Hard pill to swallow!

I was struck by the quiet wisdom in the words, "I choose not only friends, I choose the people I surround myself with… Hindi ko gusto ang toxic.” Bea Alonzon said in her interview. Maybe because, for so long, I was the opposite—I trusted easily, opened my heart quickly, and believed everyone meant well. After being bullied and taken advantage of more times than I want to admit, I finally understood that peace is fragile, and not everyone deserves access to the parts of me I worked so hard to heal. I used to think kindness was enough—that if I showed sincerity, people would match it. But life taught me a harder truth: not all kindness is genuine, not all praise is honest, and not every smile is safe. That’s why I’ve learned to keep some things to myself. My plans, my dreams, even my small achievements—I don’t share them as freely anymore. I’ve seen how jealousy can live in people I cared for, how some will smile in front of me but quietly hope I don’t rise. I’ve learned the painful way that not everyone is happy to see you grow. Some will celebrate your setbacks m

ore than your victories. God has a gentle way of revealing these things. Sometimes it’s a tiny discomfort, a shift in tone, a heaviness in the air—subtle signs telling me who is meant to walk with me and who is better kept at a distance. The people worth keeping close aren’t the loudest, the most charming, or the ones who flatter. They are the ones who are real, the ones who can celebrate my growth without envy, who don’t just protect my name but also help guard my peace. Choosing them wisely feels like I’m finally choosing myself, too. And maybe that’s where my desire to make a difference truly begins—by honoring my own heart first.

The voice inside me... please carry me home, embrace me Lord

Lord, I am not okay. I feel tired, empty, and unsure of where my path is leading. But even in this heaviness, I am still here. I choose to stand firm, even when I feel weak.

I know I am not perfect. I stumble, I sin, and I fall short far too often. Being human is not an excuse, but sometimes my discipline fades and my discernment gets clouded. In those moments, I forget to turn to You, to consult You, to rest in Your presence.

Yet despite all my flaws, I offer my life to You. Take me as I am and mold me into who You need me to be. Use me as an instrument of purpose, of love, and of change. Your voice is clearer than my confusion, and You see the path I cannot.

Lead me, Lord. Guide me where I should go. I am not okay, but I am Yours—and that gives me hope.

The Cry

I used to be the kind of person who could turn anything into something positive. Cliché as it may sound, I even loved the idea that resilience could be the opening letter of my name—my identity, my anchor. But today, I find myself unable to fully understand the person I’ve become. I grew too comfortable, too trusting, that I forgot the invisible yet powerful boundaries I should have guarded with my life.

Now I feel worn down—fragmented. I’m exhausted from keeping the energy bright, exhausted from painting everything as “fine” when inside, something is quietly collapsing. In trying so hard to lighten the weight of every situation, I somehow misplaced the weight of my own worth. I don’t know why I stay silent so often. Maybe I am a people-pleaser. Maybe I’ve just forgotten how to choose myself. Or maybe… I simply don’t know how to describe what’s happening to me anymore.

I keep pushing myself to cry, hoping it will reset whatever this heaviness is—as if my emotions could reboot like a machine. I don’t even know where these words are leading; I’m just letting my thoughts spill in the only way I can manage right now.

What I do know is this: I need to take accountability for myself. I need to relearn how to control the things within my reach—my reactions, my boundaries, my truth—instead of trying to fix the things that were never mine to control in the first place.