The hardest thing to lose isn't the medall; it is the person you became as a result of trying to win it.

May mga batang lumalaki na sanay marinig ang salitang matalino.

I belonged to them.

Sanay akong laging mataas ang grades. Sanay akong laging kasama sa honor roll. Sanay akong may certificate na iuuwi, medalya na isusuot, at teachers na nagsasabi, “Kaya mo 'yan. Matalino ka naman.”

At some point during all this, I began to believe them.

Hindi ko napansin na habang dumarami ang medals ko, unti-unti ring nabubuo ang isang pagkakakilanlan.

I was the most intelligent one.

The achiever.

The one who always knew the answer.

The one who was supposed to perform well.

Habang lumalaki ako, parang naging kailangan na rin na maging magaling.

That's because if you've always been complimented for being intelligent, you eventually end up fearing the possibility of appearing stupid.

---

Nung bata tayo, mukhang madali lang ang mundo.

May right answer.

May wrong answer.

May mataas na grade.

May mababang grade.

May honor student.

May hindi.

And if most of your life you've been on the 'good' side of those categories, then it's easy to see that you should always be there.

Until one day, you don't know the answer anymore.

You study, but nothing stays.

You do your best, but the outcomes are still not the same.

When you look at your grades, they cease to be nothing more than numbers.

They're questions.

What happened to me?

Bakit noon kaya ko naman?

Bakit parang madali lang sa kanila, pero ang hirap para sa akin?

And eventually, the question becomes much heavier:

“Am I still smart if I'm no longer the best?”

---

It is peculiar to feel grief after having been an achiever.

Hindi dahil nawala ang mga medalya.

Pero minsan, kapag nawala ang mga nagawa mo, parang nawawala rin ang bahagi ng sarili mong alam mong ikaw iyon.

When you look at the certificates you used to have, you start to think about the person who obtained them.

The person capable of understanding lessons swiftly.

The one who was able to study without continually questioning herself.

The one who was just as certain that she was capable.

All of them were proud of you at the time.

In some way you begin to miss the person you used to be when you still thought you could do anything.

The most painful comparison is not always that between yourself and some other person.

It lies somewhere between the person you have become and the person you used to be.

---

Perhaps that's the mistake we're making.

We may conclude that if we are not as good as we used to be, it means that we have become worse.

That's not how growing up works.

Your life changes.

Your priorities change.

Your responsibilities change.

Things which once had inspired you can in the end turn into a source of pressure.

Maybe you just didn't get lazy.

Maybe you didn't just get stupid all of a sudden.

You might have simply grown tired of always having to show that you are still the person that everyone always thought you were.

Since no one actually tells you what to do when the 'gifted kid' eventually has difficulties.

You are shown how to succeed.

The way to achieve high grades.

How to win.

How can i make people feel proud?

So when you finally fail, you don't just think,

“I failed.”

You think,

Maybe I am a failure.

Those are two entirely different things.

---

Maybe the real question isn't,

How can I get back to being the best?

Maybe it's,

“Who am I when I'm not the best?”

Who am I without the grades?

Without the medals?

Without the certificates?

Not the individual that everybody anticipates will succeed?

What would remain if I removed all of those things?

Perhaps a person who is still attempting.

Someone who still learns.

A person who makes mistakes.

A person who requires more time.

A person who on occasion has to start again.

A person who isn't always aware of the answer.

And maybe—

A person who is still worthy.

---

In fact, there will always be people who are better than you.

A person who obtains higher grades.

Someone who learns faster.

A person with more achievements.

A person who makes things appear effortless.

In a world which always ranks people it's simple to think that coming second means you're less.

But it doesn't.

Someone else doing well does not make your own success less important.

Hindi mo kailangan maging pinakamahusay para masabi nilang magaling ka.

Hindi mo kailangang maging matalino para maging mahalaga.

And you don't have to keep becoming the person you used to be just because people remember you that way.

---

Perhaps the thing about growing up is that you come to have to accept the fact that you will not always be the most intelligent person in the room.

Perhaps that isn't a tragedy.

Maybe it's freedom.

Because for the first time, you get to ask yourself:

Can I take pride in who I am if I never manage to make an impression on anyone with my achievements?

Can I continue to love myself even if I get a low score?

Can I still consider myself capable even though I have failed?

Can I still believe in myself if no one is clapping?

I believe that the answer must be yes.

If that is the case, we shall spend all our lives pursuing a version of ourselves which existed solely in order to impress other people.

---

Sino ako kapag hindi na ako ang pinakamahusay?

Maybe I'm still me.

Hindi na ako ang batang laging nauuna.

Hindi na ako palaging may sagot.

Hindi na ako ang palaging una sa listahan.

But I'm still here.

Still learning.

Still trying.

Still becoming.

And maybe that's enough.

You were never valuable merely because you were exceptional.

You were valuable even before you received the medals.

Before the honor roll.

Before the perfect scores.

Before anyone called you smart.

You never had to keep up a certain grade in terms of your worth.

Maybe the greatest thing we can learn after spending years trying to be the best is this:

It is not necessary for you to be your best self each day if you are still to be worthy of being yourself.

There is something strangely beautiful about the story of Orpheus and Eurydice.

Not because it ends happily—it doesn't.

Not because love conquers death—it doesn't.

But because Orpheus loved Eurydice enough to walk into hell for her.

He went through hell just to taste a glimpse of heaven.

And maybe that is what makes his story so painfully human.

We like to believe that the tragedy happened when Orpheus turned around.

He had one instruction: do not look back.

So he walked.

Through the darkness of the Underworld, with Eurydice somewhere behind him.

He couldn't see her.

He couldn't touch her.

He couldn't even know for certain if she was still following.

And perhaps that was the cruelest part.

Because how do you keep walking when the only proof that the person you love is still there is the hope that you can hear their footsteps?

Sometimes, looking back is not a refusal to move forward. It is proof that something mattered enough to leave a mark.

Maybe Orpheus wasn't looking back because he didn't trust Eurydice.

Maybe he looked back because silence had suddenly stood between them.

And maybe, all this time, we've been doing the same thing.

Because if silence suddenly stood between us, I would need to know whether you were still there.

We look back at old photographs.

Old conversations.

Places we promised we'd return to.

Songs that still carry someone's voice inside them.

We reread messages we already know by heart, searching for something we might have missed.

We revisit memories not because we want to live there forever, but because some part of us is still trying to understand how something that once felt so alive could become something we can only remember.

We don't always look back because we want to return. Sometimes, we look back because we are afraid we were the only ones who stayed.

And perhaps that is what Orpheus's descent into the Underworld really was.

He was already looking back before he ever turned around.

The moment he heard that Eurydice was gone, he turned away from the life ahead of him and walked toward the life he had lost.

He descended.

Deeper and deeper.

Not because he was incapable of moving forward, but because moving forward without her felt impossible.

Isn't that what grief does?

It makes the past feel more real than the present.

It makes us walk backward through our own memories, searching for the exact moment everything changed.

What if I had stayed?

What if I had said something differently?

What if I had noticed sooner?

What if I had just looked back one more time?

But the cruelest thing about grief is that there is no answer waiting for us at the end of those questions.

Only another memory.

Another silence.

Another version of a life that no longer exists.

Perhaps grief is simply love with nowhere left to go.

And maybe love is not so different.

To love someone is to carry the knowledge that they could disappear from your life someday.

So we memorize them.

The way they laugh.

The way they say our name.

The little things they do without realizing it.

We keep pieces of them inside ourselves because some frightened part of us knows that one day, we may need to remember them without being able to reach them.

Maybe that's why looking back feels so natural.

Because love leaves traces.

And traces are meant to be followed.

Some people become memories before we are ready to remember them.

But perhaps Orpheus's greatest tragedy was not that he looked back.

Perhaps it was that he believed he had to choose between trusting Eurydice and knowing she was there.

He wanted certainty.

He wanted to see her with his own eyes.

He wanted proof.

And isn't that something we ask for in love, too?

Are you still there?

Do you still love me?

Are you really staying?

Can I trust that you won't disappear?

Sometimes we turn around because we are afraid that the silence behind us means we've been abandoned.

Sometimes we look back because we would rather face the pain of losing someone than continue walking while wondering if they're still following.

You cannot ask someone to walk toward tomorrow while pretending yesterday never existed.

And maybe that's why the story has survived for thousands of years.

Because beneath the gods, the Underworld, the impossible journey, and the curse of looking back is something painfully ordinary:

The fear of losing someone we love.

Maybe Orpheus knew that Eurydice was behind him.

Maybe he didn't.

Maybe he simply couldn't bear not knowing.

And perhaps that is what love does.

It makes us brave enough to enter hell.

But it also makes us human enough to turn around.

So perhaps we shouldn't be so quick to condemn Orpheus.

Perhaps he didn't fail because he loved Eurydice too much.

Perhaps he failed because he was human.

Because an Orpheus who doesn’t look back is an Orpheus who didn’t love Eurydice.

Because what kind of love asks you to walk away without ever making sure the person you love is still behind you?

Sometimes, when someone means everything to us, we need to look back.

Just once.

Just to make sure they're still there.

And maybe that is the tragedy of love:

We spend so much of our lives learning how to move forward, only to discover that the people we love have left parts of themselves behind us.

So we look back.

Not always because we want to return.

Sometimes, we simply want to remember.

Sometimes, we look back because there was a version of ourselves standing beside someone we loved, and we miss who we were when they were there.

And maybe that's okay.

What if moving forward doesn't mean forgetting who was walking beside you?

Maybe healing isn't learning how to never look back again.

Maybe healing is learning that you can look back without walking back.

Because there is a difference between remembering someone and belonging to the memory of them.

Orpheus walked into the Underworld because he could not accept a world without Eurydice.

And when he finally had the chance to leave with her, he looked back.

Perhaps he was afraid.

Perhaps he doubted.

Perhaps he simply needed to know.

But maybe, just maybe, the story was never really about looking back.

Maybe it was about what happens when love makes the past feel more real than the future.

And if that is true, then perhaps we have all been Orpheus at some point.

We have all walked through our own darkness for someone.

We have all held onto a voice that no longer calls.

We have all wondered whether someone was still there after the silence became too loud.

We have all looked back.

Because to love is to leave a piece of yourself somewhere behind you.

And sometimes, you turn around just to see if it is still there.

Perhaps we are all guilty of looking back—not because we want to live in the past, but because some part of us is still waiting for it to change.

Maybe to love is to look back.

And maybe to finally let go is not to stop looking—

but to realize that you can remember what was behind you

without needing to return to it.

Maybe love is not about never looking back. Maybe it is about learning how to look back without wishing you could stay.

There is something strange about dinner when you already know a lecture is coming.

The food is on the table. The rice is warm. Everyone is eating like it is just another ordinary night.

And then someone starts talking.

At first, I try to ignore it.

I take a spoonful of rice.

I chew.

I swallow.

Then comes another sentence.

Another reminder.

Another “Bakit hindi mo kasi…”

So I take another bite.

Because what else am I supposed to do?

Kumakain ako, pero parang bawat subo may kasamang sermon.

I keep my eyes on my plate because looking up might make it worse.

I nod even when I don't agree.

I stay quiet even when I have a hundred things I want to say.

Not because I don't have an answer.

But because sometimes, answering only gives the lecture another hour to live.

So I swallow it.

The food.

The anger.

The embarrassment.

The words I wish I could say.

Minsan, hindi naman talaga pagkain ang mahirap lunukin. Yung mga salitang kasama nito.

But perhaps there is something deeper about why these conversations hurt so much.

We are often told that a lecture is an act of love.

That “pinagsasabihan ka lang namin kasi mahal ka namin.”

And maybe it is.

Maybe love does come with responsibility.

Maybe loving someone means caring about the person they are becoming, the decisions they make, and the consequences they leave behind.

But I also believe that love should not require someone to disappear just so another person can feel heard.

Ang mahalin ang isang tao ay hindi lamang ang itama siya kapag nagkamali.

It is also learning how to correct without humiliating.

How to guide without controlling.

How to speak without making someone feel smaller than they were before the conversation began.

Because the way we treat people becomes part of the environment we create around them.

Kung ang tahanan ang unang lugar kung saan natin natututunan ang pagmamahal, sana doon din natin unang matutunan na hindi kailangang manakit para maitama ang isang tao.

And maybe this is why I think about dinner differently.

Because a family does not simply share food.

It shares a space.

A space where every word has the ability to shape how someone sees themselves.

Every criticism becomes something they may carry outside the house.

Every comparison can become an insecurity.

Every harsh word can become a voice they eventually learn to use against themselves.

So if we are going to call it love, shouldn't love also ask us to think about the consequences of our words?

Hindi sapat na mabuti ang intensyon kung ang paraan ng pagmamahal ay unti-unting winawasak ang taong minamahal.

I don't want a family where everyone is simply obedient.

I want a family where everyone can speak.

Where respect does not only mean listening to the elders, but also allowing the younger ones to be heard.

Where correction is not about establishing who has more authority, but about helping one another become better.

Because perhaps love is not about making someone follow you.

Perhaps love is creating enough space for them to become themselves without losing their connection to you.

Ang tunay na pagmamahal ay hindi pag-angkin sa isang tao; ito ay paglikha ng espasyong maaari siyang lumago nang hindi natatakot.

And I wish dinner could be that space.

A place where I can make a mistake without feeling like I have become a disappointment.

A place where I can talk about my day without being reminded of everything I did wrong.

A place where someone asks,

"Are you okay?"

before asking,

"Why did you do that?"

Because sometimes, I don't need another lecture.

Sometimes, I need someone to notice that I'm already struggling.

Sometimes, I need someone to understand that silence doesn't always mean I have nothing to say.

Tahimik lang ako, hindi dahil wala akong nararamdaman. Tahimik ako dahil pagod na akong ipagtanggol ang sarili ko.

So I continue eating.

One spoonful at a time.

Trying to finish what's on my plate while carrying everything that was said to me.

And when dinner is finally over, everyone gets up and moves on.

The plates are washed.

The table is cleared.

The conversation ends.

But the words?

They follow me upstairs.

They stay with me when I lie in bed.

They replay in my head when the house becomes quiet.

And maybe tomorrow, I'll sit at the same table again.

I'll eat the same food.

I'll smile when I'm supposed to.

I'll say nothing when the lecture begins.

Because I've gotten good at swallowing things.

Natuto akong lunukin ang mga salitang gusto kong isigaw, para lang matapos ang hapunan nang walang gulo.

But someday, I hope I learn that keeping the peace should not always mean losing myself.

Because I deserve a dinner where I don't have to choose between eating my food and protecting my heart.

Maybe that is what I want from love—not perfection, not silence, not obedience.

Just consideration.

The kind that makes you pause before speaking because you know your words will become part of someone else's world.

Because loving someone means being conscious of the space you create around them.

And if our words can become part of someone's pain, then perhaps they can also become part of someone's healing.

Hindi lang pala pagkain ang nilulunok ko tuwing hapunan.

I swallow the anger.

I swallow the tears.

I swallow the words.

And most of all,

I swallow the little part of me that keeps wishing someone would finally understand.

Maybe someday, I won't have to.

We are taught to be grateful.

Be grateful for the food on the table. Be grateful for the roof above your head. Be grateful that you have a family, a home, an education, a job, or simply another day to wake up and try again.

And maybe we should be.

But sometimes, I wonder: when does gratitude become an excuse for accepting inequality?

We are also taught that "masama ang mainggit."

Since childhood, we hear it being said over and over again.

“Huwag kang mainggit sa iba.”

“Masama ang inggit.”

“Matutong makuntento sa kung anong meron ka.”

And maybe there is truth in that.

Envy can be ugly when it transforms into hatred. When someone's happiness makes us want to see them fail.

But what if not every kind of envy is born out of hatred?

What if sometimes, envy is just pain?

What if looking at someone else's life and thinking,

“Sana ganun din kadali para sa akin.”

is not an expression of wanting to take away their blessings?

Maybe sometimes, "masama ang mainggit" is just an oversimplification of a complicated emotion.

Because what happens when you are not envious of the person?

What happens when you are envious of the life they were given?

You see someone studying without worrying about tuition and think,

“Sana kaya ko rin.”

You see someone buying what they want without counting every peso and think,

“Bakit sa kanila, parang ang dali?”

You see someone living comfortably and quietly wonder,

“Ano ba talaga ang pinanggagalingan ng inggit na 'to?”

Is that really evil?

Is that not just a reminder of something you wish you had?

Maybe we shouldn't be so quick to shame people for feeling envious. Because sometimes, envy does not say,

"I want what you have taken away from me."

Sometimes, it says,

"I wish life had given me something like that, too."

There is a difference between wanting someone to lose their blessings and wishing that you had been blessed in the same way.

One is born out of resentment. The other, longing.

Because sometimes, ang inggit ay hindi dahil gusto mong bumaba ang iba—kundi dahil gusto mo ring maranasan kung ano ang meron sila.

You can be happy for someone and still feel sad for yourself.

You can congratulate them while quietly thinking,

"Kailan kaya ako?"

And that doesn't automatically make you a bad person. It makes you human.

Maybe instead of immediately saying "masama ang mainggit," we should sometimes ask:

“Ano ang gusto ko?”

Is it hatred?

Or is it hurt?

Is it greed?

Or is it longing?

Because sometimes, the thing we're envious of isn't the possession itself. It's the privilege behind it.

---

Mahirap Maging Mahirap sa Pilipinas

And maybe this becomes even more complicated when we talk about being poor in the Philippines.

Because mahirap maging mahirap sa Pilipinas.

Not just because money is hard to come by.

It's because when you have less, almost everything becomes harder.

Pamasahe. Pagkain. Tuition. Bills. Work. Even rest.

Sometimes, you don't get to ask,

“Ano ang kaya ko?”

You have to ask,

“Hindi porket sanay ka sa hirap, ibig sabihin hindi ka nasasaktan.”

And those are two very different questions.

Being poor means learning how to stretch ₱100 like it can somehow become ₱500.

It means thinking twice before buying something you need. It means choosing between what is important and what is urgent. It means hearing,

"Diskarte lang,"

when sometimes what you need is an opportunity.

We love calling Filipinos resilient.

"Kaya natin 'to." "Diskarte lang." "Sipag at tiyaga."

But sometimes I wonder:

Why do we celebrate people's ability to survive poverty instead of asking why they had to struggle that much just to survive?

Why is poverty treated like a test of character?

Why does being poor require so much strength just to live an ordinary life?

“Hindi porket kinakaya mo, ibig sabihin madali.”

“Matutong makuntento sa kung anong meron ka.”

And sometimes, being poor means being grateful for things that shouldn't have to feel like privileges.

Of course, we should be grateful.

But why should basic needs feel like blessings that we are lucky to receive?

Why should someone have to feel fortunate simply because they had enough to eat that day?

Maybe that's the uncomfortable part.

Poverty doesn't only take money.

It takes choices.

It takes opportunities.

Sometimes, it takes dreams.

You don't always get to choose the course you love. You choose the one you can afford. You don't always choose the job you want. You choose the one that pays. You don't always choose where you want to live. You choose where the rent is cheaper.

Some people have the freedom to ask,

"What do I want?"

Others have spent their entire lives asking,

"What can I afford?"

And that is the inequality we don't talk about enough.

Because when someone says,

“Matutong makuntento sa kung anong meron ka.”

they forget that some people are already exhausted from trying to survive.

When someone says,

"May paraan naman,"

they forget that not everyone has the same resources, connections, education, or safety net.

And when someone says,

"At least may meron ka,"

sometimes what the person really wants to say is,

“Sana naman, kahit minsan, hindi kailangang maging ganito kahirap.”

That's why being grateful doesn't erase the reality of being poor. It doesn't erase the bills. It doesn't erase the opportunities you couldn't take. It doesn't erase the dreams you had to postpone. And it certainly doesn't make inequality disappear.

Maybe we should stop romanticizing poverty. Because people shouldn't have to be extraordinarily strong just to live an ordinary life.

Maybe what people need isn't another reminder to be grateful. Maybe they need better opportunities. A fairer starting point. A chance to dream without immediately asking how much it will cost. Because being poor should never mean being less deserving of a good life.

---

We live in a world where some people are born into comfort, while others are born into survival.

Some people start ten steps ahead. Others spend their entire lives trying to reach the starting line.

And yet, we are all told:

"Be grateful for what you have."

But what if what we have was never equal to begin with?

How can we tell someone not to feel jealous when they spent their entire life trying to reach a place another person was simply born into?

Maybe that's why I don't completely believe that envy is always ugly. There is a kind of envy that wants to take something away from another person. But there is also a kind that quietly asks, "Bakit hindi ako?"

“Sana ganun din kadali para sa akin.”

And sometimes, the answer isn't that you're not good enough. Sometimes, you were simply given a harder starting point. You weren't born into the same circumstances. You weren't handed the same opportunities. You didn't have the same resources. And that doesn't make you less deserving.

Maybe you're not jealous of their house. You're jealous that they never had to worry about losing one. Maybe you're not jealous of their education. You're jealous that studying was never something they had to fight to afford. Maybe you're not jealous of their success. You're jealous of how easily they were allowed to dream.

“Sana ganun din kadali para sa akin.”

And perhaps that's the part we don't talk about enough. We praise people for being grateful, but rarely ask why some people have to be grateful for so little while others are given so much without having to ask.

We romanticize struggle. We call people strong because they survived circumstances they never should have had to endure.

“Sana ganun din kadali para sa akin.”

We say it so often that struggling becomes something we're expected to simply accept. But survival should not be the highest thing we expect from people. They deserve more than simply surviving. They deserve the chance to rest. To dream. To make mistakes. To choose something because they love it, rather than because it is the only thing they can afford.

Because hindi lahat ng tao may privilege na pumili. Some people choose based on what they want. Others choose based on what they can afford. And those are two very different things.

Maybe the real problem isn't that we aren't grateful enough. Maybe we've been asking the wrong question. Instead of asking, "Why can't you just be grateful for what you have?" Perhaps we should ask, "Why don't you have the same chances to begin with?"

Because gratitude should never be used to make people feel guilty for wanting a better life. Wanting more does not automatically mean you don't appreciate what you already have. You can be grateful for your life and still admit that your life is hard. You can be happy for someone else's success while quietly wishing you had been given the same opportunity. You can say "I'm thankful" and still say "I want more." Both can be true. Maybe that's what we forget.

Gratitude and ambition aren't enemies. Being content doesn't mean you have to stop dreaming. And wanting a better life doesn't mean you're ungrateful for the one you have.

“Sana ganun din kadali para sa akin.”

Sometimes, wanting more simply means recognizing that you deserve more.

And yes, I believe we should still be grateful. For the small things. For the people who stay. For the meals we get to eat. For the opportunities we do receive. For the moments that make life feel lighter.

But I also believe we are allowed to question the things that make life unfair.

Pwede tayong magpasalamat at magtanong nang sabay. We can hold gratitude in one hand and frustration in the other. We can say,

“Sana ganun din kadali para sa akin.”

while also saying,

“Sana hindi na kailangang maging ganito kahirap para sa iba.”

Those two feelings can exist together. Maybe being grateful doesn't mean we stop wanting change. Maybe true gratitude means recognizing what we have while refusing to believe that what we have is all we are allowed to hope for.

Because if we keep telling people to be grateful without questioning why some people are given so much more than others, then gratitude stops being a virtue. It becomes a way of keeping people quiet.

So maybe the question isn't, "Why can't we just be grateful?" Maybe the question is, "Why were we never given the same starting line?" Because how can we blame someone for looking at another person's life and wondering what theirs could have been—kung hindi naman talaga tayo nagsimula sa parehong lugar?

Maybe that's why we need to be gentler with the people who admit they are jealous. Not because envy should control us. Not because we should resent people for having more. But because sometimes, behind "naiinggit ako" is someone quietly saying,

“Sana ganun din kadali para sa akin.”

And maybe that person doesn't need to be shamed. Maybe they need to be heard. Maybe they need to be reminded that their feelings don't make them a bad person. They simply reveal a wound.

And perhaps the goal isn't to eliminate envy completely. Perhaps the goal is to understand what it is trying to tell us. Maybe it is telling us what we value. Maybe it is showing us what we long for. Maybe it is reminding us of the opportunities we wish we had. And maybe, sometimes, it is pointing directly at an inequality that society has taught us to ignore.

So yes, masama ang mainggit when envy becomes hatred. When we wish someone would lose simply because we don't have what they have.

But I don't think it's wrong to look at someone else's life and whisper, "Sana ako rin." I don't think it's wrong to admit, “Sana ganun din kadali para sa akin.” I don't think it's wrong to ask, “Bakit hindi ako?” Those questions don't make you ungrateful. They make you aware.

Maybe you can be grateful for where you are—while still hoping to get somewhere better. After all, being grateful for what you have should never mean giving up on what you could have.

Maybe the point was never to stop wanting more. Maybe the point is to make sure that wanting more doesn't turn into wanting less for someone else. You can look at someone else's blessings and say, "I hope I have that someday," without saying, "I hope they lose it." And perhaps that's the difference between envy that destroys and envy that motivates. Because sometimes, the quietest form of hope begins with a little bit of jealousy. Not "I wish you didn't have it." But—"I wish I could have it, too." And maybe that's not something we should be ashamed of. Maybe it's simply a reminder that we are human beings who want to live—not just survive.

And if we are going to keep telling people to be grateful, perhaps we should also start asking ourselves, "Why are some people being asked to be grateful for crumbs while others have never had to worry about going hungry?" Because gratitude should teach us to appreciate what we have. It should never teach us to believe that we don't deserve more.

When i was a kid I thought I had a happy and complete family. I was happy with the little things, and I never questioned much about what was happening around me. Until I slowly started figuring things out—my dad was living a double life. While he said he loved us, he was also building a different family. As the eldest daughter, I felt a deep sense of resentment toward him for leaving us. I felt so defeated, knowing that if I failed at something, there was no one to catch me. From that point on, I felt like all I had was myself, while my siblings needed someone they could rely on.

That was when I started putting my emotions aside and becoming the “ate” they needed. I learned to carry things quietly because I felt like I had to be strong for them.

Being the eldest meant learning to be strong, even on the days I needed someone to be strong for me.

But while I was trying to bury my resentment and hatred toward my dad, there was something much darker burning inside me—the wish for him to die.

Whenever there was something I needed to do that required my dad’s presence, I would simply say, “He’s dead.” Somehow, that felt easier than saying, “He cheated.” Because if I said that, I knew the next question would be, “How do you feel about your dad cheating?” And I didn’t know how to answer that. I didn’t know how to explain everything I felt—the anger, the disappointment, the resentment, and the part of me that still wanted a father.

Whenever my relatives would ask me, “Namimiss mo ba papa mo?” I would force a smile and say, “Sana mamatay na lang siya, kasi wala naman siyang kwentang tatay.” I resented my dad so deeply. I was the first one to wish for his death.

When I turned 18, my dad sent me a message saying, “Happy birthday, anak. Sana maintindihan mo si Papa. Mahal na mahal ko kayo ng mga kapatid mo.” Something about that message stirred something inside me that I couldn’t explain. Instead of feeling comforted, I felt anger. I replied, “Kung totoong mahal mo kami, hindi mo magagawa sa amin ’yon.”

On the day I was supposed to be celebrating my birthday, my dad and I ended up arguing through messages. In the heat of my anger, the only thing I could say was, “Sana mamatay ka na lang.” I never realized how much those words would haunt me when the day I feared most finally came.

He never replied. He never messaged me again.

A year after that, I received the most devastating message from my lola. My dad had been hospitalized due to complications, and they needed to put a tube through his throat. When I received the message, the first thing I did was message my dad. But when I opened our conversation, the first thing I saw was the message I had sent him: “Sana mamatay ka na lang.”

That was when I cried my heart out. In that moment, all the anger and resentment I had carried toward him disappeared. I realized that beneath all that hatred and anger was something I had been unable to admit to myself: I still longed for him to come back. I still longed to feel his love again.

I never replied to my lola’s message. I didn’t know what to say. Guilt began to consume me as I remembered the last words I had said to my dad. “Sana mamatay ka na lang.” Those words kept replaying in my head, and for the first time, I wished with all my heart that I could take them back. I would have given anything for one more chance to tell him that I loved him.

A day after that, my dad died.

Everything suddenly became real. The anger I had carried for so long, the words I had said to him, and the message I never replied to—all of it came rushing back. I kept thinking about how our last conversation ended and wishing I could go back and take those words back.

I never imagined that “Sana mamatay ka na lang” would be the last thing I ever said to my dad. I never imagined that the next time I would hear about him, he would already be gone. What hurts the most is knowing that, despite all the resentment I carried, a part of me still loved him and still wanted his love.

And now, I have to live with the guilt of knowing that my last words to him were filled with anger, even though somewhere beneath that anger was a daughter who only wanted her father to come back.

When you grow up surrounded by chaos, pain, or constant struggle, you begin to think that’s just how life is supposed to be. You don’t question it—you simply learn to survive in the flames. You get used to the heat, the noise, and the feeling that you always have to stay strong, even when you’re breaking inside. For a long time, I believed the world was harsh, cold, and unfair because that was the only world I knew. I thought that maybe everyone lived like that, that pain was a part of life you simply had to endure.

to live inside a burning house is to learn how to navigate the flames, not because you belong there, but because you never knew there was another place to go.

When you’re born in a burning house, you adapt to the fire. You teach yourself how to stay silent, how to keep things to yourself, and how to wear strength like armor. But what I didn’t realize was that the same armor that protected me was also keeping me trapped. I thought that hiding my emotions made me strong, but in truth, it only made me feel more alone. I thought pretending everything was fine would make the pain disappear, but all it did was make me forget what peace felt like. Eventually, I learned that ignoring the fire doesn’t make it go away—it only lets it burn you from the inside.

As I grew older, I started to notice something different. Not everyone lives inside a burning house. Some people actually wake up in peace. They experience mornings filled with laughter, conversations without shouting, and love that doesn’t hurt. Realizing that changed something in me. It made me see how much our surroundings shape the way we see life and ourselves. I used to think that peace was boring or too good to be true, but when I started seeing glimpses of it through the kindness of others, I realized that peace wasn’t weakness—it was strength, too.

There were times when I wanted to give up because the fire felt endless. The weight of fear, pressure, and expectations burned heavier than anything else. I felt trapped, suffocated by the things I couldn’t control. But healing, I’ve learned, doesn’t come all at once. It begins slowly, in the quiet moments—the first time you open up to someone, the first time you forgive yourself, or the first time you realize not everything has to hurt. Healing is not a straight path; sometimes you take two steps forward and one step back. But each small moment of courage becomes a step closer to freedom.

Healing doesn’t happen all at once; sometimes, it begins with the smallest decision to keep going.

There is something beautiful about discovering that life can be softer than what you once knew. You learn that you don’t always have to be strong, that you are allowed to rest, and that not every moment has to hurt. Sometimes, healing begins when you finally realize that the fire you grew up in was never the whole world.