It was a windy morning on the fourth day of January. I stood alone in front of the entrance of the church, the large wooden door closed. I was wearing a long white gown, my veil softly swaying as the wind carried the delicate fabric to its gentle wings. All I could hear was the muffled sound of the wedding march on the other side of the door and my own beating heart.

It was the day—the day I'll change my name and become his forever.

Dear Mama and Papa,

When I was still a young girl, you always told me to fight for what I believed in, to not be let down by the littlest of discouragement, and to have a stand in this world. For sixteen years, I was the headstrong daughter you raised me —until the time I was heading off to college and choosing my career path.

You came into my life
     Silently, slowly
As your tiny bones grew
     And your tiny heart throbbed
And I never knew, never knew.


For eight weeks, or nine
     I had you in my womb
Then tiny drops of crimson
     Dripped, dripped, gushed
And you were gone
     Too soon, too soon.

                            - k.m.t.g.

Ever since I was a kid, it has always been my dream to work as an editor—or just a part of the editorial staff, even as an editorial assistant or contributor—at a lifestyle or fashion magazine. Elizabeth Wakefield of Sweet Valley Twins and Betty of Betty La Fea were my role models: how I wish I could be in their shoes and work as a sassy editor for a posh magazine.

And just this month, as I was looking for a new career opportunity, I landed a job as an editorial assistant for a classy and well-known magazine. If it happened a few years back, when I was still so young and naive and starry-eyed, I would have jumped into the opportunity—with no second thoughts, without considering anything else but my wide-eyed zest to be what I always dreamed about.

On a humid and sleepy Saturday morning sometime in March, I realized that my two-year relationship with my then boyfriend had come to an end, much to my chagrin. The second thing I did after crying out ugly was to call one of my best friends and plan an out-of-town trip. Our destination? Vigan.

Dearie,

You have sparked the attention of a lot of mothers out there, and I'm here to voice out my opinion as a daughter.  

Let me introduce myself. I'm a twenty-four-year-old unmarried and childless writer who grew up not really seeing my mom that much, and was raised by a hands-on dad, a doting grandma, protective sisters, and a string of yayas. I have two older sisters who are in their thirties and are apparently "fake" hands-on moms because they are not at par to your losyang standards in your oh-so wonderful article "How to spot a fake hands-on mom of toddlers." (And by the way, both of them have toddlers and one-year-olds, and they still are hands-on moms, have time to work full-time, and look as young to pass as college girls.)

I am the youngest from a brood of three, and at the time of my birth, things were financially difficult for my family, so my mom had to work her ass off to give all of us a future. I barely remember my mom in a lot of my childhood memories. Heck, she wasn't even there when I had my menarche.

I was 20 then. It was just a few months before graduation, when I would have become a full-fledged adult with a bachelor’s degree in nursing. But for the moment I was focusing on being a good student nurse.

It was our first day in our clinical duty at the emergency room. We were on the morning shift, so we had a busy start. One of my assigned patients was a young male just a few years shy of 30, with the diagnosis of meningitis.

He was just one of the many patients I tended in the whole four years of my student-nurse days. But I remember him so well, and I don’t think I will ever forget him.

I used to be very independent.

I could go to Ayala by myself and window shop for hours and not get bored.

I could go to Oh George! and eat a whole large plate of carbonara all by myself and not feel awkward.

I could stroll around Colon all alone and not get scared.

I could travel to Mindanao and Visayas all alone, by ship, for 12 long hours, and still have the best time of my life.

I lived all alone in a rented room for years and I didn't feel lonely at all.

I made decisions all by myself, and I created a life that was so great that I couldn't wish for more.

I was so carefree and self-reliant, but where am I now?

It's been almost a month since I started my treatment for depression, and so far, I've been feeling a lot better. To help my treatment, I decided to create a Love Yourself Project, which aims to help the depressed and suicidal (like me; I need to help myself).

To start, I'm listing down 10 ways to love yourself. 

Loving yourself is, I believe, the most essential step in getting through depression because depressed people tend to not see their self-worth. I, for one, hated myself for just about everything, and now is the best time to finally get that off my system. It's Christmas; the greatest gift you can give to yourself is love.

Today marks the twenty-fourth year of my existence on Earth. Today, I'm a year older and a year wiser. Today, I learned a few things about life.

"What is depression like?" he whispered.

"It's like drowning. Except you can see everyone around you breathing."

The death of Robin Williams was the long-overdue spur the world needed to understand depression better. Depression is a poorly understood condition—more often mistaken for something as normal as frustration and sadness. But depression is something else, something much deeper, much darker.
Then what is depression like?

As a student back then, I found it more comfortable and more efficient to study at night; hence, I dubbed myself a night owl.

Now that I am past the student phase, I landed a good job that, unfortunately, requires me to work at night regularly. Health-wise, working at night is not beneficial: higher stress levels, messed-up circadian rhythms, higher gastric acidity levels, and much more. But looking on the brighter side,  I can list down a few things that can make night shift duty much more preferable than on normal office hours. Here's why:

I recently read the Grimms' version of Cinderella, Ashputtel.

Being a Disney fan, I would have expected the original story to be more or less the same as the one portrayed in the cartoon. However, Ashputtel is far from the fairy-tale happily ever after.

It was a dark, gloomy Sunday, the sound of pelting raindrops on the roof echoed in the four walls of her room. Thunder. Lightning. The torrent of rain continued on as she lay awake in her bed.

She stared blankly at the canopy of her double-decked bed. Her mind wandered off to the events of the weeks past. Months. Years. She had always been the headstrong type, never the one to falter and break down when challenges arise. Luck always seems to be at her favor. But now, it seemed otherwise.

She thought back to the day she decided to leave. Many would think it unwise, unpractical, but for her, it was the best decision she has ever made, second to the time she decided to chase after her lifelong dream. Her dreams consumed her. She was determined to be the best that she can be. The passion and the determination were burning inside her for a while. For a while.

In Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows, Dumbledore engraved a cryptic message on the Golden Snitch that Harry swallowed in his first quidditch match: I open at the close. It took Harry many grueling days to figure that one out, until the time came, on the Final Battle at Hogwarts, that he let all his guards down, eventually unveiling the answer to the message: I open at the close.

A few hours of being a princess, but a lifetime to remember. 

It was a windy October morning. Everyone was rushing past, getting ready for the wedding. Being the wallflower that I am, I stood at the background, watching the other bridesmaids fussing over their headdresses. I was the last one to have my makeup done, and I was struggling to wear my snugly fit gown as the wedding coordinator hollered that the photoshoot with the bride was way behind schedule. Just great.

 Originally wrote this article as a reflection of something I was going through before, and posted it on Facebook. I submitted it to our college's magazine and was eventually published. This time, I'm reposting it here in my very own blog. 

Changes will always happen in the course of life, and the most evident are the physical ones.

We may look like gods and goddesses right now— what with our youthful bodies. But no matter how much you try, age will inevitably transform us. A few years from now, lines will start to form on our faces. Women get pregnant and get sagging breasts and build up cellulites. Men get their beer bellies. We get fat, have wrinkles, and eventually will have to wear glasses as we grow older. When we wake up in the morning, we might look like hags without our makeup—dried up saliva, milky tears, and awesome-smelling breaths from the night before. Yes, it is important to look our best, but we will never be pretty or handsome at all times.

It has been said that when choosing your life partner, you have to get to know him well first. 


That principle didn't evade me even in the world of nursing: Assess before you diagnose, plan, implement, and evaluate.


But what if even after thorough assessment, you found out that there are things yet to be discovered? What if even after all those years of knowing a person, you realize that you actually didn't know him well enough after all?