An eldest daughter needs to be understanding of others before she can even understand what that word means—that’s our nature after all.

You learn to give, magpaubaya

You learn to be patient, magpasensya

You learn to be caring, mag alaga

You're convinced you do it purely out of love, like it's just a default to being born first—after all, you were raised that way. You do as you're expected to with no questions asked, it has always been like that—but should it always be like that?

The first time I doubted if it's possible to sometimes just want something for myself, I felt this engulfing feeling of guilt—why does it feel like I'm complaining when I'm simply trying to understand?

Understand, a word that is basically weaven into every eldest daughter's soul. There's a thin line between understanding and selflessness, a line we don't notice until we've already crossed it.

"Wag mo na utusan yang kapatid mo, maraming gagawin yan" but I'm washing the dishes while reviewing for an important exam the next day.

"Wag mo na gisingin yung bata, pagod yan" but I was woken up early to cook for breakfast and care for the baby even though I was up all night studying.

"Ibigay mo na, ikaw naman nakakaintindi" but they don't know how much I've wanted that and how long I've saved up for it

But I do it regardless, out of love maybe, partially out of habit. There's a few seconds of doubt and a hint of disappointment, that maybe this time I could just say no—maybe this time it's their turn to understand me. That few seconds doesn't last long though, because the guilt is greater than my hunger to be considered as well.

The eldest daughter guilt is a force you can't run from, because after all that's who you are, someone who needs to be there for everyone. You were raised with this sense of care and consideration for others, even at the cost of yourself. Perhaps we have that guilt because we never really allowed something to only be for us, the feeling is unfamiliar and we tend to feel like we don't deserve it. I feel guilty because they need it more than me, after all I've already figured things out on my own—I was forced to figure it out. I can't blame anyone, it's not their fault that they need someone to guide them, help them, make exceptions for them—sometimes I just wish they'd allow me to consider myself as well.

Minsan gusto ko sanang ako muna, akin muna.

Maybe I'm also allowed to experience the childhood that was the payment for theirs, even if my early years are gone.

maybe I'll buy something for myself without the guilt of giving it up for someone else.

maybe I'll wake up at noon after a long tiring day without having to take care of everyone in the morning.

maybe I’ll be able to focus on my own dreams without carrying theirs as well.

But that's too selfish for me to ask don't you think? I mean after all, I'm the one who understands.

The first placer is always the proudest, third placer is just happy that they made it to top three—the second placer is kinda just there, serving their role as the "almost".

"uy congrats, first place!"

"you made it to top three, so proud of you!"

"sayang kunti nalang sana first place na, okay lang yan"

I think in some way it hurts more to be in the second highest podium than it is to be in the lowest—that gap in height represents the distance of that win you almost had.

I hate that word, almost.

always the second, just a little bit short of being the winner

always the back up friend, never the main one

always the decently smart student, not the best

I remember that feeling so vividly, the feeling of reaching for something you almost had but always just a little bit short. That gap slowly gets filled with questions—with regrets

"if I had just sprinted a little bit faster"

"if I had just studied a little bit more"

"was I not a good enough friend to be the favorite?"

"did I not train hard enough?"

was that really all that I can give?

It's a dangerous line to cross, the self doubt will consume you so rapidly it drowns the fact that you're still standing in the podium—that you still tried.

As much as I don't like being an "almost", I know that I am one.

almost a best friend

almost a good daughter

almost a winner

almost a god, just never enough to be one.

I like blue when it takes the form of the sky or the ocean. Sometimes green, because I see it in the quietness of nature. Yellow for when I'm happy or the yolk in my sunny side up egg.

I think every color has its own category, there's no specific color that I think about all the time—because there's no name for the color of her eyes.

It's this specific shade of brown, it's really beautiful. When the sun hits her face it turns into a slight hint of hazel, almost kinda green—or maybe not, I'm not really sure because I fold every time I look into her eyes.

I just know that it's the only color I've ever liked, it doesn't need to fit into a category for she belongs in every single one of them.

In the quietness of nature, she's there.

Looking up at the beautiful blue sky, I think of her.

For the times that I'm happy, I feel her.

Even though she's not every color in the rainbow, she belongs in every single one of them in my eyes.

Dahil ang mga mata niya ang paborito kong kulay.

I get ready in the morning as if I'm running out of time, but still get to school late most of the time.

I get irritated when something I've been waiting for doesn't arrive in the blink of an eye.

I type in my keyboard with so much urgency even though I'm only making my to do list for the day.

Wala namang humahabol sa’kin, feel ko lang nauubusan ako ng oras.

There's a plethora of things to do in this life, but so little time to experience all of them. The 10 minutes I'd saved from doing my makeup early in the morning goes to trying a new coffee before school. The few seconds I saved from typing so fast goes to looking at the sky to see a breath taking view. The world just moves too fast for me to experience everything all at once, so I need to match that speed.

But in that attempt to try and squeeze everything into the fast paced movement of life, I'd failed to appreciate the things along the way—especially the small ones.

My favorite lip gloss that I forgot at home because I was rushing to get ready.

The typo on the text that I sent to my mom because I was typing too fast.

The important sentence I didn't deliver properly because I was speaking faster than my classmates can process.

When did I actually slow down?

I've been trying to catch up with life that I forgot I actually need to live it. I wanted to experience everything I could in the fastest way possible—I didn't get to actually feel them.

"Bagalan mo lang, walang humahabol sa’yo"

The sentence I'll always hear when I'm in front of the class, didn't think I'd actually reflect on that.

Maybe there's still something in me that feels like time is still chasing me, but the other half is the one choosing not to look back—just keep moving forward.

A rushed life is a life not well lived.

Time will always be chasing us, that's something we can't change, we just need to take it slow and actually enjoy the experience along the way.

Nakakapagod pilitin sabayan ang bilis ng buhay, so I stopped forcing it.

I started taking my time to drink my favorite coffee.

Walking home slowly while listening to my favorite song as the sky turns into a deep orange hue.

Waiting for things to come or work out naturally, not forcing it to happen.

And suddenly life doesn't feel that cramped anymore, because I stopped squeezing in the things that needs to be experienced slowly, delicately.

Everyone that knows me will tell you the same thing

Ayaw kong hinahawakan ako.

No like really, I will even physically twitch if you get a centimeter too close to the invisible walls I've put up. I'm not the type of person to grab onto your arms in crowded places, or let you grab onto mine.

Most of the time you won't catch me leaning on someone's shoulder or hugging my friends goodbye. The thing that irritates me the most is when someone insists on getting all up in my personal space when we're already melting from the scorching heat. They get it though, I just don't love physical touch that much.

That's one brick already glued tightly to my personality, you just can't get past those walls—yet somehow she's an exception.

The first time I felt the tenderness of her touch, it made me doubt a little—that maybe it's not that bad. Her hands were soft enough to be able to get past that wall gently, delicately—like she's trying to hold something very fragile.

Honestly I felt a little conflicted, maybe even a little scared. I did not know why her touch feels different from the others, maybe I didn't build my walls strong enough. Her presence brought me warmth, not the same irritation.

Before I knew it, she slowly began building a door through my walls, a door that only she could pass.

Her quiet breathing while leaning on my shoulders

The way I would instinctively find her in a crowded place so we won't lose each other

The fast paced thumping of my heart everytime she hugged me goodbye

Or the fact that I never removed her hand around my arms while walking under extreme heat

There's something romantic about making an exception for someone dear to you. I would never let anyone get close to me the way she does, for she not only got past my walls but also weaved her whole existence inside my heart.

Ayokong hinahawakan ako, pero kahit sa mainit na panahon hindi ko pa rin itataboy ang kamay mo.

The day my mom kneeled in front of him begging him to stay, only for him to shove her to the ground is the day I decided I no longer had a dad.

Those times where he would slap me so hard that blood gushed out of my nose, were the days that I wished he would just go away.

I remember being a kid playing out in the street with my clothes covered in dirt.

“yung papa ko binibilihan ako lagi ng laruan"

“yung papa ko lagi ako pinapasyal"

“yung papa ko..." only to be caught off guard because I couldn't say something good about my father.

The resentment I had for a father I used to long for has now turned into numbness. Everytime I tell people that my dad died in my mind on that very day, I get the same old response that I always dreaded to hear even though I know it's coming.

"tatay mo pa rin 'yan"

Like that makes the pain go away, or somehow makes his actions valid. Is being my father a free pass to giving me lifelong traumas?

“kahit balik baliktarin mo pa yung mundo" yeah, that's why I hate it.

No matter how much I deny it, no mater how much I try to shove it deep into the crevices of my soul—I can't hide the fact that I still long for a father's love.

Tatay ko pa rin siya, which makes me hate him a little more. Maybe I'm enraged by the fact that he never tried to reach me, while I was here just waiting to be held. Maybe it's the constant pain he put my mom through, while she's just there tolerating all of it. But sure, he was a dad-until it's his turn to actually care.

"tatay mo pa rin yan"

pero anak niya rin naman po ako.

"marunong ka bang lumangoy?"

“ha, bakit naman, requirement ba 'yon para mahalin ka?"

I don't want you to drown with how deeply my thoughts fill the endless void inside my mind. In order to be loved, is being less the only answer? I am deep, maybe a bit too much. I feel things with my whole heart, making sure to make space for every little thing that matters to me.

I am deep, maybe I'm just built like that. I crave meaningful conversations like it's the food of my soul.

I am deep, because curiosity never ends. I want to know you in ways people never even cared to notice—the way you touch your hair when you're nervous, the timbre of your voice, and the dimples on your cheeks.

I am deep, so I hope you know how to swim. I've been floating in the depths of my thoughts hoping that everyone that I've allowed in has the courage to float with me—not just watch me from the shore.

I've seen people slowly drown because of me, the familiar flicker in their eyes before they say those same words again :

“sorry, masyado ka kasing malalim"

Yes I know, I am deep—the depth I've only let a few people see, hoping they would dive in with me.

I hope everyone that wants to love me can swim, so at last could finally have some company.

As an ex devoted christian, the habit still slips sometimes. I'd still catch myself singing along to my mom's worship songs every sunday morning, still telling kids that god doesn't like kids who lie, and my most dreaded scenario of them all—"please, kung totoo ka man"

I'd bet my favorite teddy in the idea that almost every atheist has been through this same dilemma. Life has been throwing bricks at you before you can even pick yourself back up, enough to make you try reaching for that hope again.

"please, kung totoo ka man" while looking at the hospital bills you'll never be able to pay.

"please, ngayon lang" before going on stage for the competition that can change your life.

"please, kung nakikinig ka talaga" while crying your heart out in the bathroom floor.

Then you think to yourself : "who am I even talking to?" because you remember the times you pleaded but nothing came to your rescue. I don't believe there really is something out there, for the plea of the people hurting were never answered.

But I guess that is the purpose of religion, something to give you a sense of comfort when life seems to hate you. You turn to the sky unknowingly, then utter those words under your breath—for a second you forget that there's nothing out there. Sometimes I wish I could just be innocent enough to be content in that comfort without questioning if it's real.

"hala baliw, anong tagalog ka diyan?" sagot ng kaibigan ko matapos ako tanungin kung ano ang love language ko.

Oo nga, tagalog ang love language ko. Hindi naman sa tanga ako upang hindi malaman ang nais niyang marinig na kasagutan pero ito talaga ang turan ng damdamin ko.

Hindi naman kailangan ng mabubulaklak na salita upang iparating ang nararamdaman, gumamit ka lang ng tagalog paniguradong ito‘y maipapahayag mo na—baka nga sobra sobra pa.

Hindi ko mawari kung bakit tila may romansa sa bawat salitang tinuturan ng isang makata, tila bawat letra sa tagalog na alpabeto ay binabalot ng pag ibig na buong buo.

Umiibig ako sa pamamagitan ng lenggwahe na pilit nating binabaon sa lupa upang taniman ng bulaklak na galing sa mga amerikano.

Hindi pa ba sapat ang mga katagang nakamarka sa lumang papel ng isang pilipinong umiibig? Ang mga salitang napaka-lalim na hinugot pa mula sa kaibuturan ng kaniyang puso.

Mga letrang sa bawat pagbigkas ay nagbibigay ng napaka-lambing na himig. Mga sulat na nagpapahayag ng pagmamahal na kayang maghintay hanggang dulo.

Tagalog ang love language ko, ang natatanging lenggwahe na naglalaman ng mga katagang kayang punan ang kakulangan ng mga salitang maaaring magpahayag ng kagandahan mo.

I always thought to myself that I refuse to marry someone like my father, I want to escape from the fire that's slowly waiting to burn me. I refuse to move out of the house that forced me to shove the tears down my throat only to move to another. I resented loud voices so much because in order to get my point across I need to be louder than them—louder than my father.

"bakit ang lakas lagi ng boses mo?" I just wanted to be heard.

Sa sobrang pagnanais ko na umiwas magmahal ng taong hindi ako kayang dinggin dahil sa lakas ng boses nila, hindi ko namalayan na namana ko na ang boses ni papa. If my voice is not louder than them, will I get my point across?

"bakit ba lagi kang galit?" I just grew up in a household where that is normal.

Sa labis na pagkapuot ko sa tatay kong hindi ma kontrol ang kababawan ng kaniyang galit, hindi ko namalayang sa kanaisang mabago siya—ako pala ang kapalit. If I'm not angry enough, will you even care?

I resented my dad's anger so much that I turned into him. The father I can't look at in the eyes for I know the words that will soon pierce me like a sword. The anger I dreaded to see for I know it comes easily yet takes an eternity to be freed. I wanted to escape my dad's anger—now I just want to escape my own.

I'm not an angry daughter, or at least I didn't use to be one—or even wanted to be one. I didn't want to hold the same sharp words that pierced my heart—I just wanted to break it. I didn't want to let the same anger that lingered in my fathers heart for longer than it should be to consume me—I just wanted to calm it down. But maybe the moment I got that pamana, the temptation of making others feel what I felt started whispering melodies to my ear—melodies that will soon envelop my entire being.

"you need to be louder than them, or you won't get your point across." but that's exactly the type of person that I resented.

"you should be angrier, or they won't take you seriously" but that's the same anger that hurt me.

No, I refuse to marry someone like my father—for I am my father. The product of a father's wrath is an angry daughter wanting to escape.

Salamat sa pamana pa, pero gusto ko nang lumaya.

The kindest people I met—who smile at elderly people, donate to charity, who stand up for what's wrong — are smokers. The faint smell of Marlboro hidden under their sweet scented perfumes, while volunteering to teach kids at the public park. The bent and crumpled cigarette sticks inside their pockets while helping an elderly woman cross the street. The 95 on their report card inside their bag as they ask someone if they have a lighter. The smoke of their addiction does not affect their morals.

I remember the first time I felt the filter hit my lips as I inhaled the chemicals. I knew what I was doing, I didn't know exactly why though (honestly I just thought I was cool, I was curious😅). Until that curiosity turned into dependence. I expected every stick to slowly change me, thinking I'm going to be like them, the image of smokers I made in my head. But weirdly enough I found comfort, something to turn to and forget things for a while—then face life stronger than before.

I slowly realized that along with the smoke, the worries in my mind burns with it. I think there's something poetic about how watching the ethereal beauty of the smoke quiets the noise in my mind. Every stick allows me to just exist for a while, when I'm there I'm just a smoker, nothing else. It's not an escape, but rather an intervention, just a break from everything.

The society is not so accepting of us smokers—just people trying to get by. The stories behind every hit stays within the parameter of our walls, but some of it escapes through the burning paper of a Marlboro Blue stick. The lighter stays hidden deep inside our pockets, inside our souls—not daring to peek even a little every time we meet someone new, afraid of judgement. We continue on living by our morals, doing everything to succeed in life, because in the back of our mind we're looking forward to that 10 minutes of peace.

Mabait naman akong tao kahit may lighter at yosi sa bulsa ko.

Have you ever met someone who radiates a profound love for something —an intense passion that makes you feel emotions. The intensity that starts taking big chunky bites out of their souls—that, I want that. I wanna experience being a Primo, dedicating every second of my being doing something that makes me feel human. I'd go as far as to say it's romantic really, to find a place where your soul fits in like a puzzle piece.

It is in our innate nature to find a sense of purpose, something that makes us feel needed, seen, appreciated. I never really found that purpose, every time I think I finally found something I'm passionate in, the spark always comes short to being ignited. I think the phrase "jack of all trades, master of none" is embedded within me. You can see me playing guitar today after being in a dance class yesterday. I would be learning to crochet this week then learning card tricks the next—none of them were enough. I don't know if it was just my inability to maintain interest for more than a week or the emptiness in my soul spreading faster than any purpose.

I want passion to devour my whole being, to find something worthy of my tears, time, and devotion. Something that leaves me feeling fulfilled even after coming home with an exhausted body. I yearn to be consumed by an overwhelming amount of passion that can bring me to tears, joyful tears from deep within the soul.

Maybe to some extent I do understand Primo, not that I've been in his position—maybe just the longing behind it. I don't agree with how he kept Jo for himself while they were both hurting, but I still envy him for how he got to feel that passion.

Fantasy ko ’yan e, malulong sa lintik na passion na ’yan.

"Ma, kung nakapag college ka sana, anong course gusto mo?" — oh, in that reality she was an accountancy graduate, who was later an office worker for a well renowned company.

"E saang school ka naman mag aaral?" — she was offered a scholarship for Adamson University back then, but turned it down because I happened.

The third question got stuck in my throat for a good couple of minutes, but I asked it anyway.

"Ma, nagsisisi ka ba?" And for a good moment, I felt the sharp coldness of her silence, as the sizzling sound of the oil frying our lumpiang shanghai and the sound of the city started thawing the ice.

Of having a family at an early age? No, she did not regret it for she loves her children dearly—but once in a while she's still overcome by a wave of sadness. The class reunions she avoided because she couldn't face her former classmates with no degree to show. The old acquaintances she dreaded to bump into for she can see them clearly thriving while she's trying to bargain for vegetables. The echoes of those familiar questions that slowly crumpled her up into a tiny ball—"uy kamusta na? mayaman na ba?". She did not regret it, but she allowed herself to feel it.

A small giggle escaped through her mouth as she tries not to cry, but I can see the glistening tear that formed on the side of her eye. As I lay in my bed, the image of her forced smile played in my mind over and over again. I wondered if she had a better ending had she not met my father. Maybe I wouldn't have happened and she could've been free. I know I had no control over what happened 17 years ago, but for some reason the guilt started eating me up. I couldn't bear the idea of her wasted opportunities all because she had me.

I would walk out the door with no hesitation the moment you tell me that my mom can have the life she deserved—even if in that life there is no me. In that universe she will wake up to the sweet aroma of coffee, made by a husband that didn't shout at her for small inconveniences. She would drive to work in a car that she worked hard to pay for, with her own hard earned money. She would have a shiny nameplate on her desk that says "Executive Assistant", a title she deserved—something she can call her own. The dreaded interactions with old acquaintances are nowhere to be found because at last she is not bargaining for vegetables anymore. She would come home to a house that provides her comfort and rest—not dishes waiting to be washed and a crying baby wanting to be fed. In that reality she achieved greater things.

So maybe tomorrow morning I'll wake up early and make her coffee, hug her so tight she can't breathe properly. I wouldn't tell her what I thought about tonight, but I hope she knows how much her sacrifices meant to me, to us.

"Gusto kong maniwala" — maniwala saan? Believe in what? That I can achieve great things? Believe that the Philippines will someday be free from the system that failed them? In the concept of manghuhula? There's a plethora of things that I can believe in, which ones do I want to is the question I can't quite put my finger on. The concept of believing in something is closely tied with reason, logical justification, and more often than not — faith. Maybe faith that what you believe in is something worth of your approval and trust. Something I put my faith in back then, is religion — maybe that's my "gusto kong maniwala".

Well not quite, because I did believe it at some point in my life. The Philippines is like the religious country final boss, everything here is deeply rooted in religion. I've always had this proposition that the bible is like a rule book for the religious people, that religion is a coping mechanism for when there's nothing to turn to anymore. But here in the Philippines, that rule book applies to everyone, as your religion is dictated the second you take your first breath. Which always seemed unfair to me, but that's besides the point. In a country that has people whose souls are the words written in their doctrines, questioning the truth behind those commandments is a dangerous game to play.

I remember being so devoted, reading the bible and praying everyday—because I was raised to believe it's non-negotiable to commit yourself to him. Why we refer to a higher entity as "him" is a question for another day. I was not given the chance to figure out life on my own, form my own values, or choose the morals that I want to live by—literally every child born in a conservative Filipino household. But if I had been given that chance, I wouldn't have chosen to believe in religion—or god for that matter.

As I grew older it was inevitable that the innocence of a religious child will be exposed to the harsh truth of reality, that religion is not the ultimate cheat code—it's just there so people can get by. The contradictions of the word were so evident, the believers just had to turn a blind eye on them. It is a concept built on oppression and misogyny, what makes us think that "god" is not created by men? I've had so many eye openers that it led me to a point where if said god was in front of me, I still would not worship him. It was undoubtedly hard to transition from a devoted christian to a non-believer, the existential crisis threw me in a hole I couldn't get out of. I started doubting if the words I sincerely spoke were of any use, or if the cries of children in pain is something worth his time. I really wanted to keep believing for the sake of what I was raised to believe, for the sake of my parents' peace of mind, for the sake of all the love and effort I put into devotion. I wanted to keep believing that he is really out there, that the prayers from deep within my soul was not wasted, that he hears the cries of people hurting too. Maybe religion was once my “gusto kong maniwala” that turned into “ayoko nang maniwala”.

As I read those comments under that post, it became clear to me that those three words were already complete the moment it interacts with your deep aspirations in life. Someone who has self doubt will read those three words thinking "gusto kong maniwala sa sarili ko". Someone who was hurt by the cruelty of the world will think "gusto kong maniwala na may mabuti pa sa mundo". It's a phrase that requires you to look beyond the surface for it to make sense, like a mirror reflecting your desires. I leave you with this question, saan mo gustong maniwala?

As for me, gusto kong maniwala na may dumidinig nga talaga sa akin.