Maybe it was what it allowed me to do: to write, to reach, to remember. To be still and not feel stuck. To be quiet and still feel heard.

When I hit The Wall, I thought I was done. When I found The Ladder, I realized I still had a choice. And now, with The Pad, I’ve learned that sometimes, help doesn’t look like rescue—it looks like a tool. A moment. A whisper. A way back to yourself.

I’m still not where I want to be. But I’m not where I was. And that’s enough for now.

I keep writing. I keep reaching. I keep remembering.

And every time I open that screen, I remind myself: I’m still here. I’m still trying. And that’s more than enough.

Author’s Note

When I began writing 50 and Broke, I didn’t know where it would take me. I only knew I needed to write—because writing was the one thing that helped me make sense of the mess, the silence, the fear, and the flickers of hope.

The Wall was my reckoning.
The Ladder was my choice.
The Pad was my anchor.

This series is not a how-to. It’s not a success story wrapped in a bow. It’s a record of survival, surrender, and small, sacred steps toward healing. It’s about what happens when you lose everything you thought made you “you”—and slowly, painfully, beautifully, begin to find your way back.

To those who read, commented, shared, or simply sat with these words in silence—thank you. You reminded me that I wasn’t alone. And if you’re reading this now, I hope you know: neither are you.

This may be the end of this series, but it’s not the end of the story. I’m still writing. Still learning. Still becoming.

And I hope you are, too.

With love and light,

G

P. S.

This last entry had been sitting in my drafts for almost a year. I just had to write it the way I needed to tell you who I was before I turned my life around. Maybe I had to carry her story a little longer—before I could finally let her go.

“I think the biggest mistake we all make is thinking we have enough time.”
— La Dolce Villa

We live like time is endless — like the days will always stretch ahead of us, waiting. But lately, I’ve been asking myself: Have I done enough?

When I look back at the years I’ve spent doing what I do, I wonder — have I truly spent my time on what I’m meant to do? Or have I just been moving, working, producing… without ever pausing to ask what I really want?

Porter gave me a watch recently. A simple gift, but it landed like a question:
What am I watching for? What am I measuring?

It made me think about how much time I’ve poured into creating something meaningful. And I have to say — this season of my life feels like the most honest beginning. Not because everything is perfect, but because it’s real. It’s not just about being present. It’s about being awake to what matters.

The watch doesn’t just tell time. It reminds me that time is telling me something.
That every second counts — but not all seconds are equal. Some are filled with purpose, others with distraction. Some are spent in service of others, some in service of a dream. And some slip by unnoticed, until a moment — or a movie line — jolts you awake.

I don’t want to wait for a crisis or a loss to remind me that time is precious. I want to live like I already know.

So I’m watching what matters.
And I’m learning to count the right seconds.

I’m learning that meaning doesn’t always come from grand gestures or perfect plans. Sometimes, it’s in the quiet choices — the ones we make when no one’s watching. Like choosing to pause. Choosing to listen. Choosing to stay a little longer in a moment that feels like home. These are the seconds that shape us, even if we don’t notice them right away.

When Porter gave me that watch, I didn’t just see a way to tell time — I saw a reminder to feel it. It was small, thoughtful, and quietly profound. A gift from my child, yes, but also a nudge from the universe: to pay attention, to be deliberate, to stop letting the meaningful moments slip by unnoticed. That watch made me ask not just what time it is, but what I’m doing with it.

So let me ask you — if time really is limited, what are you choosing to make count today?

When did your father become a dad in your eyes?

For me, it was when Daddy refused to teach me how to drive his motorcycle, a black Yamaha RX50. 

Naturally, I was hurt when he said no. He told me it was dangerous and the motorcycle was too big for a girl like me. I would end up breaking it. And all those other things he said to convince me not to learn to drive. 

I understood the part when he said it was dangerous. Driving a vehicle was scary for me, too. I didn’t want to end up with all those horrific bruises or wounds that would leave ugly scars. Or worse, die! I mean, who would like to be dead even before getting a driver’s license, right?

But as my resentment grew, one thing that stuck with me when Daddy blatantly spoke against my plan was that girls are not supposed to drive motorcycles. It dawned on me that my father didn’t want me to learn to drive as much as he didn’t want me to learn how to fly planes. It left a bitter taste in my mouth. He couldn’t possibly be meaner than that.

That’s what my defiant, spiteful young self thought at first.

As I became distant from my father, I summoned all the courage I thought I had and told Dad I’d teach myself how to drive with or without his blessing. As expected, he didn’t say anything. His silence was deafening and hurtful. And it scarred my heart the most.

So, I finally got my student license and began my early morning driving lessons. For weeks, I woke up at 4 a.m. and taught myself how to drive. I watched sunrise after sunrise with Dad’s vehicle.

I thought my dad didn’t care. That was the loneliest I’ve ever been. 

But I was wrong.

I can’t remember how long exactly it took me to learn to drive using my father’s motorcycle. It was kind of a crazy experience.

So, every time I sneaked out and got his RX 50 out on the street, I promised I’d show him I could do it without his help. I’d also made sure I didn’t damage his bike, or else there was no way for me to get my license. There was no other vehicle I could use.

But then he surprised me one morning. It was probably my third pass by our house when I saw him. Standing by the door was my father, watching me on his bike—driving. He did it every single day I was out there. Just when I thought I was sneaking out with his precious black two-wheeled ride, he woke up every morning to see me practice.

Without a doubt, he saw me jump off his bike when I lost my balance one time. It was exhilarating—jumping off like that. I wanted to tell someone about it, but I had no one—Not even my father.

Again… I was so wrong.

Little did I know that all the while, my father knew her daughter was smart enough not to fall with the motorcycle. Guilt, that's what I felt every time I saved myself first before his bike. But I reasoned, I only did what he told me—safety first!

Besides, I always found a way to replace what I broke, and I cleaned his bike, too!

So why did I say that was the time I saw my father as my dad?

There are two reasons. First, my father let me prove him wrong. Second, he never left me, even when we never saw eye-to-eye with my risk-taking pursuits.

He taught me invaluable, real-life lessons on discipline and independence. His distance and refusal to teach me how to drive ended up with him teaching me how good it felt to accomplish something on my own. He gave me my first taste of freedom. Freedom to defy difficulties through resilience and perseverance.

Daughters want more from fathers. At least, that’s how I felt then. I mean, there’s no doubt that he was the best provider I’ve ever known. He and Mom did everything they could to get us through college. He even traveled a lot for work to make ends meet. 

But for me, all I needed was his presence, and in that moment of me proving to him he was wrong and that I could do it, he showed up. Every single day, he watched me struggle to learn balance and courage to handle a man’s big bike. 

A dad shows up. He did that for me when I thought my goals didn’t matter to him. He also showed up at my graduation from flying school. Undeniably, I felt his presence then.

Today, as the whole world puts all fathers on a pedestal, I sit here remembering that moment when I realized I wasn’t the only one sneaking every morning—Dad was too. He doesn’t deserve to be on a pedestal. It's clear to me now that he wasn't perfect. He was a quiet man, often perceived to be passive and indifferent, but he was real.

No, I won't put him on a pedestal like an idol. Dad belongs in my heart forever. He wasn’t faultless, but he was someone brave enough to let me go, so I learned life my way. 

He was and always will be My Dad.

Happy Father’s Day in heaven, Daddy.

Have you ever felt like you don’t belong anywhere? Is that feeling eating at you every day because you want to shake off that loneliness you felt for so long? What’s worse is that you want to feel at home but don’t know where home is exactly.

Or you did know where home is, but you’re having trouble remembering how it felt to be home?

Today, as we celebrate Easter Sunday, I want to talk about how we all, at some point, felt that kind of loneliness caused by the feeling of not being included and that incessant voice mocking us endlessly, saying that we don’t belong.

Weeks ago, a tree that grew in front of our front door stirred everyone’s attention at home, the kind that made my skin crawl a bit because I hate confrontations.

There were two sides. One wanted it cut down, and the other needed to keep it. Cutting it down logically means safety when storms come, while keeping it means shade and cool air for us. Both made sense to me. 

No need for details, but the shorter version is both parties agreed to keep the tree. Periodically, we need to trim the branches near the roof. A sound decision I found agreeable (I was a spectator as Porter dealt with the situation on her own. A proud moment for me). And just like that, all is well again.

With that settled, I got time to think about how that seemingly insignificant tree stirred something in me, too, after hearing Porter talk about what that tree meant to her.

She shared how much she loves that tree. It is simple for Porter. Two things - she grew up with that tree. And lastly, the tree gave her a reason to feel like she was home.

As I watched Porter shed tears for that tree, I found myself reflecting on how we oftentimes miss out on cries for help even when they’re right in front of us. 

It’s sad. But it isn’t what this article is about.

It’s about our tendency to forget how important people are no matter what others think or say about them. How effortless we do the forgetting sometimes is appalling.

The Odd Tree

Just like that tree in our front yard, some people think they are alone. 

Yes, that tree grew on its own. Alone. Until someone noticed it.

Porter did. Unexpectedly, she found a connection with that tree as she sat under its branches every night. That tree gave her something to look forward to day in and day out. She felt hopeful just looking at that tree. And for every time she spent with it, she felt less lonely.

Truth slaps: Porter felt lonely. How could I miss that? I asked myself as I listened to my child pine for that tree.

It cuts deep knowing your child felt a deep loneliness you can't fix.

I want to change that. I may not be able to fix that for her, but I want her to believe I am here all the same.

Doing that means accepting the fact of how we are first. We are not like other families that society defines as complete. Others may regard our family as dysfunctional.

But my definition is simple - we are different.

Just like that tree, we grew up regardless of the environment. “No one cared for that tree,” I used to tell myself.

As a family with deep-seated wounds, we thought no one cared about what we went through. So, we learned to live alone, together until we had to leave each other and learned to find who we were as individuals.

I admit that not everyone is lucky to have grown up without the complexity of some parents’ inability to stay together, causing every ounce of doubt in children as they grow up. More often than not, children with single parents feel confined within the sad walls of abandonment and guilt. Always wondering what they’ve done to cause one parent to leave. 

When I was a young single parent, my constant wish was that one day, my children would come to realize the necessity of their father leaving. But now I recognize that it isn’t their responsibility to discover the whys of my decision. 

Telling them straight up is a better way to help them understand. It is my responsibility to tell the truth, no matter how painful, without depriving them of the choice of deciding whether to accept it or not. I owe them that.

Looking back at that gloomy season, I often wonder how we have grown up and failed to recall how simple life truly is. 

There is nothing more vital for us to do but to be kind to each other, never forgetting to respect each other’s individuality and significance. 

Fortunately, like that tree, we have something to offer the world little or big. What matters is we exist with a purpose. No one is insignificant.

I always believe that who we are shines the brightest when we are with the right people. We can't keep waiting for them to find us. It takes courage to go further away from where we are comfortable to find them.

Different Truths

What others find unimportant may be the one thing that saves someone else. What someone sees as negligible can be pivotal to another.

One may find something ugly and a nuisance, while another finds that same thing, as beautiful and calming, saving their day with its presence.

I could go on and on, but one thing is for sure - we see things differently. Sometimes, how we see things sets us apart. Other times, it causes us to feel alone.

The voices within us tell stories we alone can hear. After hearing those persistent noises for a long time, we crave to listen to someone outside telling us we are okay and that it is all right to be different. 

I want to be that outsider for Porter. In a few words, I want to let her know she isn’t alone and that it is okay to be herself. She can be whoever she wants. And no matter what, she will always be that lone tree I will never cut down.

It’s time to stop struggling to make up for what I lack as a parent. I am enough for them as they are enough for me.

And like how Porter feels about that tree, my children will always be my home no matter where life takes them. 

Hopefully, one day, they discover, as I have, that being alone doesn’t always mean lonely. Alone can be good for the soul. Standing up for oneself is a gift not everyone takes on. 

We are already whole as God designed us to be. We have to trust that truth. We have always been free to love ourselves as we rediscover who we are meant to be.

Like what that tree taught me, our significance doesn't depend on someone else’s say-so. When we stop and watch, we see that things aren’t always what they seem. 

Now, I see that tree differently.

That tree that we all thought never belonged? It belonged to Porter.

It is her tree.

I will always remember it as something that helped her feel calm and happy. Nothing is more important than that.

The unspoken truth? The tree was never insignificant.

It brought someone dear to me, hope.

We all deserve second chances even when people say otherwise.

But how hard is it to get a second chance for what feels right and for what we think we deserve?

Some of you probably are counting how many times life and people have failed you and your efforts to turn things around for yourself. And a few probably simply are shrugging the question off because, at this point in your lives, the answer doesn’t matter. Either you have given up entirely, or you don’t care anymore.

And yet a few others, like me, paused and thought about it.

Let’s face it. The world is not perfect. Oftentimes, it is not kind at all. That’s why when someone stretches out a hand, offering a way out of our hopeless situation, we can only take it, right?

Right.

It is human nature to want things to go better for ourselves. It is human to want others to see us and show us kindness.

A lifeline. We all need one at critically trying times when we think we are barely hanging on.

Remember what I said about the Guitar Foundation as my unexpected lifeline? It is my reality. A while back, I could only wish that someone else had that same happy truth.

Little did I know that there were others like me. The Guitar Foundation has affected many individuals who needed a door of hope to open for them, as I did then.

Taking a chance on Liam

Today, I want to talk about how GFPI has become that same lifeline for others.

Liam Castigon is a graduating music student at the University of Southern Philippines Foundation (USPF). Not long ago, he was ready to give up school and his dreams until the Guitar Foundation of the Philippines, Inc. (GFPI) made him their scholar. Things started looking up for this young musician.

As I spent time getting to know this young man, I discovered things that convinced me he deserves the good things he has now.

He didn’t hesitate about telling me he did things in the past that got him in so much trouble until he was drawn to playing the guitar. The kind of vulnerability that makes you want to listen to him more.

About a week ago, I told Liam what my Google search result was when I searched his name. With unmasked enthusiasm, I shared that his name is of Irish origin, which means “guardian.” He shrugged nonchalantly and said his name was from an English rock band called Oasis. It became apparent to me later that Liam of Oasis is the band’s lead vocalist - Liam Gallagher.

Honestly, I prefer Google’s version. With a shy smile, he thanked me for letting him know what his name meant. To my amazement, I thought I saw his eyes had that happy glint when he said his thanks, quite telling of his good character.

As I got to know more about him in one of our online conversations, he shared that he has been learning the classical guitar for about three years now. He mentioned that he has the Guitar Foundation to thank for helping him shape his future as a classical guitarist.

Without question, taking a chance on someone takes courage and determination to keep believing it will be worth it, not for the one giving it, but for the one receiving that chance. With his newfound hope, he made it a point to return the kindness.

Operation Second Chance

GFPI is serious about its goal to be an ambassador of the instrument - the classical guitar - doing more for the community than just flaunting what the guitar can do in concerts and gigs. The guitar can also be a tool for positivity, paving the way for a better life for the less fortunate.

About a month ago, the organization collaborated with Lianne Sala’s Sistemang Pilipino, Inc. (SP) to provide hope for the youth at the Cebu City Operation Second Chance Center (CCOSCC).

Sistemang Pilipino is a non-profit organization founded in 2012 by Lianne Sala with two co-founders, Jiovanni Tabada and Aurelio Maria Rodriguez. Their vision? For the Philippines to become “a nation empowered by music” (Sistemang Pilipino, n.d.). Quite a benevolent cause, prompting them to work harder to focus on “providing world-class music education and performance opportunities for Filipino children and youth,” especially those from communities with fewer resources (Sistemang Pilipino, n.d.).

As a music enthusiast (a violinist) and a member of the Guitar Foundation of the Philippines, she saw the need to reach out to the youths at the center (CCOSCC) and shared the intent with the GFPI board. The foundation happily agreed to the plan and started working with Lianne and her team.

With the collaboration already in place, Lianne’s group has made available a total of four guitars (One on loan-only basis from Lianne, two donated by SP, and one given by a church volunteer) for the six guitar program participants, while Engr. Rene Kintanar sponsors the guitar teacher, ensuring the sustainability of Liam's teaching sessions at the center every week.

Tuesdays with Liam

The program is simple. The Guitar Foundation assigns and sends a guitar teacher to the center weekly. That’s where Liam comes in. He commits to an hour and 30 minutes with the young boys every Tuesday. To him, the time he spends there is his way of giving back.

Tuesdays for Liam and the boys are never going to be the same. Now, they have each other as they continuously turn to music as their haven. Liam shares his knowledge with them, and the boys embrace the opportunity to show the world they can choose to change for the better. By learning how to play the guitar, they are letting go of old ways that carry them away from the place where they are supposed to be. Safe.

A flicker of hope. That is what GFPI and SP have given to those six young boys at the center.

A Tool for Change

Music, the classical guitar, SP, and GFPI are tools for change. A shift much-needed by individuals tormented by the world’s harsh realities. Like Liam and the boys, they found a way forward.

With Liam’s story of giving back, I'd say that it’s easier for me now to call him as a guardian of the vision that both GFPI and SP have for the Filipino community - one who’s worth so much respect and support.

A reminder that when we are fortunate enough to get help from people who do not expect us to pay them back, we pay it forward. We make it our business never to walk away from the opportunity to tell our story so others may never give up and continue to hope that, like others, they, too, deserve a better life.

A life filled with music rather than the hateful noise of ugly circumstances. Eventually, they can feel safe again because they finally got that elusive chance at redemption.

The Guitar Foundation of the Philippines, Inc., (GFPI) has existed for decades. 50 years, to be exact. Although this is my first time to write about the Foundation, this is not the first time someone has written about the organization.

With that in mind, I borrowed an excerpt from the Foundation’s official website guitarfoundationphils.com. The About section outlines how the organization came to be and what its goal is.

The Guitar Foundation of the Philippines Incorporated is a non-stock, non-profit organization registered with the Securities and Exchange Commission. The mother chapter of the organization is located in Cebu City. The Organization is composed mostly of individuals from different walks of life professionals who are either guitar players or mainly enthusiasts. It started as a small group of classical guitarists in 1972, and became a Foundation in 1990. It has embarked on several cultural activities in the national and international levels.

The main goal of the foundation is to propagate and create an appreciation towards the classical guitar in the Philippines as a worthy concert instrument deserving of the attention mostly reserved for the piano and other more established instruments of western classical music.

Among the past projects of the Guitar Foundation and the Cebu Guitar Ensemble were fund raising activities for various charity foundations in the community, including, among others, Cebu Medical Indigent Foundation, Inc. through the Archdiocese of Cebu. The Foundation and the Ensemble has tasked itself with the promotion of guitar music through free concerts in various schools, guitar clinics and seminars.

The group intends to expand its membership, especially to the young generation, to reach out, and give life to the fact that in a lot of Filipino homes there lie’s a guitar, perhaps old and battered, waiting to be awakened “by the touch of a master’s hand.”

The road for this group has not been easy, but it has been one that has made their journey worthwhile.

As they continue attracting more and more individuals with a heart for music and the classical guitar, I would like to highlight the current president.

The Leader

Anthony Solomon, or Anton as he is known for, has led a colorful life in the music industry, specifically where playing the classical guitar is concerned. I met Anton in 2013 during our rehearsals for the Philippine Guitar Sinfonia Concert at the Cebu Cultural Center (CCC). More than his distinct and enigmatic look - long curly hair and sunny demeanor - his skillful hands on the classical guitar leave you no choice but to give him that second look, engaging you further as he takes you deeper into the world of classical music through the six-stringed guitar.

This young artist left home to provide guitar lessons under the Guitar Foundation of the Philippines program set for musically inclined individuals in the guitar capital of the Philippines, Cebu province. With the help of the guitar virtuoso and one of GFPI’s friends, Maestro Jose Valdez, his stay in the Queen City of the South materialized.

Solomon, as I want to call him fondly now, made it his business to help GFPI more than what he came here for. Since the year he decided to stay in Cebu, he has been busy representing the Foundation to the best of his ability through the many guitar lessons and gigs he played as a solo artist or playing with the GFPI Guitar Ensemble (usually with Bebot Alegre, Lemuel Enanoria, Rene Filoteo, Joel Oporto, Joey Diola, and other original ensemble members). I remember hearing about him, along with other members, risking their lives just to be able to play when COVID was still wreaking havoc in the city. Admittedly, I find such an unselfish act as one form of service from a true leader.

His leadership skills have not gone unnoticed by GFPI’s board, which led the members to choose Solomon to lead the group in last year's elections. The new group of leaders swore their commitment to the Foundation during the 50th Anniversary celebration in November 2024.

He has served the organization through his relentless efforts to sustain the GFPI Guitar Ensemble, paving the way for the new breed of classical guitar players.

Currently, he is supporting and playing music with seven young artists - Edrian Prosia, Psalm David Abella, Neil Patrick Turan, CJ Espiga, Liam Castigon, Star Manuel Apawan and Vincent Ray Vinzon - who have been representing the GFPI Guitar Ensemble actively in events highlighting the art of playing the guitar. Solomon has been making noise for the Foundation in the best way he knows how - playing the instrument, captivating his audience into a stronger bond, and making them want to know more about the Guitar Foundation of the Philippines and what it does for the community.

Before the end of 2024, he led the ensemble in a series of events, leaving us all in awe at how much he has grown - as an artist and a leader. One event that puts the Foundation front and center was the GFPI Guitar Ensemble’s participation in the NUSTAR Resort & Casino’s 12 Days of Mystical Holiday Magic.

I witnessed their enchanting performance of Christmas melodies on December 1, 2024, at NUSTAR’s atrium. It was an unforgettable musical experience that proved they were ready to take the group to new and more advantageous breaks, underscoring the Foundation’s influence in music and the classical guitar.

This year, Solomon has consistently and persistently put GFPI on the map more prominently. His goal is for the GFPI Guitar Ensemble to perform more together and for its members to play solo pieces more confidently. With the group on display for the Foundation, Solomon hopes to place the Guitar Foundation of the Philippines (GFPI) in a more solid position where guitar playing is concerned.

Two of the 2025 GFPI events that Solomon has helped organize include the following: February 10, New Sounds on the Guitar: A Lecture by Agustin Gastilla-Avila (held at the Univeristy of Southern Philippines Foundation (USPF) campus where he teaches) and February 18, Pilot Session of the Free Guitar Lessons for the Cebu City Operation Second Chance Center (CCOSCC), a Juvenile Rehab Facility in Barangay Kalunasan, Guadalupe. The guitar lessons is a collaborative program of the Foundation and Lianne Sala’s Sistemang Pilipino (a separate article will be featured on Stringed next).

Solomon does not limit himself to playing the guitar. He also does musical arrangements of music, both his own compositions and renowned musical pieces. He finished two years of Bachelor of Music, Major in Music Education, at the Philippine Women’s University (PWU). The training he received there played a significant role in honing his gift in music, especially under the guidance and training of Maestro Jose Valdez. That same exposure to the art inspired him to attend masterclass lessons in Thailand under Dr. Paul Cesarczyk (more information about Anton’s journey is available on GFPI’s official website).

Just recently, his guitar quartet arrangement of Pobreng Alindahao came to the forefront at the National Museum of the Philippines - Cebu, played by the core members of the USPF Guitar Ensemble (who happen to be GFPI Guitar Ensemble members as well).

His Mission

As we have established above, Solomon has proven to be one of the country’s esteemed classical guitarists. His mission in life continues to align with GFPI’s, and it is up to him and his officers to open the doors of opportunities for the Foundation’s programs and events considerably wider.

Let’s join this impressive artist in his quest to make the Guitar Foundation of the Philippines a household name when we talk about the guitar. Looking forward to more committed supporters, helping Solomon’s reign stir up that unmistakable need in people to be a part of his efforts to build more meaning and significance to GFPI’s vision.

Pens & Her’s Stringed is ready to document his and GFPI’s journey to reclaiming the stage for Cebu’s guitar enthusiasts and the importance of keeping the passion for the instrument alive in the hearts of the Philippine society.

The guitar. It’s always been the guitar. It answers the question - “Which musical instrument would you choose to play?”

How did I know?

The instrument picked me.

There are six musical instruments I know how to play (sort of): the guitar, ukulele, piano, harmonica, beatbox, and violin. I am not a virtuoso. Not at all, but I can play a tune or two.

The egg shaker, too! We can add it to the list.

My siblings and I had musically inclined parents. Mom played the piano while Dad the piano, the guitar, the harmonica, and the ukulele. Both of them always made it a point to expose us to music and the instruments, stringed and not.

Over the years, my attachment has always been to the guitar, specifically the classical guitar. But my first ever formal training was with the piano. Mom arranged for a piano teacher to see us at home - me and my sister, Gladdys. Then, I enrolled at a music school to learn classical guitar playing. During the pandemic, I was fortunate to get free basic lessons on the violin from a Canadian violin instructor - Meghan Verdejo.

Learning a musical instrument online was testing my patience, especially when I had only the laptop camera to use during sessions, and my room wasn’t as spacious as it needed to be so Meghan could see my fingers on the violin. I thought about Suzette (my friend who is a music teacher) and the rest of those who had to switch to online classes. I could only imagine how much difficulty they had to overcome then.

At least for me, a kind neighbor, Brian, helped me with my signage for my supposed ability to provide guitar lessons for those interested, especially kids. He helped me further by enrolling his girlfriend in a 1-day per week guitar lesson with me. All I needed to do was go to their house next door with my guitar.

That was how Piper (my classical guitar) helped me financially during the pandemic. It was too bad I had to stop. The student started a new job, and I was overwhelmed with my “8-5” work and ghostwriting job.

During one of the darkest times of my life - the pandemic - I had to be both a music teacher and a learner.

But before my teaching gigs and unforgettable experiences, I’d like to revisit how I started loving the guitar and who helped me stick to it over the years of ups and downs.

The Foundation

As established before, I made a promise to Mom on her deathbed. I played her a song as she struggled to let go and finally leave us. No, I can’t remember what song I played and sang for her then. As I shared in one of my posts on the main section of my Substack page, Pens & Her, I tend to forget things when they are too painful.

When I got my share of the money Mom left after she passed, I started working on my promise to turn to music again and learn to read notes using the guitar. I bought Piper (Yamaha Classical Guitar), a guitar hard case, and 12 sessions of classical guitar lessons. But I didn’t stop there. In my checklist, I wrote, “Look for a foundation that caters to guitar and music.” Consequently, I searched for an organization that helped me learn more about the instrument and better teachers.

One night, I was watching TV and was about to prepare for bed. For some odd reason (that feeling like you forgot something), I made one last scan for late-night movies I could still watch. Scanning one channel after another, I came across a local show featuring two musicians - a violinist and a guitarist. That piqued my interest, so I stayed on and watched them perform.

That decision turned out to be one of the best ones I’ve ever made. I finally found the foundation I set my quest for - The Guitar Foundation of the Philippines, Inc. (GFPI). A goal finally checked on my list.

Those two fantastic musicians who played in that TV show not only paved the way for me to keep my promise to Mom but also they - Doki and Bebot - showed me how exactly music heals a broken heart.

They were sensational together, showing the audience how much they were in tune with their respective instruments. They won me over and made me call the number on the TV screen that night despite my fear of the unknown, simply because I was still grieving Mom's passing.

Little did I know that the people behind the foundation would become a big part of my journey as a musician. But more than the fun and late nights with them for practices and gigs, they became family.

During the darkest of my days, they made me see hope. They made me want to be brave and face fears, like playing in front of a crowd. They taught me that learning the classical guitar is more than strumming the strings. It is a discipline. It is a beautiful journey. One that you can never understand until you embrace it. All of it - hours of practice and the commitment to play better than the last gig you went.

When doors harshly slammed closed in my face, and people thought less of me, they opened theirs and welcomed me when I didn’t have much to offer. They gave me one of the best times of my life - playing music with the GFPI Guitar Ensemble.

They were good people who carried me all those years.

Time to give back

If I remember correctly, I joined GFPI in 1997 and actively played with the ensemble until 2000. I went back to playing in 2013 (Doki’s last concert with me playing) for the Philippine Guitar Sinfonia - A Celebration of Guitar Music from the Islands of the Archipelago concert. Then played again in 2017 for the 1st Cebu International Guitar Music Festival - Strings that Bind. The last one I played with the ensemble was a year before the pandemic - The 2nd Cebu International Guitar Festival - GFPI Kinablit 2019.

Last year, I went home to the city where I grew up and found myself going home to my other family. You guessed it right - The Guitar Foundation of the Philippines, Inc.

Not everyone is there anymore. A lot has changed. Many friends have gone away - moved, and sadly, the others passed, and now new and younger guitarists play for the GFPI Guitar Ensemble.

It isn’t the same. I know.

It was a bittersweet reunion when I attended the 50th anniversary of the foundation in November last year. The ghosts of the years I’ve spent with GFPI lingered more than I would’ve wanted as I watched the new breed of classical guitarists play some of the music pieces I used to play with the ensemble. Right at that moment, they stirred something in me, making me remember one other promise I made - one day, I will find my way back and help the foundation in any way I can.

Yesterday, that opportunity to help came.

A funny story.

I decided to attend the scheduled GFPI meeting with only an hour and some minutes of sleep. The lack of sleep caused me to miss a significant detail - the meeting was for board members. However, when I arrived there, no one said I wasn't supposed to be there. They welcomed my presence just like before. Then they appointed me to do a task vital to the organization - to write about the foundation, which I’ve always wanted to do even before they asked.

I am happy to help.

Then came the matter of attendance - there were supposed to be only 13 of them, but 14 names were on the form. That was when I knew I wasn’t supposed to be there. I laughed so hard my face probably went beet red.

I had to shrug the embarrassment off because, at long last, I got the chance to give back to the Guitar Foundation of the Philippines and keep my promise to Doki that I would never stop playing music and stay with the foundation no matter what.

That’s when it dawned on me that I was meant to be there in that meeting. The mistake inadvertently opened the door I needed to push me and launch a section on my Substack page.

There are no mistakes; Only opportunities to start something good.

The foundation was an unexpected lifeline for me. And now, it's my turn to be the lifeline they need.

So, this is why this section of Pens & Her exists - Stringed.

To my subscribers, thank you for staying, and expect more posts about GFPI, the classical guitar, and the people playing the instrument.

“I can’t die… not right now. I have kids… I have kids!”

That was me in 2004, panicking while holding on to the latch of the airplane door like I was holding on to dear old life. It’s funny looking back on that day thinking about it now. I was never so scared when I thought Julie and I were to crash in that small Cessna 170 or 172 plane (I can’t even remember exactly which one).

As I was rambling in fear, I looked at her, expecting my friend to show at least a tinge of fear, but no, she was so calm and composed. That took me away from my selfish drama. She smiled as she told me she was turning the plane around and taking us back to the strip below. Then, she talked to the tower on the radio and requested permission to land. She landed the plane safely.

Relief. I was relieved to be down on solid ground again. I remember letting out my breath I didn't know I was holding back till we landed safely on the runway,

Julie was a proficient pilot. She saved me that day like she always did in other aspects of life. That was why it broke me to pieces when I heard of her passing months before I planned to invite her to a special dinner - she and me together and most especially, me paying.

But it was not meant to be.

I couldn’t believe she was gone. What’s worse was - I didn’t even get to say goodbye.

About 20 years later, I still weep for her. As absurd as it may sound, I can’t help but decide to give her time now.

Maybe it’s not entirely about her. Perhaps it’s also about finally letting go of the guilt and sorrow.

You may think it’s kind of pathetic and a little too late for me to do, but I’m doing it anyway. Keeping it and not being able to tell Julie myself is pure torture. I need her to know even if it’s only through this post.

This time it’s about losing her and why it took me a while to recover from it.

The Plan

It was simple - December Dinner with Julie. I had to make it exceptional and unforgettable for her because she was nothing but kind to me and my family.

Earlier today, I came across a message on Instagram that made a lot of sense, and I thought I’d share it here:

“People make time for who they want to make time for.” - Thelighthouse98

Guilt. A devastating sense of deep guilt. That’s what I felt reading that message. I’ve been kicking myself inwardly just thinking about how stupid my disappearing act was now that I think about it. I shouldn’t have done it.

But the sad reality remains - I did it. I disappeared on Julie.

It wasn’t because I wanted out of her life. I only wanted to prove to her that I can also be a friend who gives, not just someone who receives.

Was it wrong to want to do more for her than always that friend who always needed help? All I wanted to do was pay what I owed her when my eldest child needed surgery. And then have a decent meal with her. One that I’d paid for. Not her paying but me. I just wanted to show her I have turned my life around. That was all.

But all that plan went down the drain the moment I learned of the accident that took her life. I should have given her time and not even thought about surprising her with that silly dinner.

The Regret

Julie’s death. The surprise I never wanted. No one wanted it.

What deeply scarred me was hearing about her passing from a stranger about a month after her plane crashed.

How is one even able to undo something that could have changed everything between friends and their lives together?

I can’t stop thinking about one "What if" - if I did things differently, like keeping in touch with her and not planning that surprise dinner, would she have lived and not met that accident?

I don’t know. I wish I had known, so I stopped myself from abandoning my friend. Regrettably, I should have called her and not waited for December.

I wish I could just call a cab, show up at her door, and find her waiting there. I could see us talking for hours like we used to. But she is not coming back.

If I had it my way, she’d be here right now, and we’d be happy. Not lost. Just happy.

But no matter how much I wished for it not to be true - she was gone, and I couldn’t do anything about it.

She is gone. She. Is. Gone.

The Hope

There is no way I can ever forget the devastating pain of not being able to say goodbye, but I need to make peace with the fact that her absence wrecked me. I died the day I was told she left without saying goodbye.

That’s the truth. The other truth? I also need to let go and allow myself to truly grieve the loss and honor her life and what she had done for me all those years she was here.

It's terrible enough that there's no way for me to hear her voice again or experience the thrill of seeing her take off and be that incredible woman pilot I remember her for. I don't want to be gone, too.

She's quiet now. I get it. Mournfully, every time I look up at the skies, I only feel grief because the very thing we both dream of becoming (a pilot) is the same thing that took her away. One day, I want to look at the skies again and smile, knowing she is up there, safe from life's craziness.

I want to celebrate her kindness and not wallow in grief. I don’t have wings to fly or the means to pilot a plane. That would have been a perfect way to show how much I care about her.

But how do I truly honor Julie?

There's one way I know how - to live life for both of us now that she can’t.

I remember the heavy weight dragging me down the stairs for the last time at our house. I couldn’t put the right words to how I was feeling then. I wish I could change the sad reality staring us right in the face—we were leaving the home we’d known for five years and six months. There was no way around it. We lost it some time ago, even before we were told to vacate the place in 15 days.

Raw and pure sadness - that’s what I was trying to hold back as I turned and looked at my son sitting on the chair by the window. He seemed so heartbroken. His downcast eyes pleading. For what I didn’t pay much attention to at that time. I was too distracted trying to keep myself from falling apart as I realized then that no matter what I did, I could no longer hold on to the one place where I felt I could be myself freely.

But when he called five days ago and broke into tears, it dawned on me that my son was hurting deeply, and I couldn’teven do anything about it. I felt powerless, and it is painful to admit that as a parent who’s expected to save her children any hurt this world has to offer, I failed miserably.

Not too long ago, as a mother should, I did promise my kids that moving from our home to this new place was starting over and a chance for us to have a home safe from all the past hurts and any reminder of how we were torn apart by abuse and so much unkindness. Cody trusted that promise and followed me on the adventure of finding that one place we could call home away from the home we had to leave.

And now, I see Cody broken all over again because I not only couldn't keep the house for him, but I also left him there - alone and scared.

I am not sure which hurts the most - realizing that losing the house is breaking my heart all over again or the fact that I broke my son’s heart because I made him lose the one place he loves dearly.

At this point, everything is uncertain, especially how I can get him to trust me again. Moving away from that place can be difficult, but it does pave the way for us to have another chance at changing how we see our first home, and coming back was one way to be closer to healing, more than running away from it.

But can I honestly tell him how he must feel about losing the house where he thought he was safe and free to be himself? Can I convince him it was time to move on and move out without breaking his heart? Can I?

One thing I have to remind myself Cody is his own person. He isn't that helpless little boy anymore. He is all grown up and free to navigate his emotions.

I have to let him.

My only hope, though, is that he realizes that there’s nothing more painful to a mother than seeing her son crushed by losing something he considers significant, especially when she can’t do anything to stop it from happening to him.

I wish I could.

Every high and every low we have had in that house reminds me of the meaning of home.

It is a place where real people with real fears and dreams live. Weak and strong, we can be either or both at some point. The world can be a cruel place. I'm sure about that. But home is another world where we can choose to be happy. That White House did that for us.

The attic, the bedrooms, the dining room, the balcony, and the spiral staircase leading up to the attic will always be unforgettable. Forever, they are engraved in my heart despite how they sometimes make me want to weep.

I lied.

When Porter asked me how I felt about losing the house, I acted all composed and said quietly, "I feel sad."

The truth was, I wasn’t just unhappy - I was hurting. Like Cody, I was - No. Scratch that. I am heartbroken.

But I knew climbing down the winding staircase that day in April last year was to be my last. I had an eerie feeling that I wasn’t getting down that staircase ever again. That was why I looked up one last time and felt that pang of guilt and deep despair because the truth hurts. It was time to let go.

I never thought the smell of dust in the attic would make me cry just thinking about it.

I miss home. Terribly.

One foot after another, I imagine myself climbing down that spiral staircase and thinking about the uncaring darkness outside, pulling me into that painful silence of acceptance that there is nothing left to do but leave that beautiful home to fix me. There is no turning back time. No matter how hard we try to hold on to the memories in that place we call home, it is time to move forward.

I hope one day, when my little boy is ready, that he finally decides to stop looking around the bleak little place in despair and that he remembers and believes in the power of choosing to trust that God is faithful. He finds a way when nothing else seems right.

I hope, too, that he can find the strength to trust me again because I am ready to stop running. We can face the place that hurt us the most and finally change things for the better.

He had to understand that it was time to come home.

This time, I want him to know we belong here. We may have lost two homes, but we can always be each other’s home while we still can't find that special place where we can choose to love one more time and be happy again. After all, home isn’t a place. What makes a home is the people who never left us when everything was messy and never cared that we had nothing to give.

That crippling fear as we step down the winding staircase knowing too well it is time to go, will always be there to try and take away our chance at living life differently. But one truth remains - when we choose to take that last step close enough to reach the doorknob despite that fear and hold on to what little courage we have to turn it, welcoming the sound of the outside world we feared for so long, we truly have made the first step to help us understand that with painful endings there is also that opportunity to discover beautiful beginnings and find home again.

It’s been over a month since I last posted on Substack, and I’ve felt awful for my subscribers, especially my dearest friend, Ai, and my sister, Gladdys. Both look forward to seeing me write more stuff that I truly like. 

But there is that pull. A forceful tug in my heart that I couldn’t ignore. Just like the rest of the world, my heart shattered upon knowing Liam Payne’s death. I couldn’t believe it at first and thought I didn’t have to care. Right? But I did (I still do). 

Since then, I had the hardest time of my life forming decent words to keep writing. I felt three potent emotions that kept me from writing - sorrow, regret, and fear.

Sorrow.

I can only imagine how broken Liam’s parents have been. As a parent myself, my greatest fear is losing any of my kids and not ever knowing why it happened to them. And Liam talking about his depression and him feeling alone hit me to the core. As a parent, I’ve had glimpses of how my kids felt the same way. I wouldn’t know what to do if one day I experienced that same dreadful day as Liam’s Dad, who had to fly over to some distant place and take a lifeless part of him back home. That’s just excruciatingly painful.

Regret.

I remember being drawn to the boys (1D) when they released their last album, Made in the A.M., I remember going crazy about “If I could fly” and “I want to write you a song.” Relatable, that’s the word I used to describe 1D’s songs when I discovered them on iPhone music app. And I wasn’t a teenager anymore then! I didn’t even know they were that big.

Honestly, I didn’t care much about boy bands then. But the boys? They were different. My only regret was not knowing about how Liam Payne had spent time online singing and doing what he knew he was amazing at, during the pandemic just so he could ease the loneliness most of the people were feeling then, being limited to the corners of each of their homes or work places. It would have been fulfilling to be a part of something that was done with so much love and pure kindness.

Fear.

Fear that I would never get over the guilt I have always felt since I lost my best friend and was not able to say goodbye because I was stupid enough to think that surprising her with a well-planned dinner for two in December of the same year she passed was a terrific idea. Liam's passing (crying as I write this piece) has made me think about how it hurts to find out my dearest friend, my soulmate, had been gone for months before I found out about her accident. I should have checked on her and not waited till it was too late. The worst part was I learned about it from a total stranger. I could not believe it at first. I thought we were talking about two different Julie Lees.

Putting off checking on her or giving her my new number was a mistake. Like Liam, Julie was an angel and always ready to help others in need, especially me (I will talk about her more in my other posts, hopefully soon). She always had my back.

Him being gone has pushed a rewind button of my life that I didn’t want to revisit. Him leaving this world the way he did made me fear for my own heart, making me think about a gazillion what ifs to happen to my life and my children. It was so intense that I couldn’t bring myself to write a single post in over a month until today.

The guilt of being alive and still being able to do what I love doing is real to me. The reality of this boy not ever getting a chance at doing what he loves doing is immensely heartbreaking. Made me think that being able to write while he can’t ever sing and write songs again is just plain unfair.

Payno’s exit from the often cruel world we live in is both a relief and a loss at the same time. Relief because finally, he can no longer feel the sting of other people’s mean words towards him. He was often misunderstood. Loss because Liam was truly a talent and a gift to the world of music. He was real that’s why losing him was real too.

Celebrating the Payne.

Indeed, just like what the One Direction song “Night Changes" tells us, everything changes fast. We should always remember that there is always that one person who has told you, probably in not so many words, that no matter how life changes things for us, there is always that me and you that never changes. 

Although his story was both sad and devastating, especially to those who knew him well, I still believe it was beautiful. It included the painful realities he had to face about his career, the people he thought he could trust, and the circumstances of his relationships with his 1D brothers. 

His life is still something that we can celebrate (for those who love him) by carrying on his amazing legacy—music. 

To Liam, you are one of those few people who have made me want to pick up my guitar again and sing (and I am not even a singer). You have made me believe in my love for music and playing the instrument (my instrument) again. 

The arrows on your skin will always be a constant reminder of how well you wore them because of what they meant to you. Your genuine care for others, especially those you care about, is something I can never forget. Just like what you said in your song “Remember,”

“How can I forget someone who gave me so much to remember? You got me stuck inside my head.”

You are terribly missed. One day, when I get the chance, I will see you in Wolverhampton and say my proper goodbyes.

May you rest in peace, dear kind, and brave soul.

What’s the greatest fear of a mother?

For me, it’s seeing my kids lose a home and be driven to the streets, begging for food and the warmth that fine, clean clothing brings.

I always thought that kids should be inside their homes and not wandering around begging for money or food. It gets me really bad seeing little boys walking without their shoes or slippers on. It breaks my heart because every little boy reminds me of my children. 

When the kids were a lot younger, and then I became a solo parent, I swore never to let my children beg for food or not have shoes or slippers. So, I worked like crazy to ensure they didn’t have to go through what other kids had to because their parents couldn’t provide for them.

But it’s hard not to be reminded of that fear when every single day, I see disheveled little boys on the streets—the sad reality of this world and this city.

About two weeks ago, while waiting for a bus to get me uptown, this boy with neatly folded hand towels piled up on his tiny arms kept following me. So I had to look at him and see what he was up to. I cursed myself for not walking away when I had a chance. If I had, I would’ve spared myself from a moment of pain. But I didn’t. 

I gave the boy time, which stirred up a lot of emotions. As I looked at him attentively, the boy looked up, meeting my eyes, and uttered the most heartbreaking words a mother like me could ever hear from a child.

He said:

“Come on, ma’am. Please buy the towels I’m selling so I can eat. You get four towels for only a hundred pesos. Please, ma’am.”

I blinked at that and went speechless for a bit. Then I looked at my watch and saw that it was almost noon. I wondered what eating meant if I bought from the boy. Did he mean he hadn’t eaten breakfast yet? Or did he mean so he could eat lunch? Then I asked him if I could buy just two towels, and he eagerly nodded. So I gave what I owed him and decidedly handed him an extra 20 peso coin. That’s what I could afford to give. The boy thanked me and went away.

I watched his retreating figure until I couldn’t see him anymore. 

I felt my chest hurt as I saw his face in my mind.

What stuck in my head was that he had sad eyes. I couldn’t help it. Before he walked ahead, I touched his head like I would have my little boy. He looked at me with those tired, sad eyes and gave me a nod goodbye.

I smiled a little and couldn’t stop thinking about my kids. 

They’re not on the streets, and for that, I'm endlessly grateful. But… they aren't home either. I had to hold my chest to keep my heart from breaking. At that moment, remembering how broken my family is today was more unbearable than the fear of losing them to poverty.

I kept telling myself to stay away from thoughts like that. I had to learn how not to break easily because I had to break the cycle. Things have to be different.

Anyway, I went on with where I had to be and went on a bus.

I went to buy myself a pair of pants at a thrift shop uptown so that I'd have one more to use for work. Then, as I was about to pay for the pants and shirts I got, a thin, unkempt boy about the same age as the boy I saw earlier was busy looking for a pair of pants for himself. He was alone. He didn’t have slippers on but was determined to get himself a pair of pants. 

The lady before me gave the boy a 20-peso coin and went her way. Then the little boy approached me and asked me for money because the pair of pants would cost him more. So I asked one of the salespersons, and he told me the pants cost 33 pesos. I thought, okay, I gave the other boy 50 pesos for the towels I got, so it’s only fair to give this boy 50 pesos too. 

So I did. 

Oddly, the boy stopped and looked at me with furrowed eyebrows. Then, as if he realized it was good that I gave him more, he said thank you. Then he thanked me for the second time with those grateful, sad eyes. I almost cried right then and there, so I took the 50 pesos back and gave him one hundred pesos instead. He needed it more than I did. I raffled his hair and told him to buy some food as well. He thanked me for a third time. 

I hurriedly left the store. I should’ve felt satisfied by the good deed I just did. But no, my heart was heavy.

My heart broke twice that day.

Two boys. So young and so little with two different needs - food and clothing. The other was hungry, while the other needed the warmth and comfort of a clean piece of clothing. But what do they have in common? Sad eyes. They both had very sad eyes.

I wouldn’t ever want to look at my kids with sad eyes. But with how things have been with my children, I’d rather see them with unhappy eyes than not see them at all. 

But everything is changing for my kids and me. Some of the changes we have no control over; for some, we all chipped in. They happened because we had to make them happen. We each have our own choices to make. One thing is undeniable - my kids are no longer little. They have their own needs fit to their desires and personal preferences. I, too, have my own.

As sad as it sounds, we had to go our separate ways to learn things we couldn’t when we were together.

Boundaries. For me and my children, it is about setting boundaries and respecting them.

I don’t know what story those two boys each have. Why they were on the streets alone and hungry was beyond me, but the pain they were in was all too apparent to me. I can’t help but wonder how many cold and hungry days they’ve had to endure. Do they wake up at night shivering and wondering when all the suffering will end? Do they ask why their parents weren’t there for them? Will they ever grow up? Will they ever get over the trauma of facing life on their own?

It is true. We all have our pain and sorrows. Those boys are hungry for something more than food and nice clothes. The kind of hunger unseen by all the people they get to meet on the streets. I can only hope and pray that every kindness they get to experience on the road will move them to still hope for a better future. That time when they don’t have to beg for help.

I don’t know those boys. But they were two strangers who managed to walk away with my heart and broke it into pieces. Then again, the pain I felt will never be a match to what those boys have to go through from that day onwards.

My solemn prayer is that one day, someone tells them, “I’ll get you home when you are tired.” And most importantly, they trust that promise of hope and finally have happy eyes.

Highlights

☕ I read the most in the morning

💌 I subscribed to 21 new Substacks

📽️ I watched 73 minutes of video

❤️ I liked 52 posts

💬 I left 24 comments on posts

📜 I scrolled 430 meters in Notes

🕵️ I discovered 10 new posts via Notes

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