My 2025 did not start well. My family was admitted to the hospital while I was alone at home managing our family business for the entire holiday season. I remember during the 2025 countdown, I was in my room auditing cash and didn’t realize it was 12 AM if it wasn't for the neighbors being loud. Anyway, everything went well, except I neglected my studies and failed three subjects that I had to retake for the third time. However, I’ve become immune to failing, so it didn’t hurt as much.
After ensuring my family's well-being, I went back to re-enroll in my repeat subjects and spent the majority of 2025 stuck in the library or coffee shops. I had a hard time focusing on my studies, and I relapsed into k-drama and video game addiction. I hosted many online events and Friday game nights for my online friends as a way of distracting myself from real-life stress. Apparently, my stress reliever was just taking on a different flavor of responsibility. In the middle of the year, I quit online games for good, realizing I had outgrown them.
2025 was not that eventful as I kept declining invitations for social events and hangouts. Aside from going to a KTV bar after exams because I definitely needed to sing and shout my frustrations out. I loved how my 23rd birthday went this year, it was simple. I celebrated it with my family and my favorite titas and titos.
In terms of my addictions and mental health, thankfully, I became better and more stable by the last quarter of the year. I can now tame and minimize my negative thoughts, and I am more positive and resilient. Unlike the first quarter, when I would quit one addiction only to find another, it was a tiring cycle of building and rebuilding self-control. Fortunately, I now have healthier coping mechanisms. I still engage in reckless behavior, but at least it has lessened by the end of the year with the support of my very patient friends.
Looking ahead, I really hope that next year I can find a high-paying office job while managing the family business. This will help me budget for household expenses, take care of my siblings, and allow my mom to retire so she can enjoy the remainder of her life. I'm also excited to raise my baby sister, whom I have been treating as my own child. Every time she calls me "mama," I feel so motivated to work hard.
I plan to focus on my family in 2026, and once everything is okay, maybe I can have fun again in 2027? Hopefully. PLEASE, GOD, UNIVERSE AAAAHHHH! As much as I’m undemanding in life, I genuinely need more money. I don't care about finding love. I need money. AMEN.
I want to say thank you to 2025, you’ve been a kind year for me. Yes, there have been some problems, but they’ve been manageable. I've felt so much love and acceptance from the people around me, and this year has brought unexpected experiences. Thank you! In a place I once thought was a bottomless pit, I found my people.
First off, I’m really glad I'm still alive. Normally, I start the year by writing down plans and goals, which usually work out. But this year, shit happened, and I decided to go freestyle in 2025, let things flow, let people come and go, and just enjoy life's roller coaster ride.
I am very aware that I have become a hard person to be around because of how unfiltered and vulgar my language has become, as well as how much I honor and act on my intrusive thoughts. If I say I’d jump off a bridge because the water looks nice, I genuinely would, and my friends would panic and pull me back. I can make the longest, filthiest statements with a straight face in a formal setting, and later find people choking while my friends have to pull me aside.
I ended up skipping two months of school due to feeling off, and I was touched to find that my friends memorized my signature and took turns filling up my attendance. I honestly feel like a burden, and I keep pushing them away, becoming more anti-social. I asked them why they still care and want to be with me, and they said I obviously need them the most. Second, they find it entertaining to see me do reckless stuff.
I'm working on being a bit less candid and controlling my actions, but sometimes I act before I think. Just recently, during my exams, I wore a jacket because the room was freezing. After finishing, I felt so relaxed and free that I decided to take it off, only to realize I was wearing very little underneath. My friends came running and hugged me, and I just found it wholesome. I love them very much, and I want to kiss them all, but they usually freak out and think it’s gay.
I love how they always hold my hands tightly because they know I'll run off and do my mildly disturbing shenanigans. They're like a pin in my ticking bomb, and if my friends are that patient with me, I guess I should give that same grace to myself.
The same goes for my nuclear family and mom's siblings. they are so kind to me that sometimes it feels scary, the surprise back hugs, the tight front hugs, and the loving conversations, being asked the right questions I want to answer. I love everything that has happened this year, including the ugly moments, which I usually blame myself for.
Thank you, 2025. I feel like I am gaining the courage and strength to face 2026 and make goals and plans again. I love you.
Before starting university, I set myself a personal goal, to experience the best college life ever! So, I listed 100 things I was determined to do to make my four five year stay unforgettable... 5 boxes left
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☐ 42. Have my first kiss pathetic... WHEEEEEN
☐ 43. Get a boyfriend
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☐ 76. Fall in love
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☐ 99. Pass my pre-review course iPLEASEEE
☐ 100. Graduate!
I’ve only got a few things left on my bucket list. If I’m feeling crazy enough, maybe before graduation I’ll just go for it, grab and kiss a random guy and hope I don’t completely forget how to breathe. I might end up with a restraining order or be asked for my number, but either way… I’m finishing this list.
It's Christmas Day, a time when everyone is expected to feel happy, but that wasn’t the case for me on December 25, 2025. I made the tough choice to adopt a child, or to be more accurate, to accept a baby as a 'gift' this Christmas.
In short, my mom handed me her baby, opting to leave, much like she did with her cat years ago. She mentioned plans to go abroad and marry a British guy, which isn’t surprising given my history of having a white stepdad (Australian). Initially, I thought she was joking, trying to read her nonverbal cues. Unfortunately, all I saw was a tired mother battling postpartum depression. At least she was honest about her wish to step away from motherhood and enjoy her life.
I could have been heartless towards my baby half-sister and handed her over to her irresponsible Chinese father, who is already involved with someone new. But this tiny being keeps holding my hand and calling me 'Mama' It was hard to see a baby who is unwanted by both her parents, who had her hoping to save their toxic relationship.
Raising a child was not on my 2026 agenda, nor was it in my future plans. After graduation, I planned to travel and explore a wild dating life. Instead, all those plans crumbled as I held the cheerful one-year-old, blissfully unaware of her situation. And it frustrated me that I couldn't find any ounce of energy within myself to hate my mom. I love her deeply. I can't believe I’ll be raising a child right after graduation. My mom was serious about this that she even mentioned adoption papers and changing the baby’s last name to match mine.
I reassured my mom that it was okay to leave her baby with me if that’s what would make her happy. She smiled, and I could see the tension lift from her forehead. I smiled too, but that conversation was painfully heavy for me, and I found myself silently crying in the bathroom at 3AM on Christmas Day. Still, I know I am strong and can handle anything on my own. I like to believe my capacity for love and care is not a weakness.
I might as well give up on finding romantic love because no reasonable man would likely be interested in dating a woman with a child. Many would find it a burden. But I know I can find a way to thrive on my own. No matter what, I promised myself that I would love this child so much that she would never know what it feels like to be abandoned or unwanted. She will grow up happy, filled with love, and I will make sure of that.
It's the Christmas season, and this is one of the few occasions where my very wealthy relatives and poor relatives sit at the same table. Holy cow, it was wildly entertaining! My rich cousins and their white dads can’t speak Filipino, while my dirt-poor relatives can’t speak English, creating not only a class barrier but also a language barrier. There were so many hand signs thrown around, leading to plenty of misunderstandings.
Everyone had already assumed their roles. The rich paid for everything and occasionally threw money bills around, while my poor relatives washed dishes, kept everything clean, and made sure the rich were comfortable during their vacation here. Thankfully, I had tricked everyone into thinking I was the smartest member of the family, which meant I was allowed to avoid both cleaning duties and paying for anything. I just sat there, sociable and friendly, pretending to be smart.
As usual, I was often asked the same questions: when I would go to law school, if I had a boyfriend, and offered me blind date arrangements with rich white men. None of them have found out yet that I actually failed two semesters. I can’t imagine the look of disgust and disappointment in their faces if they ever find out about it. lol!
On the bright side, since the two groups couldn’t fully understand each other, my rich relatives remained blissfully unaware that my poor relatives were whispering among themselves, feeling entitled to their money and asking, 'Why can’t they just give us more?' Meanwhile, the wealthy relatives were busy networking and gossiping, their expressions clearly reflecting condescension toward others. I was one of the few who could speak both languages fluently, so I ended up being the human dictionary during the gathering.
Not everything was negative, though. The one thing that united my rich and poor relatives was their love for alcohol and gambling. The English speakers taught us poker, while the Filipino speakers taught us tongits, and we played together.
I guess the most insensitive part was during the gift exchange, where the rich kids opened gifts worth tens of millions of pesos while my poor relatives tried to suppress their jealousy, as the only Christmas gift they could give to their kids is a complete family.
Anyways, I managed to escape. While they continued their week-long celebration, I couldn’t stomach day one, so I went home and spent Christmas with my cat and mom, who was equally tired of witnessing the family dynamics. We ate instant noodles and didn’t bother opening the expensive food we brought home.
Trigger Warning: insensitive/self-harm
While wrapping up my 2025 and reflecting on the year, I couldn't be happier realizing how much time has passed since I last considered killing myself. As someone who used to be a reckless and suicidal person, I’m proud that I am not that impulsive anymore, and it got me recalling when was the last time I had those thoughts.
Earlier in the year, I heard many news about women committing suicide after their nudes were leaked, which sparked a stupid yet brilliant idea, why not end my life this time for the same reason? So, like any completely rational person, I took some hot naked photos of myself and sent them to some strangers who was hitting on me in an online game. I was preparing myself for the consequences after instigating my own downfall.
Unfortunately, instead of receiving blackmail or having them be appalled, they were amused and offered to either match my freak or 'fix' whatever was wrong in my head. That was outside my trajectory, so I blocked them. and while scrolling through my nudes, I realized. Damn, I’m too sexy to die. After that day, I stopped being suicidal and became self-absorbed for about three months. I couldn't help but admire my shape in the mirror. Looking back, it was one of the stupidest acts of self-destruction I ever did. Now, I’m mentally stable, and I couldn't be happier that my nudes weren’t leaked.
I just want to use this page to process my rage because I’m pissed off about something so trivial, and I want to understand why it feels like such a big deal to me.
So, my mom hired a new maid, her job is to help babysit my sister and assist around the house. Even so, I still help with chores so I don’t burden her, and I don’t like receiving help with things I can do myself. Lately, though, the house has been messy because she keeps leaving things lying around and has gotten used to me cleaning up after her. What frustrates me even more is how she acts like part of the family rather than someone who’s employed here. I’m annoyed because I feel like I’m the maid between the two of us.
Whenever I politely ask her to tidy a few things while I’m busy, she’s usually on her cellphone. She only really works when my mom is watching. I got so frustrated and then I felt petty for feeling that way. I also feel unkind, so I tell myself to be more understanding, especially because I know she’s a breadwinner, and my conscience couldn’t handle being the reason she lost her job. Maybe I should blame myself for not being able to focus well when the house is in shambles.
I think what pissed me off the most is when she tries to mimic my attitude, like she’s replacing me at home since I’m usually out and she’s always there. But hell, out of all my mannerism, she copied the way I speak when I’m mad, when i'm angry (when I actually sound excessively nice). It’s not that I’m two-faced. I just prefer not to burden anyone with my unpleasant feelings. I’d rather keep it to myself so that others don’t feel the need to walk on eggshells around me. No one knew why I sometimes suddenly act nicer, probably not even her, but having my own fakeness mirrored back at me is incredibly irritating. I’m mad at myself, yet I feel like my crash-out is invalid and trivial. Oh my god, I’m ashamed. fuck myself.
You know what, maybe I should just talk to her, instead of internally screaming like " !!!" this. I sometimes underestimate what communication can do, and how simply expressing my feelings calmly might stop resentment from quietly building up inside me. Anyway,,, my head's empty, no thoughts.
December 23 update: I never got to talk to her. she quit because her father was in a serious road accident. and now i feel bad for getting mad at her.
Recently, I’ve had some awkward but wholesome encounters with men, and I want to share those silly and embarrassing moments.
Last Wednesday, I was hopping onto a jeepney on my way to school. I was looking around and realized there wasn’t enough space to sit. A guy on my left gave up his seat, and the person next to him asked everyone to make space for me. I was so embarrassed about accidentally drawing unnecessary attention that I unconsciously covered my face with my hair, and I swear I looked like Sadako the whole ride. And I forgot to say thank you to them.
Then, during lunch, I went to the cafeteria to get a drink and had a hard time opening the bottle. I didn’t realize how obvious my struggle was until a guy came up and held out his hand. My brain was slow to catch up, but I handed him my drink anyway. He opened it nonchalantly, gave it back to me, and walked away (no words were exchanged between us) And again, I forgot to say thank you. I really wish the universe would warn me whenever men are about to be nice to me for no reason, so I can mentally prepare myself.
A couple of days ago, I was walking at noon, melting under the relentless sun, when suddenly a shadow of an umbrella fell across my feet. When I raised my head, I met eyes with a stranger, and he asked me where I was heading. I pointed to where, and he accompanied me there while we were under an umbrella. Tho he emphasized he's walking towards the same direction anyway. I was painfully shy during the walk, drenched in sweat and probably not smelling my best.
My favorite thing about these encounters tho is knowing I’ll probably never cross paths with them again. They feel like a brief chapter in my life that I can look back on and think, damn, I really am a girl. I really am a woman, lol. And oh my God, I forgot to say thank you to the umbrella guy too!
I hate how my brain lags whenever I interact (in person) with strangers, especially men. I end up feeling like a robot that doesn’t know how to respond because there’s no existing data in my head to guide me.
However, it’s not the same online. A few months ago, one of my favorite things to do was talk to strangers and discover interesting people at night. It was so random, sometimes a kid rambling about Roblox for hours, other times a man in his 40s crying about not treating his wife better, maybe thinking venting to a stranger would help, or a girl I instantly clicked with.
The most beautiful part of these encounters was knowing that after dawn, we’d probably never talk again. It’s like a one-night stand, but a wholesome one. However, I don’t always get to connect with normal people, ‘cause I’ve noticed that mostly who’s online at night are horny men who wanted phone sex.
And my favorite animal is me when I try to play along with their fantasies and abrupty end the call when they say they are about to cum. I would giggle before going to bed and even more when I woke up to an angry message in my inbox. I did the same thing for about 20 times? And I thought I could get away with being an asshole.
Until someone who was 1,200 miles away decided to book a flight and sent me a photo of him in my neighborhood the next day with the text, “ hey, I’m here.” Lol, after that, I’ve learned my lesson to not push men's button for fun and never act out their fantasies if I’m not brave enough to actually follow through. But seriously, buying an expensive plane ticket to meet a girl on the internet who enchanted you for one night and faked a few moans, is just wild.
I told my friends about it to have something to laugh about. While the girls were giggling, my guy frends were disappointed and lectured me about how (physiologically??) painful it usually feels for them to be left hanging (to be given blue balls?? i'm not sure) Saying that I should stop being sexually provocative if I can't handle the aftermath, telling me to have more self-respect, yada yada. So, I promised them to not do it again. They sounded like an older brother reprimanding their bratty little sister.
And I’ll admit, I do questionable things sometimes just for the plot twist. My actions didn’t need to be overanalyzed. Sometimes I’m just a dick for no reason at all or for (again) plot twist. I realized that maybe I should be more like the gentlemen strangers I’ve met recently, and instead be kind for no reason at all too.
Anyway, last night, I was walking home down a dimly lit street when this scary-looking guy wearing all black on a motorcycle offered me a ride. I was stuck between thinking, one, he might be dangerous and try to kidnap me, and two, I didn’t want to judge a book by its cover, so I accepted his offer, lol. The ride was insane, but in a fun way. He was speeding like something out of Fast and Furious, lol. The next thing I knew, I was in front of my house, and I shouted, Thanks!!!
I feel like my single life is way more interesting than the idea I have of me being in a healthy relationship.
I’ve noticed the growing popularity of personal curriculums, digital gardening, self-led learning, and the idea of research as a kind of ceremony. These approaches feel like ways to honor the act of thinking in a society that often treats attention as disposable. I want to talk about this because I personally love learning but hate how the school systematize it. I would often skip classes just to read about the topics I was truly interested in. Lately, though, that spark for learning has faded, probably because my brain is already fried, unsurprisingly.
I recently came across the concept of a personal curriculum, although it has likely existed for many years. People are creating personal lesson plans on whatever topics they are passionate about, such as philosophy with web design or poetry with neuroscience, driven purely by curiosity. I find this inspiring, and it motivated me to develop my own curriculum. The positive aspect is that there is an abundance of media and resources available. However, the intake of knowledge must be slowed down to allow us to truly grasp concepts, rather than rapidly switching from one piece of content to the next. I have observed that continuous consumption only leads to forgetting and, ultimately, mental fatigue.
I am also intrigued by digital gardens. These spaces on the internet serve as places where thoughts can develop and flourish. Unlike blogs, digital gardens embrace incompleteness. Entries in a garden are continuously edited, connected, and updated. Discovering other people’s digital gardens online felt like entering someone’s mind and observing their ideas evolve. It reassured me that slow thinking still has a place.
Research ceremonies on the other hand means approaching each study session with the intention of truly understanding a topic you are passionate about, rather than rushing through information. It turns self-led learning into a ritualized experience, where your environment, mindset, and pacing matter as much as the material itself. This approach restores a sense of gravity to learning that we lost somewhere between endless tabs and algorithmic feeds.
In getting away from the mental atrophy caused by overstimulation, returning to learning feels like the most wholesome solution. I want to be fascinated again, so I am planning to follow some of these trends and build something meaningful out of them.
I’ve always been fascinated with death almost as much as life. The difference is that life happens while I’m alive, so I can poke at it and taste it, whereas death is the one experience I can only flirt with from a distance. I am not depressed, but deranged maybe? There used to be phases in my life that the idea of being dead is arousing, it turns me on. And I kept on thinking what kind of mind fuck is this.
Naturally, I traced it back to childhood, because that is where humanity often blames their issues. I remember being around eight, having my first existential crisis. I tried to confide in my religious parents, and they responded with bible scripture which did not help. The more I tried to make sense of things, the more I ended up with even more questions, until existence itself felt suffocating. So I wrapped my little hands around my throat, slowly tightening my grip until no air can get through. I choked my self to death, except I did not die. Rather, I found comfort in it, the questions and voices in my head quickly faded. Sometimes, when my brain got persistently loud, I would bang my head against a wall to drown the thoughts out. It worked. So I assumed this was normal. Surely other people experience this too and this is a way to deal it.
Then I turned twelve. My seatmate saw me hurting myself during break and ratted me out to my parents. My mom got furious and told me to never do it again as if it would automatically stop me. Naturally, I just got better at doing it privately.
Fast‑forward to high school. Life became eventful but repetative that needed better plot twists, so the idea of death started feeling fresh and exciting. So I tried cutting myself, I had mixed feelings, horrified by the sight of blood but aroused by its metallic taste. And I can’t distinguish the two feelings, because whether I’m scared or enthralled, my heart is beating fast as fuck either way.
After that, my death fantasies got out of control. Eventually, my passiveness turned into actions. One time I overdosed on antidepressant supplements (definitely not depressed) my heart was speed pumping while my lungs were dying for some air. Then I collapsed. Out of all my failed attempts, that was the most comedic because I woke up later with a horrible diarrhea. And every time the adrenaline faded, I would get that bizarre post‑nut clarity and think, “Oh yeah. I definitely need therapy.”
I have been thinking about my non-existent love life lately, and for once, I am not trying to romanticize it. I have always told myself that I am not ready. That love, at least for now, is a chapter I am not equipped to open. But this self-awareness has been on repeat for so long that I am beginning to wonder if my hesitation is less about timing and more about fear.
When I like someone, it rarely has anything to do with them as a person. I fall in love for the impossibility of it all. I turn fleeting moments such as an eye contact, a brief exchange, a late-night conversation into full-blown narratives. for me it’s easier to love from afar, where the idea of someone remains intact, untouched by reality.
People have tried to bridge that distance. There have been men who wanted to court me, to take me out, to start something. Each time, I pull away as soon as the possibility becomes real because I’m afraid of what would happen if I said yes.
I’m 23 now, and I’ve never been in a relationship. I’ve never been kissed. Sometimes I lie about it out of self-preservation. There’s a certain shame in being untouched by romance in a world that treats experience as proof of worth. I know it shouldn’t matter, but when everyone around me has a story to tell, my silence feels like an absence I have to justify.
Part of me believes I have a “type,” though I struggle to define it. Maybe it’s not even about the type of man, but the type of love I expect: something intentional and emotionally intelligent. The problem is, while I can imagine the man I want, I don’t think I’m yet the kind of woman who could match him. I believe love requires a version of me that doesn’t exist yet.
And then, there’s fear. I’ve seen what love does to people. I’ve watched women I admire crumble under the weight of betrayal, and it makes me wonder if love is just another form of self-destruction we willingly sign up for. Sometimes I ask myself, is my dream man just a fantasy stitched together by my delusion? Or is he out there, quietly proving me wrong?
I hate to admit this, but I’m drawn to handsome men. And then I shame myself for it, as if wanting beauty is a moral flaw. I call myself “conventionally ugly” to soften the guilt, to preempt rejection by rejecting myself first. I tell myself that if I were my type, I wouldn’t want me either.
Maybe my problem is not that I don’t want love, but that I want it too ideally. I want it to be painless and perfect. And anything less feels like settling. But perhaps that’s what keeps me lonely, this refusal to engage with love in its imperfect form.
I keep waiting for a love that won’t hurt, forgetting that pain is not the opposite of love but a part of its anatomy. I don’t know if I’m ready. Maybe readiness is a myth, and love only arrives when you’ve stopped preparing for it.
Writing feels like thinking out loud, except sometimes it’s just my thoughts running laps around my head. I analyze everything, why things happen and how I feel about them. Yet I’m not sure if I’m actually learning or just orbiting the same thought, mistaking motion for progress.
Writing is an act of untangling. When I write, the loops slow down just enough for me to see what they’re really made of: fear, curiosity, or sometimes plain boredom. So, I write to meet myself halfway: the part that overthinks and the part that longs for silence. It’s the only thing that quiets the noise in my head. When I ignore it for too long, the noise grows louder. It starts to spill into my day and turns into misplaced daydreams, where I start acting out inner dialogues like someone schizophrenic.
My brain demands the right vocabulary before it can rest. I can’t just say I’m happy. I need to know if it's fulfillment, contentment, or pleasure. I can’t just say I’m sad. I have to identify if it's regret, upset, or melancholy. Who is this feeling directed toward? Myself? Someone else? Only when I find the precise words does the noise die down temporarily, for about 24 hours before the cycle begins again. The tricky part, though, is how fast my mind changes. The moment I gain a different perspective, what I wrote a week ago might already feel wrong, like I’ve betrayed my old self with new information.
The hardest part of writing essays is figuring out when I’m being cautious, when I’m self-censoring, or when I’m straight-up lying. Because there’s that invisible potential reader who I subconsciously try to please and who makes me self-conscious, pushing me to polish my truth into something prettier than it is. Fortunately, self-awareness is my antidote to recognize the impulse to impress. I can mute it long enough to write something closer to honesty. So I write to make peace with my own noise. My thoughts tend to wander, and writing is how I call them home.
There’s a strange numbness that comes after too many failures. Not the soul-splitting kind of pain that arrives with the first fall, but something duller. A fatigue that feels like apathy. I’m somewhere in between: not in hell, because I’m no longer suffering, but not in heaven either, because I’m far from thriving. It feels like being trapped in an emotional purgatory, where nothing hurts enough to move me, and nothing shines enough to lift me.
I once failed three major subjects before managing to pass them, but I’ve failed my four pre-rev subjects twice. Now, I’m taking them for the third time. The same syllabus. The same exams. The same suffocating sense of déjà vu. Rationally, I know the odds are not in my favor. Statistically, I might fail again. Yet, what unsettles me most is not the fear of failing, but how ordinary it now feels to live in the aftermath of failure. Rock bottom used to be terrifying, a place of despair and regret. But after two years, it has begun to feel like home. And that comfort is far more frightening than the fall itself.
Still, I know I can’t stay here forever. My privilege to fail is running thin. Tuition fees, time, and patience are not infinite currencies. I tell myself this often, hoping urgency will ignite discipline, but my body remains still. I rarely panic, except maybe once a month or the night before an exam, when the question inevitably arrives: What have I even done with my life these past few weeks?
When I failed the first time, it was because I was too afraid to fail. I clung to the belief that I wasn’t as capable as everyone else, and in the end, that belief fulfilled itself. The second time, I failed for the opposite reason. I was too busy escaping. I lost myself in games, in conversations, in late-night laughter with online friends. I chased instant gratification, pretending each small joy was worth the long-term cost. So, this third time, I tried to do things differently. I went cold turkey, cutting off distractions and isolating myself in the name of focus.
But isolation bred a different kind of self-destruction. Whenever I sit down to study, my mind wanders elsewhere. Sometimes, it drifts toward fantasies of a different life. Most times, it drifts toward K-dramas. I’ve finished more than twenty series since classes began, each one more comforting than the silence of my unread notes. Somewhere along the way, I lost the grit that once kept me going. I lost the discipline that made me believe I had a purpose. I’ve forgotten my “why.”
I keep asking myself: Am I really meant to be here? I spend hours watching tarot readings that promise success I never see, listening to self-help videos I mock yet still replay, searching for divine signs in coincidences I don’t even believe in. It’s all an elaborate ritual to find meaning. And yet, for all my searching, I remain lost. Being lost isn’t the problem but refusing to move while lost is.
Lately, I’ve been thinking... What do I really want in life? And the honest answer is I don’t exactly know. It’s not that I feel lost, it’s just that nothing feels quite definitive. I know what I need to do: study, work, move forward. But when it comes to what I want, I find myself hesitating. Because deep down, I actually want to be surprised.
I think I stopped wanting too much because I’ve come to believe that maybe the universe has something better planned for me than I could ever imagine for myself. After all, as humans, our view is so limited and shallow. When I was a kid, all I wanted were toys. As a teenager, I wanted to be pretty and popular. And now, as a young adult, I think about wanting stability and success. But what if life is more than just that, something I cannot imagine yet.
Lately, I’ve also noticed that I daydream a little too much. It’s scary how much it’s been disrupting my daily routine. Sometimes, I unconsciously speak the dialogues out loud, like I’m losing control of my own thoughts. I enjoy the silly thrill of it and let myself get carried away because that euphoria feels so addicting. But the more I let myself drift into those daydreams, the harder the embarrassment hits when I snap back to reality. The shame of entertaining those cringe fantasies just swallows me whole.
Honestly, I feel torn between my realism and idealism. The realist in me wants to stay grounded, to “get it together”, while the idealist keeps whispering that life is supposed to feel more magical than this. Maybe that’s why I sometimes feel paralyzed by my own thoughts, afraid that if I choose one path, I’ll lose all the other possible versions of me.
When I think about it, maybe I’ve been detaching myself from wanting too much because I’m scared of disappointment. I often think, “It would be nice to have that, but I wouldn’t mind not having it.” It sounds neutral, but really, it’s just a soft armor I’ve built against heartbreak.
A quick segue: I recently bought a GOT7 album that came in seven versions. I was really hoping I’d get my bias’s version (Jinyoung), but thinking about the one-out-of-seven chance, I immediately gave up hope and thought, “It would be nice if I got Jinyoung’s version, but I wouldn’t mind if I don’t, I might learn to like the others.” While my parcel was in transit for a couple of weeks, I drowned myself in GOT7 videos during my free time, laughing nonstop and eventually finding each member’s charm. Long story short, when my parcel finally arrived, IT WAS JINYOUNG! I screamed from excitement and felt like the universe’s favorite child for an hour, flipping through the album filled with his face. (I might write a separate essay just geeking out about GOT7, honestly.)
Anyway, back to the point, giving up all hope is, in a strange way, my method of trusting that something special will happen, something I can’t predict. I want to believe that life still has surprises waiting for me. For now, I think I’ll just let things unfold. I’ll stay curious, keep daydreaming, but maybe with one foot on the ground, and let the universe meet me halfway.
Friendships run their course. That simple truth is often uncomfortable, not only for me but also for the people who once knew earlier versions of who I was. There comes a time when I begin to feel the quiet weight of connections that no longer feel alive, friendships that have become more performance than presence, conversations that echo but do not reach. It is a slow kind of work, this shedding. And even though it hurts, I know it is necessary.
My WePlay family wasn’t just another online game; it was a world that mirrored a part of me I could not express in real life. During a time when I felt lost and unseen, that digital space became my stage, my sanctuary, my escape. There, I was admired, even looked up to, yet admiration without understanding can become a cage disguised as affection. Gratitude alone cannot sustain belonging. I’ve learned that it is possible to honor what a chapter gave me while also choosing to close the book. Growth requires endings, and endings do not always mean bitterness.
I’ve come to believe that letting go of friendships is not an act of cruelty. It can be an act of grace. Every bond has its season, and some are meant to teach rather than to last. Walking away before resentment takes root can be a deeper form of care, one directed not only toward others but toward oneself. I am learning that leaving does not always mean abandoning. Sometimes, it means choosing myself for the first time in a long while.
Perhaps it feels wrong because I grew up believing that loyalty meant endurance, even when it hurt. I was taught that leaving was a betrayal, that endings were failures. But maybe loyalty can also mean being faithful to my own evolution. I am allowed to outgrow places where I once felt safe. I am allowed to whisper, Thank you for everything, but I need to walk this next part alone.
I’ve been spring-cleaning my social life. Unfollowing acquaintances. Muting people I used to check in on every day. I suddenly had clarity. Turns out, most of those connections only existed because I kept them alive. I was the one reaching out, checking in, sending memes at 3AM, being the emotional charger. The second I unplugged? Silence.
I understand that people are busy. Life is overwhelming, and time is scarce. I get that. But if I can make the effort, then perhaps others could too. Or perhaps they simply do not want to. Self-help literature advises not to take such things personally, framing it as a “them” problem, not a “me” problem. Theoretically, I agree. In practice, it still stings to realize that some people only appreciate you when you are convenient, cheerful, and easy to manage.
The pain is almost imperceptible. Realizing nobody checks in when you go silent. Noticing how how they ignore your messages for weeks but double-tap your stories like that makes up for the ghosting. Like, thanks for the emotional crumbs, I guess?
Sometimes it feels like the bond only exists when I keep showing up. I reach out? We laugh, we connect. I don’t? Suddenly, we’re strangers with memories. Some friendships are so one-sided, I could’ve sworn I was texting a wall with a profile picture. And yes, maybe I overacting. Maybe I take things too personally. But how do you not take it personally when you’re always the one reaching out, and people only love you when you’re curated and filtered and fun? The moment you show up flawed, weird, or even just quiet… they back away like you're a glitch in the system.
I’m learning now, not everyone deserves a pedestal. Not everyone needs to be defended when the energy isn’t mutual. And no, I don’t want performative connections. I don’t want people who only remember I exist when I post something funny or vaguely sad. I want people who show up even when there’s no audience.
Is it a me problem? Possibly. Yet it seems reasonable to want to feel chosen, to want reciprocity without shame. Love, even in its platonic form, should demand mutuality and not martyrdom. So now, I’m pulling back, not out of bitterness, but out of self-respect. I’m not burning bridges. I’m just not begging people to cross them anymore. I am not hard to love. I'm just tired of being the only one trying.
Vulnerability is terrifying. To reveal your true self is to offer others a piece of you they can twist, discard, or leave behind. Often, it is not the harm they inflict that lingers but the emptiness they leave when they are gone. And yet, we remain in these cycles, returning to the places that hurt us because they are familiar. Familiar feels safe. At least we know how the story goes.
I admire my younger self. She went through so much and somehow never cried. But now? I cry when my spoon falls. I cry like gravity has a personal grudge against me. But it’s never about the spoon. It’s about everything else that’s fallen, my hopes, my self-worth, my stamina to keep pretending I’m fine. That tiny sound of metal on the floor was just the last straw in a pile I’ve been quietly stacking for years.
When I look in the mirror, I can’t always stand who I see. I know I can recover, but sometimes I lack the grit. I used to chase goals that were never really mine, hoping I could make them fit. It didn’t work. Now, I just exist, and strangely, that feels enough. A quiet rebellion against the old me who thought love had to be earned through achievement.
I used to find pride in being “the smart one,” until I failed 21 units of my major. That broke something in me. Who am I without my achievements? Who am I when I’m not performing? I tell myself it’s okay to be average, as long as I’m a good person. But then I catch myself lying, judging, disappearing. What if I’m not even a good person?
People keep asking when I’ll graduate. I wish I had the courage to ask when they’ll mind their business. I’m tired of living by other people’s timelines. I want to laugh again, cry freely, sing badly, dance terribly, just feel things fully. Maybe that’s what growing up really is, unlearning the performance, sitting with the mess, and learning to call it living.
Lately, I have been thinking about how easy it is to call someone a “psycho.” It gives a sense of safety, a comforting belief that we are the sane ones, the victims who simply got unlucky. Yet sometimes I wonder if I was just as manipulative, only in quieter ways. It starts small. You meet someone who feels different, someone who mirrors your thoughts, your humor, your pain. You think it is chemistry, only to discover it is strategy. They know how to feed your fantasy and make you feel seen. You allow it because it feels good to be known at last. Until it stops feeling good.
Then comes the confusion, the push and pull, the affection followed by silence, the compliments that feel like currency. I once believed I could outsmart people like that. The truth is, I was easy to play. I did not know myself well enough. My insecurities were exposed, and I mistook attention for intimacy. Here is the part I hate admitting: the more I tried to protect myself, the more I began mirroring their behavior. I learned to withhold. I learned to charm. I learned to stay mysterious deliberately. It is a strange kind of power, and addictive in a way. Yet it never feels satisfying.
I realize now that being “unbothered” is not strength if it is simply fear wearing a mask. The idea of detachment as protection is lonely. It transforms you into the very person you swore you would never become. Perhaps the real lesson is not about spotting psychos. It is about recognizing yourself when you start becoming one. When self-protection turns into performance. I want to know myself well enough that no one, not even my fears, can puppeteer me. If I ever catch myself repeating the same old pattern, love-bombing, withdrawing, performing, vanishing, I will pause. I will breathe. I will reconnect with something real. And perhaps for once, I will choose peace over power.
Last night, I spent three hours on a call with a friend. We went on a full-on rant about people, laughing, venting, oversharing, the whole thing. I actually enjoyed it. There’s something quietly comforting about someone who chooses to spend hours just talking to you. It feels rare, like being seen without having to ask for it. But somewhere in the middle of the conversation, something in me shifted. I started noticing red flags, not the usual scattered ones, but an entire red carpet unrolling before me, inviting me to walk straight into it.
He’s manipulative, though I don’t even think he realizes it. On the surface, we don’t share much in common. He’s old-fashioned when it comes to relationships, which already makes me twitch a little. He talked a lot about himself: his INTJ label, his self-deprecating humor, his grand declarations about giving his all when he loves, and withdrawing completely when he doesn’t. It sounded self-aware at first, but the more he spoke, the more it felt like someone building walls while pretending they’re bridges.
Then he brought up his recent breakup. He mentioned his new gym routine, then casually admitted to flirting with several girls he chats with. At one point, he let me overhear him flirting with a drunk, vulnerable girl. It was uncomfortable to witness. Yet what struck me most wasn’t the act itself, but how effortlessly he controlled the flow of their conversation, steering it, shaping it, bending it to his will. And then came the truly unsettling part. Because as I listened, I realized he was a lot like me. Or maybe, I was a lot like him.
I’ve done similar things. I controlled narratives, curated impressions, chosen words like chess moves designed to provoke specific reactions. The difference, I told myself, is that I know when I’m doing it. But that’s a flimsy distinction. Watching him was like staring into a mirror and seeing my own reflection smirk back, equal parts humbling and horrifying.
Still, I didn’t end the call bitter. In fact, I felt oddly grateful. For all his flaws, he was transparent in his own way, and that transparency forced me to confront my own habits. How I connect, how I protect myself, how I sometimes confuse control with intimacy.
I can see the performance he tries to maintain. The version of himself he wants the world to believe. And I recognize that duality because it lives in me too. Maybe that’s what conversations like this are for, to remind us that connection is not always clean or comforting. Sometimes it’s messy, sometimes it’s a mirror. And if we’re lucky, it reflects not just who they are, but who we’ve been pretending not to be.