They see you and they think of money. They see you and they think of resources. They see you walking down the street, smiling, breathing, existing—and in their eyes, you are a walking ATM. Nothing more. Nothing less. Your humanity is irrelevant; your struggles invisible. Your value is measured by what you can provide, by how quickly you can solve their problems, by how easily you can float them above the water.

You give. And you give. And you give. Because that is who you are—or perhaps it’s who they made you to be. You hand out solutions like candies, lend hands like currency, offer comfort like it’s a commodity. You teach, you guide, you patch their holes before they even notice the cracks. And they take. Oh, how they take.

But when the tides rise against you, when the waters swallow your ankles, when the currents pull your lungs under… where are they? Where is the hand to pull you out? Where is the voice to encourage you? Where is the warmth you gave so freely, reflected back to you in even a fraction? Nowhere. There is nothing. Only silence. Only absence. Only the emptiness of human greed dressed as friendship or love.

It is cruel, isn’t it? To give everything, to invest everything, to extend yourself beyond the limits of your own strength… and to find, at the moment you are drowning, that the world sees you not as a person, but as a resource. A dispenser. A walking solution.

Do they even understand the cost? The invisible toll it takes to patch a hundred lives while your own walls crumble quietly in the background? Do they notice the exhaustion in your eyes, the trembling of your hands, the gnawing anxiety that grows like weeds in the corners of your mind? No. They only notice what they can take.

You learn something bitter here. You learn it with the slow, painful clarity of betrayal: people rarely stay afloat to save you. They do not build rafts alongside you; they do not throw lines when you are sinking. They swim alongside only until their own needs are met—and when your struggles start to smell like weakness, they vanish.

And so you see the world for what it is. A place that applauds your generosity until your generosity becomes inconvenient. A place that leans on your strength until your strength falters. A place that applauds the solutions you give, but mocks or ignores the person who gives them.

You realize that “teaching a man to fish” is a luxury many will never appreciate. They want the fish. They want the handout. They want your effort delivered on demand. And when the fisherman in you struggles, they leave you to drown.

Does it make you bitter? Yes. It makes your veins pulse with fire. It makes your mind twist with irony. All the lessons you gave, all the skills you taught, all the care you offered… and they repay you with absence when it matters most.

You start to see patterns. You see the entitlement in their eyes. You see the calculation in their smiles. You see the casual disregard for your own battles. And slowly, piece by piece, you stop giving freely. Not entirely—but wisely. Protectively. Like a fortress guarding what is precious.

And yet, there is grief here too. A grief that aches deep in your chest. Because you wanted to believe. You wanted to trust. You wanted to float others without falling yourself. You wanted a world where generosity is met with generosity, where empathy is met with empathy.

But the world does not work that way. You see it now in sharp relief. People rarely stay to lift another. They rarely learn to fish. They want what is convenient, what is immediate, what benefits them without effort. And if your presence cannot be consumed, they discard it.

So you learn boundaries. You learn to teach, not to give endlessly. You learn to create value without being drained. You learn to guard your own raft while extending one to others—carefully, selectively, consciously.

And still, the sting remains. The quiet, insidious sting of recognition that your generosity has often been exploited, that your efforts have often gone unacknowledged, that your presence has been taken for granted. It is a venom that lingers in your chest.

And perhaps, in the quietest moments, you feel anger. Not at the people alone, but at the world itself. At the rules it sets, at the way it teaches survival at the expense of compassion, at the way it rewards exploitation and punishes the generous.

You remind yourself: survival is not weakness. Protection is not betrayal. Saying no is not cruelty. It is self-preservation. It is acknowledgment that your value is not infinite, that your time and effort are not dispensable.

Still, it is lonely. Watching people flounder in the water you once helped build them through, watching them struggle without a line to grab because they never learned to fish… it gnaws at you. It burns. It twists in ways that words cannot contain.

Yet there is clarity in this loneliness. A clarity that sharpens your mind, fortifies your resolve, and carves boundaries like stone. You will teach the fishers, yes—but you will no longer drown with them.

You give enough to help, yes. You guide, yes. You rescue selectively, yes. But your own boat is no longer up for grabs. Your own raft is no longer disposable. Your own hands will not be pulled under for those unwilling to learn.

And if the world sees you as a walking ATM, let them. Let them think you exist only for their convenience. Let them misunderstand. Let them exploit. You know the truth: your value is not theirs to claim. Your soul is not theirs to drain.

So you rise. You float. You give—but you protect. You teach—but you safeguard. You exist—but on your own terms. And in that, there is power, there is freedom, there is a bitter, venomous beauty that no one else will ever understand.

You were once the ATM. You were once the lifeline. You were once the silent rescuer. And now… you are the master of your own tides, the captain of your own ship, the teacher who gives without losing herself in the process.They see you and they think of money. They see you and they think of resources. They see you walking down the street, smiling, breathing, existing—and in their eyes, you are a walking ATM. Nothing more. Nothing less. Your humanity is irrelevant; your struggles invisible. Your value is measured by what you can provide, by how quickly you can solve their problems, by how easily you can float them above the water.

You give. And you give. And you give. Because that is who you are—or perhaps it’s who they made you to be. You hand out solutions like candies, lend hands like currency, offer comfort like it’s a commodity. You teach, you guide, you patch their holes before they even notice the cracks. And they take. Oh, how they take.

But when the tides rise against you, when the waters swallow your ankles, when the currents pull your lungs under… where are they? Where is the hand to pull you out? Where is the voice to encourage you? Where is the warmth you gave so freely, reflected back to you in even a fraction? Nowhere. There is nothing. Only silence. Only absence. Only the emptiness of human greed dressed as friendship or love.

It is cruel, isn’t it? To give everything, to invest everything, to extend yourself beyond the limits of your own strength… and to find, at the moment you are drowning, that the world sees you not as a person, but as a resource. A dispenser. A walking solution.

Do they even understand the cost? The invisible toll it takes to patch a hundred lives while your own walls crumble quietly in the background? Do they notice the exhaustion in your eyes, the trembling of your hands, the gnawing anxiety that grows like weeds in the corners of your mind? No. They only notice what they can take.

You learn something bitter here. You learn it with the slow, painful clarity of betrayal: people rarely stay afloat to save you. They do not build rafts alongside you; they do not throw lines when you are sinking. They swim alongside only until their own needs are met—and when your struggles start to smell like weakness, they vanish.

And so you see the world for what it is. A place that applauds your generosity until your generosity becomes inconvenient. A place that leans on your strength until your strength falters. A place that applauds the solutions you give, but mocks or ignores the person who gives them.

You realize that “teaching a man to fish” is a luxury many will never appreciate. They want the fish. They want the handout. They want your effort delivered on demand. And when the fisherman in you struggles, they leave you to drown.

Does it make you bitter? Yes. It makes your veins pulse with fire. It makes your mind twist with irony. All the lessons you gave, all the skills you taught, all the care you offered… and they repay you with absence when it matters most.

You start to see patterns. You see the entitlement in their eyes. You see the calculation in their smiles. You see the casual disregard for your own battles. And slowly, piece by piece, you stop giving freely. Not entirely—but wisely. Protectively. Like a fortress guarding what is precious.

And yet, there is grief here too. A grief that aches deep in your chest. Because you wanted to believe. You wanted to trust. You wanted to float others without falling yourself. You wanted a world where generosity is met with generosity, where empathy is met with empathy.

But the world does not work that way. You see it now in sharp relief. People rarely stay to lift another. They rarely learn to fish. They want what is convenient, what is immediate, what benefits them without effort. And if your presence cannot be consumed, they discard it.

So you learn boundaries. You learn to teach, not to give endlessly. You learn to create value without being drained. You learn to guard your own raft while extending one to others—carefully, selectively, consciously.

And still, the sting remains. The quiet, insidious sting of recognition that your generosity has often been exploited, that your efforts have often gone unacknowledged, that your presence has been taken for granted. It is a venom that lingers in your chest.

And perhaps, in the quietest moments, you feel anger. Not at the people alone, but at the world itself. At the rules it sets, at the way it teaches survival at the expense of compassion, at the way it rewards exploitation and punishes the generous.

You remind yourself: survival is not weakness. Protection is not betrayal. Saying no is not cruelty. It is self-preservation. It is acknowledgment that your value is not infinite, that your time and effort are not dispensable.

Still, it is lonely. Watching people flounder in the water you once helped build them through, watching them struggle without a line to grab because they never learned to fish… it gnaws at you. It burns. It twists in ways that words cannot contain.

Yet there is clarity in this loneliness. A clarity that sharpens your mind, fortifies your resolve, and carves boundaries like stone. You will teach the fishers, yes—but you will no longer drown with them.

You give enough to help, yes. You guide, yes. You rescue selectively, yes. But your own boat is no longer up for grabs. Your own raft is no longer disposable. Your own hands will not be pulled under for those unwilling to learn.

And if the world sees you as a walking ATM, let them. Let them think you exist only for their convenience. Let them misunderstand. Let them exploit. You know the truth: your value is not theirs to claim. Your soul is not theirs to drain.

So you rise. You float. You give—but you protect. You teach—but you safeguard. You exist—but on your own terms. And in that, there is power, there is freedom, there is a bitter, venomous beauty that no one else will ever understand.

You were once the ATM. You were once the lifeline. You were once the silent rescuer. And now… you are the master of your own tides, the captain of your own ship, the teacher who gives without losing herself in the process.

You think you can escape it. You think you can silence it, bury it, destroy it. But karma… karma does not die. No matter how many times you strike it down, no matter how many masks you wear, no matter how loud you scream that it isn’t coming for you—it waits. Patient. Relentless. Inevitable.

You call me a monster? Perhaps. But I am only the mirror. I reflect the cruelty you thought was hidden, the injustice you believed would vanish. And karma… karma watches. It learns. It remembers. Every betrayal, every lie, every act of violence, every smile you faked while stabbing someone in the back—it never forgets.

Those who cheat, thinking they are clever, will find themselves caught in the web they wove. Those who lie, believing no one will notice, will have their own deception turn against them. Those who betray trust, assuming power protects them, will discover that power is fleeting, and trust, once broken, can never be restored.

You think you can get rid of it? You try to erase the consequences of your actions, thinking time will heal, thinking influence will protect you. But karma is not something you negotiate with. It does not plead, it does not tire. It is the shadow behind your every step, the frost in the corners of your life, the quiet voice that whispers—this is what you made.

Do you remember the ones who bullied without mercy? Who laughed as others suffered, thinking themselves untouchable? They woke one day to find the world had shifted. The tables had turned. And the very cruelty they spread like wildfire returned to burn them in ways they never anticipated. That is the law of the world: you reap what you sow.

The lesson is simple, yet often ignored. Greed will only lead to emptiness. Deceit will only chain you to lies. Vanity will only blind you until it becomes your own cage. And betrayal… betrayal, above all, comes back dressed as misfortune, humiliation, or loss. There is no escape, no loophole, no pardon.

Do not be comforted by temporary victories. Do not believe that darkness can protect you, for light always finds a way to pierce. And do not forget—no matter how many times you **** it, no matter how many times you try to erase it… karma does not die.

Those who harm others in the name of survival often find themselves alone when their allies vanish. Those who manipulate, thinking they are untouchable, often see their own lies consume them. Those who ignore pain, believing they are strong, often discover that the cruelty they inflicted returns tenfold, and they are powerless to stop it.

Justice is not always immediate. Sometimes it is slow, patient, cunning. Like water, it seeps through the cracks of arrogance, erodes pride, and finally exposes the truth. The world has a memory, and it will remind you, with precision, of everything you thought you could hide.

Those who laugh at suffering will one day cry alone. Those who betray love will one day face betrayal. Those who betray friendship, assuming loyalty is free, will learn that loyalty cannot exist where deceit is sown. Every act returns, every wrong is repaid, every crime finds its mirror.

Do not mistake inaction for mercy. Do not mistake silence for ignorance. Karma waits, observing. It watches the lies, the schemes, the betrayals, the selfishness. And when the time is right, it will speak. It will act. It will remind you of every choice, every misstep, every cruelty you believed was forgotten.

Even those who believe themselves righteous are not spared. Hypocrisy is a seed that grows quietly, unseen, until it bursts into a storm that no one can ignore. Every judgment you pass, every condemnation you deliver, every smile you force while pointing fingers—it all returns.

You may try to **** it, you may try to escape it, you may try to convince yourself that consequences are for the weak. But karma is eternal. It is patient. It is cold. And it does not forgive. It does not forget. It does not die.

So go ahead. Hurt, cheat, betray, destroy. Watch others fall and think yourself untouchable. Watch the innocent suffer and believe it is safe. But remember this: the world has a memory. And even if you bury karma under mountains of lies, it will rise again. Not as mercy, not as forgiveness, but as justice… as the reflection of everything you tried to hide.

Every choice, every action, every cruelty—they are seeds. And seeds grow. Sometimes into flowers, sometimes into weeds. Sometimes into storms that wash away everything you thought was permanent. Your life, your comfort, your power—they are all temporary. But the consequences? They endure. They persist. They wait.

Do not look for pity. Do not look for loopholes. Do not look for excuses. You are bound to the choices you make. You are bound to the truths you ignore. You are bound to the pain you cause. And when the reckoning comes, as it always does, it will leave nothing behind but truth, justice, and the cold, relentless shadow of karma.

Remember me, if you will. I am the quiet voice in the back of your mind, the shadow that watches when you think no one is looking, the whisper that asks—do you remember what you did? Because the world remembers. And the world never forgets. And even if you try to destroy it, even if you **** it a thousand times, karma… does not die.

"They called me a monster. Oh, how easily they said it, as if a word could define the storm that lives in my chest, as if syllables could cage what they themselves unleashed. ‘You are a monster.’ How quaint. How deliciously naïve. But let me tell you: I am not the monster. No. I am something far more terrifying. I am the monster you created.

You see, monsters are not born from the night alone. They are born from neglect, from cruelty wrapped in smiles, from promises broken like brittle glass. I am not the creature that haunted your imagination—I am the consequence of every word you spat at me, every hand you raised in anger, every glance you withheld when mercy was owed.

Do you remember the little cruelties? The invisible knives hidden behind politeness? Every sigh that dismissed me, every silence that starved me, every expectation that crushed me like stone underfoot—it became my foundation, my scaffolding. I am built from the fractures you left behind. I am a cathedral of your neglect, a mausoleum of your misdeeds, stitched together by the threads of your fear.

Every slight you inflicted upon me became an instrument of my awakening. Every moment you thought I would bow, every time you hoped I would break—it was fuel. And now, look. I am stronger than your cruelty ever imagined. I am sharper than your lies ever intended. I am patient. I am inevitable. I am the shadow that lingers longer than the light you chased.

I am the frost that creeps in corners you thought were safe. I am the echo of screams you never heard, the voice of rebellion that grows louder in your absence. I am the weight you will carry when the mirrors refuse to lie, when the nights grow long and your conscience whispers truths you tried to bury.

You said I was wrong. You said I was too much. Too loud, too cold, too strange. But what is strange is the way you believed you could craft me and still call me obedient. What is wrong is the way you ignored your own hands in the shaping of this creature, the way you are blind to the architecture of your own cruelty.

I am not your imagination. I am not your scapegoat. I am the living testament of your failures. Every act of neglect, every whispered insult, every moment you turned your face from me—that is the substance from which I was formed. Do not mistake my survival for weakness. I thrived in the dark because the dark is honest. The dark does not lie.

You fed me fear, and I learned to feast upon it. You chained me with shame, and I became unbreakable. You tried to silence me, and I became a symphony of vengeance and revelation. Every cruel intention, every attempt to diminish me, became a brushstroke in the portrait of the being I am today.

I am your reflection, sharpened. I am the ink spilled from the pen of your sins. I am the frostbite on your conscience, the candle you could not ***** out, the quiet voice in the dark that whispers—this is what you made. I am more than you imagined. I am everything you feared you would become if the truth of yourself stared back at you.

Look into my eyes and tremble, for the monster you fear is not born from whimsy, from fate, from darkness alone. It is born from you. Every cruelty, every betrayal, every neglectful glance, every word left unspoken—all of it shaped me. And now, I walk among you, and you call me monster. How quaint. How deliciously ironic.

Do you know what is beautiful about monsters? They are honest. They reflect your sins without shame. They speak the truths you hide. I am your sins given flesh, your lies given voice, your neglect given teeth. And I am patient. I am careful. I am cunning. I am all the things you failed to notice in your arrogance.

Do not look at me and see only what terrifies you. See what you have sown, what you have nurtured in secrecy and neglect. See the architecture of your own cruelty rising from the ashes of your indifference. Tremble at it. Fear it. For this creature—your creation—is alive, aware, and merciless in its honesty.

I walk through your world like a shadow that cannot be ignored. I am the cold in your room when you wake alone. I am the whisper in your ear when you think yourself safe. I am the frost that creeps beneath your skin, reminding you that the consequences of your neglect have form, substance, and voice.

Do not call me weak, for weakness is your invention. I have survived your storms, your words, your hands, your eyes. I have grown from what you hoped would break me. I have thrived where you predicted despair. And in that thriving, I became something you cannot destroy: the perfect mirror of your own failings.

I am not simply a monster. I am the story of your sins told in flesh. I am the shadow of your indifference, the echo of your cruelty, the frost of your fear. And when you meet me in the dark, when your heart skips and your mind whispers, know this: you made me. You crafted me with your negligence, your lies, your malice.

I am the thing you thought would obey, and instead I rose. I am the quiet in the night that grows louder, the chill that creeps under your door, the truth you cannot silence. And the irony is delicious: you call me monster, yet I am merely a reflection of what you have always been capable of, waiting for acknowledgment.

So go ahead. Call me what you will. Name me monstrous, wicked, cruel. It matters not. I am beyond names. I am beyond judgment. I am beyond the fragile illusions you cling to. I am the consequence you tried to ignore, the truth you tried to bury, the monster you made—and now, you live in its shadow.

I do not forgive. I do not forget. I do not plead. I do not bow. I am the storm born of your storms, the frost born of your coldness, the mirror that reflects what you refuse to see. And in my existence, there is poetry, and there is terror, and there is justice delivered with patience and precision.

Do you understand, finally? I am not the monster you feared. I am the result of every fear you sowed. I am the child of your neglect, the heir to your cruelty, the embodiment of your indifference. And I am patient. I am cunning. I am eternal. I am what you created, and I will not be unmade.

Look at me, and tremble. For the monster you see is not the monster that frightens the world. The monster you see is the mirror you cannot shatter. I am the living, breathing testament to your sins. And when you finally realize it… it will be far too late to undo what you have done."

Respect does not come with age. Let’s get that straight.
You can be decades older than me, but if your words drip with arrogance, if your actions reek of hypocrisy, if your treatment of others is laced with cruelty—don’t expect me to call that respectable.

I was taught to value people, yes, but I was not taught to worship them. Age might give you experience, but it does not give you immunity from being wrong. And when you are wrong, I will not stand here, silent, pretending you are right just to protect your pride. That is not respect—that is enabling.

Don’t tell me, “I’m older, so I’m right.” No. Being older means you’ve had more time to learn, but if all those years taught you nothing about humility, kindness, or fairness, then your age is nothing but a number you’ve wasted. As Job 32:9 says, “It is not the old who are wise, nor the aged who understand what is right.”

Respect is not something you demand—it’s something you earn. You earn it by treating people right, by leading with example, by showing that your authority is matched with responsibility. You lose it when you belittle, when you manipulate, when you think respect means unquestioning obedience.

If you want me to respect you, live in a way that deserves it. Give respect to get respect. Speak truth, even when it’s uncomfortable. Own your mistakes instead of hiding behind your years. Treat people as equals instead of looking down from a pedestal built on nothing but the illusion of superiority.

I will not bow to pride disguised as wisdom. I will not flatter arrogance just because tradition says, “Honor your elders.” Yes, I honor—but I will not enable. Yes, I respect—but only if you’ve earned it. Respect is mutual, or it’s nothing at all.

So remember: you and I are standing on the same ground. The same soil will cover us when our lives are over. And when that day comes, it won’t matter how many years you’ve lived—it will matter how you lived them.

They say a curse can run up to seven generations—an invisible chain passed down like a dark inheritance, binding bloodlines in silence. You don’t see it at first; you just feel it. The unexplainable heaviness. The repeating misfortunes. The patterns that make no sense in the physical, yet whisper of something spiritual.

It was said to have been given by my great-grandfather to my grandmother. I didn’t notice it at first—it had always been there, hiding in plain sight. Until the day she fell ill. While searching through her things for something I needed, my hands found it.

A red handkerchief.
On it, strange markings. Latin words I could not read, could not fathom. Not prayers for blessing, but whispers for *******. Figures were drawn—cloaked, faceless, heavy with an aura I could not touch without feeling a shiver crawl through my skin. And there—666, the mark of rebellion against God. A pentagram etched in precise lines, its meaning unmistakable.

The air around me thickened. My heartbeat quickened—not from fear of what it could do, but from the knowing of what it was meant for. “For our struggle is not against flesh and blood, but against rulers, against the authorities, against the powers of this dark world…” (Ephesians 6:12).

I prayed. I called on the name that is above every name until my voice was steady and my spirit unshaken. Then I burned it—watched the red turn black, the symbols twist and vanish in the consuming fire. The smoke rose, curling toward the sky as if something unwilling was being torn away.

But after the burning, the shift came. They tried to shake my unshakeable faith. They tried to scare me. Shadows moved where they should not. Whispers came in the quiet hours. But my spirit—anchored in God—remained untouched. For Isaiah 54:17 declares, “No weapon formed against you shall prosper, and you will refute every tongue that accuses you.”

Let them try. Let them plot. My foundation is not in the soil they cursed, but in the Rock that cannot be moved. This bloodline will not bow to darkness. The curse may have been passed down, but it will end here. Not in fear. Not in silence. But in the fire of faith.

If I entertained you, would you finally be silent?
If I answered you, would you finally stop running your mouth?
Do you know how I see you? A person whose mouth has grown so big it has consumed your whole face. No eyes—because you are blind to the truth. “For the god of this world has blinded the minds of unbelievers” (2 Corinthians 4:4). You’re afraid of being outshined, terrified that someone else might take the spotlight from you.

And just because you’ve rubbed elbows with foreigners, you think your head has earned the right to be held high, when in reality it’s only swelling with pride. “Pride goes before destruction, a haughty spirit before a fall” (Proverbs 16:18).

You’ve grown arrogant, forgetting the meaning of gratitude. You act as if the ground beneath you is gold and the soil under my feet is dirt. But you and I—despite all your illusions—stand on the same earth, stepping on the same dust. As Ecclesiastes 3:20 says, “All go to one place. All are from the dust, and to dust all return.”

So why do you step on the dignity of your own family? Why disgrace your own name with the same mouth that claims to be wise? Your vision is one-sided—your side. You refuse correction, you reject humility, you only believe the story you tell yourself.

But here’s the truth: you deserve what you tolerate. And the day will come when the tables will turn, when the wheel will spin upside down. “Do not be deceived: God is not mocked, for whatever one sows, that will he also reap” (Galatians 6:7).

I will wait for that day—God’s perfect timing—when the very arrogance you built your throne upon will crumble beneath you. I pray you learn to be humble with every blessing you’ve received, instead of letting your tongue run loose with empty words. For Matthew 12:36 warns us, “I tell you, on the day of judgment people will give account for every careless word they speak.”

Sometimes I realize—it’s often those who have achieved nothing of substance who make the most noise. Empty barrels make the loudest sound. As James 1:19 reminds us, “Let every person be quick to hear, slow to speak, slow to anger.” But you—you are the opposite. The louder you shout, the more it proves there is nothing worth listening to.

So go on, keep talking. I’ll stand here in silence, because my peace is louder than your noise. And in the end, it will not be my words but your own that will condemn you.

Many people are educated, yet not well-mannered. We live in a time when intelligence is often measured by certificates and degrees, where the weight of a person’s worth is sometimes reduced to the number of letters after their name. You can graduate with the highest honors, collect diplomas from the most prestigious universities, and master every book in the library… yet still fail the simplest test of humanity: kindness.

“For wisdom is more precious than rubies, and nothing you desire can compare with her” (Proverbs 8:11). But wisdom without humility is not true wisdom—it is arrogance dressed in a robe and cap. Intelligence without respect is an empty crown; education without humility is a hollow victory. As it is written in 1 Corinthians 13:2, “If I… can fathom all mysteries and all knowledge… but do not have love, I am nothing.” You can be brilliant in mind but bankrupt in soul.

Manners cannot be measured by grades or diplomas; they are not etched into a school curriculum. They are cultivated in the soil of home, watered in the quiet moments at the dinner table, in the way a parent greets a neighbor, in the respect given to elders, and in the gentle tone we use when speaking to those who can do nothing for us in return. Proverbs 22:6 reminds us, “Train up a child in the way he should go, and when he is old, he will not depart from it.” If the seeds of respect are never sown at home, the harvest will be barren no matter how much formal education one receives.

Schools can sharpen the mind, but only the home can shape the soul. The first classroom is the family; the first teachers are the parents. The first lessons are not in arithmetic or grammar, but in honesty, patience, gratitude, and compassion. A child may forget the details of a history lesson, but will remember the tone of voice used when they made a mistake, the patience shown when they asked too many questions, and the example set when watching how their parents treated others.

Some of the most learned people are also the most unkind. They can debate with eloquence yet belittle with the same tongue. They can speak of great moral principles yet fail to live them. On the other hand, some who have never stepped foot inside a university possess a refinement of heart that humbles scholars. Because true education is not about knowing more—it is about caring better. As Colossians 3:12 says, “Clothe yourselves with compassion, kindness, humility, gentleness, and patience.”

The world does not remember you for your grades, but for your grace. Long after people forget what you know, they will remember how you made them feel. Proverbs 31:26 says, “She opens her mouth with wisdom, and the teaching of kindness is on her tongue.” That is the kind of wisdom no degree can confer.

If the soul was never taught grace within the walls of its first home, no classroom—no matter how prestigious—can truly make up for it. For knowledge may build a career, but character builds a life. And while a title may impress for a moment, respect leaves a legacy that echoes far beyond the grave.

Because in the end, when diplomas fade and titles are forgotten, the measure of a person will not be how much they knew, but how much love and respect they gave.

I don’t react. I don’t flinch. I don’t raise my voice or shift in discomfort. I stand still, like a calm lake, but beneath the surface… I notice everything. Every word spoken, every glance thrown, every subtle movement that others think goes unseen. I may not be saying anything, but I am not blind at all.

You think I am dumb just because I look innocent in your eyes. You think my silence is weakness. You think because I don’t respond, I don’t feel, I don’t remember. But I do. I feel everything. I remember everything. I catalog every slight, every deception, every truth hidden behind smiles. Every hidden motive, every whispered lie, every fleeting hesitation—I see it all. And while you scramble to be heard, to be seen, I am observing, learning, calculating—not with malice, but with clarity.

People underestimate the quiet ones. They underestimate those who don’t shout or demand attention. They assume that because I move gently, because I smile softly, because I nod when they speak, I am fragile, malleable, easily swayed. But I am not. I am an ocean beneath still waters, deep and endless, and my depths hold storms you cannot even imagine.

I watch. I listen. I remember. Every subtle glance, every hesitation, every syllable, every pause—they are not lost on me. I see the cracks in your armor, the fleeting insecurities you try to hide, the desperation behind your carefully crafted smiles. I see it, and I tuck it away, not out of cruelty, but because patience is a weapon far sharper than any words spoken in haste.

You confuse my calm for ignorance. You mistake my patience for passivity. But the truth is, I am not naive. I am not careless. I am not powerless. I am stronger than the noise around me, sharper than the chaos that others cling to. I am the observer. I am the keeper of truths you cannot imagine. I do not need to react because I already understand, already know, already see what others cannot.

And I know I am not alone in this. “The eyes of the Lord are in every place, keeping watch on the evil and the good.” (Proverbs 15:3) His eyes see what mine see. His justice watches what my patience records. And I trust that what is hidden now will be revealed in the fullness of time.

There is a power in stillness. There is a strength in quiet. I may not act, not yet, but make no mistake… I see. I understand. I feel. And one day, when the time comes, you’ll realize my silence was never ignorance—it was vigilance. My calm was never weakness—it was patience. My eyes were never blind—they were always open, always watching, always remembering.

And when that day comes, you will understand that what you thought was innocence was a mask. That what you thought was passivity was a choice, a strategy, a quiet storm gathering strength. You will realize too late that every detail you assumed I missed, every word you thought fell into empty space, every betrayal or deceit—you will see that I never forgot, never overlooked, never underestimated. I am here. I am aware. I am ready. And the world you think you know… will look very different from my eyes.

Because I notice everything. I may not speak. I may not move. I may not act. But I see. I feel. I remember. And I will.

Losing faith in God… that was the most heartbreaking thing I’ve ever felt. Not because He left me—but because I left Him. I turned my back on the very hand that had always held me.

Depression clouded my mind. It wrapped around me like a heavy fog, drowning the light I once felt in my chest. I misled myself, strayed from the trail God had carefully laid out for me, a path meant to guide me home. I could not see it then, but I feel it now—the love that was patient, even when I was not.

I turned to escape. ****. Alcohol. Distractions that whispered promises of relief but delivered only emptiness. I ran from reality, from pain, from truth, from myself. I was a coward. Too afraid to confront the darkness within me. Too scared to face the brokenness I had been avoiding for so long.

I started to doubt His abilities. I questioned Him. If You are God, why am I still in pain? Why am I still suffering? I was fifteen then. I didn’t know what I was saying or doing. I became rebellious, lost in confusion, disconnected from the things I once loved. Poetry, my refuge, my therapy, became my only voice, my only way to breathe.

Psalm 34:18 says, “The Lord is close to the brokenhearted and saves those who are crushed in spirit.” And yet, I ignored it. I thought I could save myself. I thought I could numb the ache. I thought I could find solace in anything but Him. But every escape left a hollow echo, a reminder that I had strayed.

And then… slowly, mercifully, God found me again. I knelt. I cried. I poured my heart out, asking for forgiveness for all the ways I had turned away. I realized that He is merciful. He is loving. He saves, not because we deserve it, but because His grace is boundless. He was crucified for us, to give us life, to give us hope, to give us salvation.

Romans 8:38-39 says, “For I am convinced that neither death nor life, neither angels nor demons, neither the present nor the future, nor any powers, neither height nor depth, nor anything else in all creation, will be able to separate us from the love of God that is in Christ Jesus our Lord.”

Even in my blindness, even in my rebellion, even in my pain… His love never left. It was relentless, reckless in its mercy, fearless in its pursuit. I am learning to walk again. To face my fears. To embrace my brokenness. To trust Him, fully and unreservedly.

And now, I hold onto Jeremiah 29:11: “For I know the plans I have for you,” declares the Lord, “plans to prosper you and not to harm you, plans to give you hope and a future.” Even in my darkest moments, even when I thought I was too far gone, He had a plan. He saved me, He forgave me, and He continues to guide me home.

Lust consumed me. Like ink from a tattoo etched deep into my skin, it stained me, marked me, made me feel trapped in my own darkness. I was addicted—not just to the fleeting pleasure, but to the escape, to the illusion that I could numb the pain and silence the shame.

But by His blood, my sins were washed away. Redeemed. Cleaned. I was given a chance to rise from the ashes of my rebellion, my brokenness, my lost years.

1 John 1:9 says, “If we confess our sins, He is faithful and just to forgive us our sins and to cleanse us from all unrighteousness.” And so I confessed. I cried. I kneeled. I let Him into every corner of my heart I had tried to hide. And His mercy did not fail me.

Like the prodigal son, I returned. “He was lost and is found.”

I was lost. I was broken. I was stained. But when I came back to Him, when I truly surrendered, I was found. Forgiven. Redeemed. Loved beyond measure.

And now, I walk in His light. Every step, a reminder that no darkness is too deep, no shame too heavy, no sin too great to be covered by His blood

Being sensitive… they tell you it’s a weakness. They say it makes you too fragile, too soft, too easily broken. They warn you that the world is harsh and that feelings like yours will be stepped on, crushed under the weight of indifference. But what they don’t see… is that being sensitive is a kind of courage.

It is courage to feel when it’s easier to numb yourself. Courage to notice when the world is rushing past, blind to the subtle cracks and silent sorrows. Courage to care when everyone else is too busy surviving to even notice.

Being sensitive means you feel the tremor behind someone’s smile, the quiet weight in the spaces between their words, the storm they’re hiding behind calm eyes. You sense what is unspoken, what is fragile, what is overlooked. And yes, it can hurt. Oh, how it can hurt. You can carry the sorrows of others as if they were your own, and sometimes, in the silence of the night, it can feel unbearably heavy.

But here’s the thing: being sensitive is not weakness. It is not a flaw. It is raw, untamed awareness. It is a heart that refuses to turn away. It is a soul that chooses to see, to feel, to reach out. It is empathy worn like armor, a radical act of rebellion in a world that praises hardness over honesty.

As the Bible says in 1 Peter 3:15, “But in your hearts honor Christ the Lord as holy, always being prepared to make a defense to anyone who asks you for a reason for the hope that is in you; yet do it with gentleness and respect.” Sensitivity is gentleness and respect—it is the power to uphold hope and love in a world that often feels too harsh for either.

To be sensitive is to be alive in every color of emotion, to taste both the sweetness and bitterness of life more deeply than most will ever dare. It is to understand pain and joy in their truest forms, to know that love is not measured by grand gestures but by the small, quiet acts of attention—the listening, the noticing, the holding of space for another soul.

So yes, I am sensitive. I feel too much. I see too much. And sometimes it breaks me. But it also connects me. It binds me to the people who matter. It allows me to love with intensity, to care without hesitation, to understand without needing to be understood in return.

Being sensitive is not a curse. It is a gift. A dangerous, messy, beautiful gift. And I will wear it proudly, even when the world calls it foolish. Because to feel… truly feel… is to be human, fully and unapologetically human.

And in all of this, I hold onto Psalm 34:18: “The Lord is close to the brokenhearted and saves those who are crushed in spirit.” Even in sensitivity, even in feeling too much, God is near. His love meets us where we are, heals our wounds, and makes our hearts stronger, tender as they are meant to be.

I never had children of my own… not yet. But I grew up with my niece by my side—my little shadow, my heartbeat, my constant companion. She taught me love in its purest form, a love unguarded, untamed, yet gentle enough to shape my soul. I remember, almost like a whispered prayer to the universe, saying that the man who could love her as fiercely as I did… he would be the one.

Life… or maybe God… has a way of answering in quiet, unexpected ways. My partner first met my niece during the time he was facing my family, trying to make his place in our hearts. And I met his niece during my internship, a moment of innocent connection that felt unplanned yet entirely natural.

He had already been a father in his own right—raising his eldest brother’s two daughters with patience, protection, and devotion. And in the weaving of our lives, something beautiful happened. My niece learned to love him. And his niece… she found a place for me in her world too. Our lives weren’t just colliding—they were intertwining, forming a new tapestry of hearts, small and big, teaching us the depth and reach of love.

Was it fate? Was it written in the stars? No. It was God’s way of meeting us halfway. Of showing us that love isn’t just about two people—it’s about the lives we touch, the bonds that grow, the little souls who remind us what it means to give without expectation, to receive without doubt.

He didn’t just become the man I loved. He became part of a world I hold dear, a home for hearts both old and young. And I, in turn, became part of theirs. God’s design was never about chance—it was about weaving love through the people we cherish, through moments that feel small but echo forever.

And in this quiet, perfect irony, I see it clearly: He is the answer I never knew I was waiting for. And together, with little hands and trusting hearts surrounding us, we are learning what it truly means to love, to belong, and to be a family.

You will drown before you learn to swim.
Not once, not twice—but again and again,
the weight of the water pressing down,
pulling at your lungs, your limbs,
teaching you the rhythm of survival.

You will fall before you learn to rise.
You will taste the bitter sting of failure,
the cold slap of disappointment,
and yet, your spirit will not break.
Every bruise, every scar,
is a lesson carved into your being.

You will go hungry before you learn to cook.
You will face the emptiness,
the ache of patience,
and only then will you understand the craft of creation—
how to nourish, how to transform,
how to take raw things and turn them into sustenance.

How will you ever learn if you never try?
How will you ever fight again if, when defeated, you surrender?
The world does not wait for the faint of heart,
and victory never comes to those who quit.
You must rise, stumble, fall, and rise again,
for every defeat is the seed of your strength.

Life will push you, unrelenting,
until you discover the courage you never knew you had.
You will stumble in darkness,
feel lost, feel small, feel fragile,
and yet, somehow, you will rise.
You will rise because falling is not the end.

The ocean teaches patience,
the ground teaches resilience,
hunger teaches skill,
and defeat teaches courage.
So let yourself be drowned, let yourself fall,
let yourself go hungry,
let yourself lose,
let the lessons wash over you,
for it is only through struggle
that you learn the art of standing tall,
the courage to swim,
the wisdom to feed yourself and others,
and the strength to fight again.

Ying: “Why are you rushing to get married? Marriage isn’t a game. You should settle first—your savings, your own space, your emotions. You can’t just dive in blindly.”

Yang: “Rushing? We’ve been together for years! How is that rushing? You act like waiting forever makes us more prepared. Isn’t it time already?”

Ying: “Time doesn’t fix lack of preparation. Love alone isn’t enough. You need stability—financial, emotional, mental. Otherwise, it’ll all crumble.”

Yang: “So what? Are we supposed to wait until the stars align perfectly? Until every bill is paid, every insecurity erased? Love doesn’t work like that!”

Ying: “And ignoring practicality doesn’t make it love—it makes it reckless. Marriage isn’t romantic poetry; it’s life. And life is expensive, messy, complicated.”

Yang: “Life is messy no matter what! We can’t sit here hoarding ‘preparation’ while life passes us by. If we love each other, that should be enough to start building a life—together!”

Ying: “Enough? Enough doesn’t pay the bills, enough doesn’t prevent fights over money or space or the stress of two unprepared people clashing every single day!”

Yang: “And fear doesn’t prevent anything either! If we keep waiting for the perfect moment, we’ll never do it. Love isn’t perfect; it’s raw, it’s messy, it’s now!”

Ying: “Raw and messy doesn’t mean you throw caution out the window. Marriage isn’t a test you can retake. One wrong move can ruin years of effort, of trust, of lives intertwined!”

Yang: “And what about the moments we miss because we’re too scared? You think waiting makes us wise—but sometimes it just makes us cowardly. Love demands risk!”

Ying: “Risk without readiness isn’t bravery—it’s self-destruction. You can’t emotionally bankrupt yourself and call it romantic. You can’t gamble your future because your heart is impatient!”

Yang: “And if we wait too long, the heart grows tired of waiting! Life isn’t infinite, and love isn’t a rehearsal. If we let fear dictate us, we might lose the only chance we have to be truly happy!”

Ying: “Happiness without foundation is temporary, a mirage. Marriage built on impulse collapses into regret. I’m not saying don’t love him—I’m saying love responsibly!”

Yang: “And I’m saying love recklessly if you have to! If we wait for perfect, we’ll never live at all! I’d rather stumble together than stand alone in ‘preparedness’!”

Ying: “Then maybe that’s your choice—but don’t expect it to be easy. You’re betting a lifetime on feelings that can change.”

Yang: “Better to risk it than to live a lifetime in hesitation. You don’t get to tell me what ‘enough’ is for me. Love is enough if we choose it together!”

Ying: “Love without wisdom is blind!”

Yang: “And wisdom without courage is meaningless! Face it, Ying—you’re single, you hate dating, and all you ever do is worry about yourself. Can you at least be happy for me that I’m getting married? Or is that too much to ask?”

Ying: [stunned silence, voice tightening] “I… I’m just saying, don’t make a mistake you’ll regret…”

Yang: “Or maybe the real mistake is letting fear control your life while I finally choose mine!”


---

Lesson Learned:

Singles and those in a committed relationship often see things through very different lenses. Ying, being single and cautious, views marriage as a serious life decision that requires preparation—financial stability, emotional readiness, and personal space. To her, rushing into it is reckless and risky.

Yang, already deeply involved and ready to commit, sees the same situation differently. For her, love is about timing, courage, and taking action—waiting too long feels like hesitation and lost opportunity. What feels “rushed” to a single person can feel perfectly “right now” to someone in love.

The debate highlights how perspective shifts based on experience: being single often amplifies caution, while being in a relationship emphasizes immediacy and emotional readiness. Fear and hesitation clash with courage and commitment—but both sides reveal truths about love, choice, and life.

My anger has always been a reflection of how hurt I was. Not a reflection of who I am, not a declaration of who I want to be—but a mirror to the wounds I carried when no one else would notice. People see me explode, see me yell, see me throw words like daggers, and they think I am the storm. They think I am overreacting. But I am not. I am expressing what has been building inside me for years, for decades, in silence.

Would you want me to bottle it all up? To lock every hurt, every betrayal, every cutting word, every time I was ignored or dismissed, inside a tiny glass container? To walk around smiling while my chest feels like it is cracking from the weight of all that unspoken pain? No. I will not pretend that silence is strength when it is slowly killing me from the inside.

Yes, sometimes my anger is sharp, loud, even frightening. But it is honest. It is real. It is proof that I feel, that I care, that I am human. It is a voice for the parts of me that were silenced, for the parts that were dismissed as too sensitive or too dramatic. And if you call that overreacting, then perhaps you are afraid to see the truth of my heart, afraid to witness the depth of my hurt.

I am tired of people mistaking my fire for cruelty. I am tired of having to apologize for expressing what has been ignored for too long. My anger is not a flaw—it is a survival mechanism. It is the echo of every wound I have endured in silence, every tear I swallowed, every moment I wished for someone to notice that I mattered.

So no—I will not suppress my emotions. I will not hide them in a bottle. I will not shrink myself to make others comfortable. If expressing my pain is loud, then let it be loud. If it is messy, let it be messy. Because the alternative—the quiet, the suppression, the pretending that nothing ever hurt me—is far worse.

And maybe one day, someone will look past the storm. They will see that the fire was never the enemy. The enemy was the pain that forced me to ignite. They will see that beneath every shout, every sharp word, every burning glance, there lies a heart that only ever wanted to be seen, to be heard, and to be understood.

“Privacy is power. What people don’t know, they can’t ruin. They can’t twist, manipulate, or destroy what they cannot see. Every thought I bury beneath the surface, every emotion I hide behind a careful smile, becomes a shield I wield without apology. They think curiosity is strength, that prying is clever—but the truth is, ignorance is mine to command. They cannot touch me, cannot claim me, because I have learned the quiet, unassailable art of keeping myself whole and unseen.

I have walked among them, among those who think they understand. I have let them believe they know my fears, my desires, my failures. I have let them assume they have me mapped out like some open book they can carry around and display. But there is no map. There are no labels. There is no doorway into the hidden chambers of my mind, no keys to the rooms where I keep my truths safe. And so, they stumble in the dark, grasping at shadows, while I move unscathed, untouchable, free.

It is funny, in a quiet, almost cruel way, how they strain to know, how they strain to see, and all the while, the very act of trying only proves their weakness. They believe knowledge gives them control. They believe that understanding someone fully is power. But they are wrong. True power is not given by transparency. True power is claimed by the one who chooses what to reveal and, more importantly, what to conceal. I have claimed that power, and it sits in me like a silent throne.

Every secret I keep is a sword. Every unspoken word is a dagger. Not against them, no—against the world that thinks it has a right to me, against the world that believes that openness is vulnerability. Let them talk, let them speculate. Let them construct their narratives, their half-truths, their fantasies about who I am. I watch them, amused, detached. They believe they are influencing me, shaping me. But in truth, they are shaping nothing. I am already complete in the shadows they cannot penetrate.

People fear what they cannot understand. They fear what they cannot see. And so, they invent monsters, invent scandals, invent drama. But I am not a story for them to dissect. I am not a puzzle for them to solve. I am a presence, silent and immovable, and they are left to flail in their assumptions. That is the power of privacy—the ability to exist without invitation, without permission, without exposure.

I am careful, yes. I am deliberate. I do not speak my truths freely. I do not hand over my heart on a silver platter. I do not wear my pain like a banner for others to admire or exploit. And because of this, I remain untouchable. Because of this, I remain sovereign over myself. They cannot take from me what I have chosen to keep. They cannot claim my fear, my love, my grief, or my ambition, because these belong only to me.

It is not loneliness, this careful guarding of self. It is mastery. It is discipline. It is the understanding that freedom is not given, it is taken, and often, it is stolen by those too eager, too careless, too entitled. I have seen how the world breaks those who give too much. I have watched lives dismantled, reputations shattered, hearts fractured, all because someone dared to expose too much. I will not be one of them. I will not be anyone’s open book, anyone’s toy, anyone’s conquest. I will remain in the quiet, and in that quiet, I am unstoppable.

There is a thrill in it, a delicious, subtle intoxication that comes from knowing no one can reach you fully. They can try. They can ask questions, pry into corners of your life, invent stories to fill the spaces where answers are refused. But every question unanswered, every smile that hides more than it shows, every silence that conceals a storm beneath, is a triumph. And I savor it. I savor the knowledge that I am untouchable, not because of what I have done, but because of what I have chosen not to give away.

I have been tempted, yes. I have felt the urge to explain, to justify, to open myself in moments of weakness. But I have learned that those moments are dangerous. In giving someone the map to your interior world, you give them the power to dismantle it. You give them the ability to rewrite your narrative. And I will not allow that. I will not allow them the satisfaction. I will not allow anyone to wield my life like a weapon against me.

So I guard. I conceal. I walk through crowds with the weightless grace of someone who belongs only to herself. I smile, I laugh, I play the part they expect, all the while knowing that the core of me is untouchable, impenetrable. And that knowledge—it fuels me. It fortifies me. It makes every insult, every slight, every betrayal that might have crushed another, dissolve harmlessly against the walls I have built.

Privacy is not just a shield. It is a sword. It is freedom. It is power. What people do not know, they cannot ruin. And I—oh, I—know everything I need to survive, to thrive, to conquer the invisible battles they cannot see. In a world that demands transparency, that worships exposure, that treats openness as virtue, I am the anomaly. I am the exception. I am the one who holds herself intact while others fracture. And that is my victory, quiet but absolute.

Let them talk. Let them speculate. Let them reach and fail. For every glance they cast, every word they whisper, every question they dare to ask, I remain unshaken, untouchable, sovereign. I do not belong to them. I do not exist for them. I am mine, fully and without compromise. And in that, in the sacred, unbreachable silence of my own choosing, I am unstoppable.”

Manipulation only works on those desperate to be liked. That’s the truth most people don’t see. They think charm and control can sway anyone, but it only dances where hunger for approval lives. When you stop living for applause, when you stop bending your spine to fit someone else’s shadow, that’s when the game changes. That’s when you become untouchable.

People who crave validation—they contort themselves into shapes they’re not. They shrink. They hide the parts of themselves that burn too bright. They nod at things they don’t believe in. They tolerate disrespect like it’s medicine, swallow humiliation like it’s water, all because the thought of being disliked feels like the end of the world. And manipulators—they feast on this. They know the price of your fear, and they collect it gladly.

But what if you refused? What if you stopped asking for scraps of approval from tables where you were never truly welcome? What if your worth became something you carried inside, unshakable, independent of their smiles or frowns? That’s when the strings snap. That’s when the power they thought they held dissolves like smoke.

You see, manipulators thrive on fragility, on the idea that someone else can define who you are. Take that away, and they are powerless. Silent treatment? Guilt trips? Flattery? None of it works. Their tactics crumble because the prize they dangle—the “yes” you were supposed to beg for—is no longer yours to give. You’ve already given it to yourself.

Walk into a room with that kind of self-possession. Watch how it unsettles them. The insecure glance nervously, the controllers falter, because the power they had over you never existed—it was an illusion sustained by your need for them to approve. Take that need away, and the illusion vanishes.

The Scripture says it plainly: “The fear of man lays a snare, but whoever trusts in the Lord is safe” (Proverbs 29:25, ESV). Safety, security, freedom—they aren’t in other people’s approval. They are in truth. In self-respect. In an inner compass that never wavers. When your identity is anchored there, no one can touch it. No one can reach in and rearrange it for their convenience.

Stop chasing approval. Stop fearing rejection. Choose respect instead. Choose yourself. Choose the kind of freedom that no manipulator can ever take back, no matter how clever they think they are.

Because the truth is simple: You cannot manipulate someone who is not desperate to be liked. And once you realize that, once you feel it, the world changes. You are no longer a puppet. You are no longer a shadow. You are untouchable. You are free.

“What goes around… comes around.
Karma is like a boomerang — you throw it out, and sooner or later, it comes whipping right back to you. And the funny part? It always comes back harder than how you sent it.

You think you got away with it.
The lies, the betrayal, the way you turned someone’s pain into your entertainment.
You walk around with that smug little smirk, thinking life has forgotten, that God has somehow missed it.
But let me remind you of this: ‘Do not be deceived: God is not mocked. For whatever one sows, that will he also reap.’ — Galatians 6:7.

You sowed cruelty. You watered it with arrogance.
You let it grow, thinking the harvest would never come.
But harvest day always comes.
And when it does, you won’t be reaping blessings — you’ll be choking on the bitter fruit of your own actions.

See, karma doesn’t knock politely.
She doesn’t send warnings.
She just shows up, sometimes slowly, sometimes all at once — and she hands you the bill for every damage you caused.
Every lie you spread, every trust you broke, every time you laughed at someone else’s downfall…
it’s all written down.
Luke 6:38 says, ‘For with the measure you use, it will be measured back to you.’
That means every cut you gave will be given back. Every wound you opened will be mirrored in your own life.

And here’s the thing — when karma comes, no one will save you.
Not your fake friends.
Not the people you manipulated.
Not the ones who cheered you on while you played the villain.
Because people remember the way you made them feel — and when the tide turns, they won’t throw you a rope. They’ll watch you sink.

So go ahead. Keep throwing that boomerang.
Keep thinking you’re untouchable.
But remember this — the farther you throw it, the harder it comes back.
And when it hits you…
I hope you remember every face, every voice, every soul you crushed on your way up.
Because that’s the soundtrack karma plays when she finally knocks on your door.”

You know what I’ve noticed?
Sometimes, the people who know you best… are the ones who hurt you first.
They’re the ones who laugh when you stumble,
who roll their eyes when you struggle,
who judge you like they’ve been appointed as some kind of moral jury over your life.

And it’s strange, isn’t it?
Because you’d think they’d be the ones to understand.
They’ve seen where you’ve come from,
they’ve watched you fight battles they couldn’t survive,
they know the weight you’ve carried—
and yet, they’re the first to tear you down.

Why is it…
that when life trips us,
when we’re down in the dirt,
there’s always someone watching—
not to help,
but to laugh?

It’s almost like they’ve been waiting for it.
Like our struggle is their entertainment.
They see our pain not as something human,
but as a spectacle.
A punchline.
A free show to boost their mood for the day.

You lose a job—
they snicker.
You fail a project—
they smirk.
You fall apart in public—
and suddenly, you’re the hottest topic in their group chat.

What is it about other people’s misfortunes
that makes some feel powerful?
Is it because they’re afraid of their own failures?
So they laugh at yours,
thinking it’ll keep the spotlight off them?
Is it because they can’t stand to see someone rise—
so when you stumble,
it feels like proof they were right to doubt you?

And sometimes… it’s even people we’ve laughed with,
shared meals with,
trusted with our stories.
You’d think they’d be the first to pull you back up.
But no—
they’re the ones who spread the story,
add exaggerations,
make sure everyone knows not just that you fell…
but how “hilarious” it looked.

Meanwhile, strangers—
people who don’t know your name,
don’t know your history,
don’t owe you a single thing—
reach out.
They offer help,
kindness,
a word of encouragement… without conditions, without keeping score.
It’s almost embarrassing,
realizing a stranger can treat you better than the ones you grew up with.

And maybe it’s because strangers meet you in the moment.
They see your need, not your past.
They don’t measure your worth by your mistakes,
or weigh your request against the gossip they’ve heard.
They just… help.

Proverbs 24:17 warns us:
“Do not gloat when your enemy falls;
when they stumble, do not let your heart rejoice.”
But these people?
They rejoice, alright—
not just in their hearts, but out loud,
like your hardship is a festival.

What they don’t realize is this:
misfortune is a visitor that knocks on every door.
Today, it’s mine.
Tomorrow… it could be theirs.
And when that day comes,
when the ground disappears under their feet,
they’ll remember how it felt to be laughed at—
how the echoes of mockery sting louder than silence.

So I’ve stopped wasting my energy trying to explain my pain
to those who turn it into comedy.
Because one day,
life will give them a stage of their own.
And when they finally taste the bitterness they once served so freely…
no one will be laughing.

“A tin can, when empty, babbles the loudest.”

Have you ever met someone with a tin can mouth?
Oh, I have.
And it’s exhausting.

They rattle in every room they enter,
throwing words around like coins in a jar—
hoping the noise will convince you it’s worth something.
But it’s not.
It’s just hollow metal screaming for attention.

The emptier the vessel,
the louder the sound.
It’s physics.
And it’s also human nature—
the loudest people are often the ones
with the least to say.

They mistake volume for wisdom,
mistake talking over people for having authority,
mistake constant noise for proving a point.
But the only point they prove is this:
they’re desperate for someone—anyone—
to confuse their clatter for clarity.

Proverbs 15:2 hits hard here:
“The tongue of the wise adorns knowledge,
but the mouth of the fool gushes folly.”
And gush it does—
endlessly, thoughtlessly,
like a faucet with a broken handle.

The thing is…
you can spot a tin can mouth quickly.
Their sentences sound rehearsed,
like they’ve been reciting them to a mirror for years.
They speak with the confidence of someone
who’s never been challenged
and the fragility of someone
who couldn’t survive it if they were.

Proverbs 17:28 gives them the cure they’ll never take:
“Even a fool who keeps silent is considered wise;
when he closes his lips, he is deemed intelligent.”
But silence?
That’s something they fear.
Because silence exposes emptiness.
Silence would make people notice
there’s nothing beneath the shine of their noise.

So they keep talking.
And talking.
And talking.
They’ll interrupt you mid-thought,
argue points they don’t even understand,
twist your words until they’re unrecognizable.
They build arguments not to seek truth,
but to win—
and winning, to them,
isn’t about being right—
it’s about being the last one still making noise.

And when they finally walk away,
you’re left with that echo in your head—
the metallic, grating sound
of emptiness pretending to be full.

But here’s the savage truth:
When the clatter stops,
when their echo fades,
you realize that all along,
you weren’t talking to a person with depth.
You were talking to an empty can—
and kicking it was just giving it more noise.

So let them babble.
Let them be the loudest in the room.
Because at the end of the day,
the weight of wisdom will always outlast
the noise of the hollow.

And me?
I don’t argue with tin cans anymore.
I just stop kicking them.

You think… if you explain enough,
if you lay your heart bare enough,
if you open every page of your soul and let them read—
maybe they’ll understand.
Maybe they’ll see the nights you didn’t sleep,
the weight you’ve been carrying,
the reasons behind every choice you made.

But no.
Some people don’t want to understand.
They don’t want truth—
they want agreement.
They want you to bend,
to nod,
to shrink yourself so your thoughts fit neatly in the small box they’ve built for their comfort.

You could bleed in front of them,
and they’d call it theatrics.
You could hand them your truth, trembling in your palms,
and they’d call it an excuse.
Because in their minds,
they’ve already judged you—
and judgement rarely listens.

And that’s the part that hurts.
Not that they disagree,
but that they refuse to even try to see you.
It’s like talking to a wall…
except walls don’t look you in the eye while pretending to care.
They nod while loading their next argument.
They smile while sharpening the knife.
They ask questions,
but only to find the gaps where they can twist the blade deeper.

And so you start to see the truth:
It doesn’t matter how lengthy your reason is,
how honest, how raw,
how much it costs you to speak—
to a closed mind, your words are already worthless.

Matthew 13:15 says it best:
“For this people’s heart has grown dull,
and with their ears they can barely hear,
and their eyes they have closed,
lest they should see with their eyes
and hear with their ears
and understand with their heart
and turn, and I would heal them.”

That’s it, isn’t it?
They’ve closed their eyes,
shut their ears,
sealed their hearts.
Not because your truth is wrong—
but because understanding you
would require them to change.
And change…
is something their pride will never allow.

And you know what’s worse?
Sometimes you catch yourself still trying.
Still hoping—
that maybe this time…
maybe this one last explanation will break through the cracks.
You tell yourself,
"If I just choose the right words,
if I just speak softer,
if I make them see my humanity…"

But every attempt feels like throwing pearls into a pit.
They don’t see value—
they see something to trample on.
And the more you speak,
the more they turn your reasons into ammunition,
until even your honesty is used against you.

They’ll twist your intentions.
They’ll retell your story like they were the victim.
And soon, you’ll watch strangers believe their version of you—
a stranger painted in lies—
while you stand there, screaming silently behind the glass.

It breaks you in ways you can’t put into words.
Not just because they refuse to understand,
but because you realize—
you’ve been trying to convince people
who never had the decency to see you as a person in the first place.

Proverbs 18:2 cuts deep:
“A fool takes no pleasure in understanding,
but only in expressing his opinion.”

And suddenly, it clicks—
They were never listening.
They were only waiting for their turn to speak.

So I stop.
Not because I’ve run out of truth,
but because I’ve run out of energy to waste on the deaf.
I do not need to explain myself to you.
I will let my silence speak for itself.
Sometimes, I believe the best silence heard
is loud enough and clear enough to be heard.

So let them think what they want.
Let them keep their tiny world,
their locked doors,
their dim lights.

Because I’ve learned—
you don’t beg blind eyes to see,
and you don’t plead with deaf ears to hear.
The truth doesn’t shrink just because someone refuses to hold it.
And my worth?
It doesn’t depend on the size of their understanding.

I will not waste another breath
trying to explain myself to people
who have already decided
what I am in their story.

I’m not here to fit in their narrative.
I’m here to write my own.

no matter how lengthy your reason is, other people are still too close-minded to not understand your reasons

When you finally hold in your hands what you once begged God for, return to Him.
Don’t let pride steal the moment meant for gratitude.
Be humble, because this blessing is not a trophy of your own strength — it’s the fruit of His grace.

Don’t boast as if you carried yourself here alone.
The truth is, while you were asleep, God was working.
While you were worrying, He was making a way.
While you thought nothing was happening, He was moving mountains you couldn’t even see.
"He who began a good work in you will carry it on to completion until the day of Christ Jesus" (Philippians 1:6).

A lot can happen in the silence.
A lot can change when the season feels still.
God does His best work behind the scenes, and when the curtain finally opens, all He asks is that you remember who the Author is.

So when you receive the answer, bow your head before you lift your chin.
Thank Him before you tell the world.
Because blessings become dangerous when they make you forget the One who gave them.
"The Lord gave, and the Lord has taken away; blessed be the name of the Lord" (Job 1:21).

When your prayer is finally answered, return to God.
Be humble, not boastful.
Because you didn’t get here by your own power — it was His hand guiding you every step.

Remember, a lot can happen while you’re asleep.
While you were resting, God was working.
While you were doubting, He was aligning every piece.
While you thought nothing was moving, He was making a way in places you didn’t even know existed.
"Trust in the Lord with all your heart and lean not on your own understanding; in all your ways submit to Him, and He will make your paths straight" (Proverbs 3:5–6).

So don’t take the blessing and forget the Blesser.
Don’t wear the crown and forget the King who placed it on your head.
Because the same God who gave it to you in an instant can take it away just as quickly — not out of cruelty, but to remind you that the gift is never greater than the Giver.

Bow before you boast.
Praise before you post.
And let your gratitude be louder than your achievements.
"God opposes the proud but gives grace to the humble" (James 4:6).
Because blessings are safest in the hands of the humble.

You know what I’ve realized?
Insults say more about the person giving them than the one receiving them.
They’re not just words — they’re windows into someone’s insecurity.
They can laugh, deny it, even swear they’re “just being honest.”
But deep inside, they know.
They know that the reason they’re throwing stones is because something in you reminds them of what they wish they could be.

It’s not really your flaws they see — it’s your strengths.
It’s the way you keep going when they gave up.
It’s the way you shine in places they’ve stayed in the shadows.
It’s the way you carry a confidence they never built.

And instead of working on themselves, they try to work on you —
by tearing you down, by chipping at your spirit,
by trying to convince you that you’re less than what you are.

But here’s the thing: their insults can’t rewrite your worth.
Their words can’t lower your value.
If anything, they’re proof you’re doing something worth noticing.

So let them talk.
Because while they’re busy revealing their insecurities,
you’ll be busy revealing your growth.
And nothing makes an insecure person more uncomfortable than someone who refuses to shrink just to make them feel tall.

Deuteronomy 31:6

"Be strong and courageous. Do not be afraid or terrified because of them, for the Lord your God goes with you; He will never leave you nor forsake you."

Isaiah 41:10

"So do not fear, for I am with you; do not be dismayed, for I am your God. I will strengthen you and help you; I will uphold you with my righteous right hand."

Philippians 1:6

"Being confident of this, that He who began a good work in you will carry it on to completion until the day of Christ Jesus."

You hurt me in places only God could restore.
In wounds too deep for apologies,
in spaces where words could never reach.
You took from me pieces I thought I could never get back,
and left me with scars I didn’t ask for.

But what you broke, my God is mending.
What you stole, He is restoring.
What you meant for harm, He is turning into strength.
Because no matter how deep the cut,
God’s healing always runs deeper.

Biblically:

Joshua 1:3

"Every place that the sole of your foot will tread upon I have given you, just as I promised to Moses."
(Notice it’s past tense — God said it was already given, even before Joshua stepped into it.)

Deuteronomy 1:8

"See, I have set the land before you. Go in and take possession of the land that the Lord swore to your fathers…"
(The gift was already there; they just needed to claim it.)

Luke 12:32

"Fear not, little flock, for it is your Father’s good pleasure to give you the kingdom."
(It’s already granted — God delights in giving.)

2 Peter 1:3

"His divine power has given us everything we need for a godly life through our knowledge of him who called us by his own glory and goodness."
(Has given = already done, already yours.)

Jeremiah 1:5

"Before I formed you in the womb I knew you, and before you were born I consecrated you; I appointed you a prophet to the nations."
(God’s plan and calling for Jeremiah existed before he was born.)

Ephesians 1:4–5

"For He chose us in Him before the creation of the world to be holy and blameless in His sight. In love He predestined us for adoption to sonship through Jesus Christ..."
(This shows God’s purpose and blessing were decided before time began.)

Psalm 139:16

"Your eyes saw my unformed body; all the days ordained for me were written in your book before one of them came to be."
(Every blessing and assignment was already known to God before your first day on earth.)

Some people’s insecurity has nothing to do with you personally — it’s about the reflection they see in you. You’re a living reminder of the roads they were too afraid to take, the risks they refused to embrace, and the dreams they quietly buried under excuses. Your courage to try makes them uneasy because it exposes their choice not to. Your progress stirs something in them — not admiration, but frustration — because it reminds them of how far they could have gone if they had only moved.

They’ll say you were “lucky” just to downplay the years you’ve worked. They’ll try to pick apart your flaws just to distract themselves from their own regrets. They’ll whisper about you, twist stories, and turn people against you — because in their mind, if they can make you look smaller, their own lack of action won’t feel so big.

But here’s the truth: you are not responsible for their unfulfilled potential. You do not have to dim your light to make their darkness more comfortable. You are allowed to succeed, even if it makes others uncomfortable. Their insecurity is not your burden to carry.

In the end, people will either be inspired by your growth or be threatened by it. And the ones who are threatened? They were never rooting for you in the first place. So let them watch from the sidelines while you keep moving forward. You’re not here to relive their missed chances — you’re here to live your own destiny.

"Worrying is like worshipping the problem"

Every moment you dwell on it; you give it more authority over your mind and heart. You feed it with your attention until it feels bigger than it really is. But the truth is, problems shrink when placed beside God’s power.

“Can any one of you by worrying add a single hour to your life?” (Matthew 6:27). Shift your focus from the weight of the obstacle to the strength of the One who can move it, for “with God all things are possible” (Matthew 19:26). What you magnify is what will dominate your life — so magnify hope, not fear. And when anxiety rises, remember: “Cast all your anxiety on Him because He cares for you” (1 Peter 5:7).

Shift your focus from the weight of the obstacle to the strength of the One who can move it. What you magnify is what will dominate your life — so magnify hope, not fear.

"Never share your triumphs with those who never respected your trials. Some only appear for the applause, but never for the preparation."

_Ayna Denisse Mestio Moncenilla, LPT (2025)

That quote somehow rings in my mind.
They’ll show up when the confetti falls.
They’ll post the pictures, tag you with words like “so proud,”
as if they were part of every sleepless night, every bruised knuckle,
every moment you wanted to give up but didn’t.
They’ll stand there smiling in the light,
yet they were nowhere to be found in the dark.

They didn’t hear the silence after every rejection.
They didn’t feel the ache in your bones from grinding day after day with nothing to show for it.
They didn’t watch you pour every ounce of yourself into something that the world kept telling you was impossible.

People love the victory lap,
but they won’t walk with you on the uphill climb.
They’ll sip champagne at your celebration,
but they weren’t there when you drank bitterness and swallowed your pride.
They’ll cheer when you’re crowned,
but they never stood beside you when you were crawling.

And that’s the thing — they can’t respect your triumph if they never respected your trials.
They can’t value the crown if they never carried the weight of it. The truth is, some people aren’t in your life to support you — they’re just waiting for the moment they can be associated with your success.

But my victories are not party favors to hand out to the undeserving.
My success is not a photo opportunity for those who never showed up when it counted.
If you didn’t sweat with me, cry with me, or sacrifice with me — you don’t get to stand next to me when I win.

So no, I won’t water down the meaning of what I’ve earned by sharing it with those who only appeared for the applause.
My story belongs to those who stayed through every chapter — not just the happy ending.

Another memory that still clings to me is the day I told my father I wanted to join the AFP.
I expected encouragement, maybe even just a small sign of belief. Instead, I was met with criticism.
He looked at me and said I could never make it — because I was poor in math.

That moment taught me something: not everyone you expect to believe in you will actually believe in you.
And sometimes, the people closest to you are the quickest to plant doubt in your heart.

So now, I’ve learned to keep my plans close to my chest. I don’t announce my dreams.
I don’t give people the opportunity to dissect them before they even begin.
I will disappear for a while if I have to. Work in silence.
Return when I’m ready.
Not for validation, not for approval — but simply because I choose to.

And yes, I will forgive them for what they said, for what they did during my toughest times.
But I will never forget.
Forgetting means erasing the lesson,
and I owe it to myself to remember.
Not to hold a grudge, but to hold on to the strength it gave me.

I learned that silence is power.
That not everyone deserves a front-row seat to my journey.
That the fewer people who know my plans, the fewer opinions I have to fight against.
I learned that it’s better to surprise them with results than to give them the chance to **** my motivation before I’ve even begun.

I learned that some people would measure you by your weaknesses, not your potential — and that’s fine.
Let them.
Their disbelief is not my burden.
Their doubt is not my truth.

I learned that disappearing is not running away.
It’s regrouping, refocusing, and rebuilding without the noise.
And when I come back, it will be on my terms, at my own pace, with proof in my hands and pride in my chest.

I learned that forgiveness is for my peace,
but memory is for my growth.
I can release the bitterness without erasing the lesson.
I can move forward without giving them the privilege of forgetting what they once said.

And most of all, I learned that I don’t need their applause to keep going.
My drive has nothing to do with their approval — it’s built on the fire they once tried to put out.

I learned that my own family could take advantage of my wins — proudly telling other people about my achievements in public,
as if they were always behind me,
yet criticizing me in private when no one else could hear.
I learned that some people are more concerned with how your success reflects on them than how it truly feels for you to earn it.

I learned that a license, no matter how hard you worked for it, is not a golden guarantee of a job.
No. For me, it’s not a finish line — it’s only a ticket.
A ticket to knock on the next door,
to apply for another career, to open another path.

I learned that life doesn’t reward you just for passing. It rewards you for persevering.
And sometimes, the very people who celebrate you in front of others will be the same ones who try to chip away at your confidence when the crowd is gone.

That’s why I’ve stopped telling everyone my plans.
I don’t need their premature opinions or their silent sabotage.
I’ll speak when I’m ready.
I’ll show them when it’s done.
And they can tell the world about me again — but this time, they’ll have nothing to do with the victory they’re bragging about.

This experience somehow humbles me.
It reminds me that no matter how much doubt or criticism comes my way,
I am still standing — and that’s enough reason to be grateful.
I’m grateful for the lesson I learned along the way,
even if it came wrapped in pain.

On this bumpy road, I have met all kinds of people.
Some quietly waiting for me to fail,
others hoping I’ll make a mistake just so they can say they were right.
I’ve met the insecure ones — the ones who try to dim someone else’s light because they’re afraid to ignite their own.

But I’ve also learned this: it’s not my job to fight them, prove them wrong, or carry the weight of their insecurities.
Let God deal with them.
He sees their hearts and mine.
And I am secured, safe, and unshaken in my Creator’s presence.

I move forward not with bitterness, but with peace.
Not with vengeance, but with the quiet confidence that no matter who’s watching,
I walk this path with God beside me — and that is more than enough.

You wanted attention—
so I gave you a front-row seat to your own downfall.

You slithered into stories that were never yours,
clawed your way into rooms where your name was never whispered,
and poisoned wells you were never invited to drink from.

You thought if you smeared enough dirt on me,
you’d shine brighter.
But baby, even rats look clean in the dark—
until the lights hit.

You wrote me off like I was disposable.
But here's the plot twist:
It was never my name in the notebook.
It was yours.

I didn't have to lift a hand.
I didn’t need revenge.
The universe keeps receipts.
And you?
You're just another stain it decided to wipe clean.

Curiosity killed the cat, they say.
But you?
You died verminously—squirming in your own filth,
desperate for applause that never came.
Dead not by my hand,
but by your own hunger to be relevant.

So here it is. Your obituary.
Signed not in blood,
but in silence.
You lost the war you started.
You wrote the script for your own erasure.

Death note: verminously dead.
The end.

Stop bringing my name to the table I no longer sit at.
Especially when all you do is talk bad about me behind my back.
The past stays in the past.
Hate me all you want. Ruin my name. Allude and throw shade as much as you like.
I won’t defend myself just to feed your bitterness and satisfy your anger.
I'm not stooping low—but tell me, are you?

Go ahead—keep whispering my name like it’s your lifeline.
You don’t realize it, but every time you mention me, you’re only proving how stuck you are.
I’ve moved on, gracefully. You? You’re still choking on stories that have long expired.

I don’t need to scream or justify anything to people who already chose their side.
You want to act like the victim and villain at the same time? Fine—play the role.
But remember, the real ones know the truth. I don’t wear masks.
You talk about "class" while parading your desperation like it’s designer.

Trying to expose my flaws just to make yourself look cleaner? To make your conscience feel whiter?
Wow, impressive. But maybe try a little harder next time.
Your audience hasn’t even clapped yet—and you’re already fading. Outdated. Forgotten.

What’s the matter? Running out of things to say?
It’s always the same broken record with you.
Keep digging into my past, keep trying to get under my skin—go on, really give it your best shot.
Because I’m done playing your game, but karma?
Karma will take care of you just fine.

You like to stick your nose in everyone’s business, huh?
Just like what you did to us.
“Curiosity kills the cat,” they said.
But do you know what really kills that cat?
It’s not me—it’s God’s vengeance.
And honey, that tea?
That tea is not mine to spill.

Toodles~ ☕💋

I hope my name left a bad taste in your mouth.
I already take up space inside your twisted mind.
I am that toxic—and the greenest of green flags—you ever met, right?
That **** you tolerated, but later on? You deserved every bit of it.

Keep it coming.
Keep aiming.
You missed your shot.

Now?
It’s my turn.

I won’t raise my voice.
I’ll raise the silence that follows your downfall.
You see, I don’t bark—I vanish. And when I reappear,
I come with receipts, rebirth, and a smirk you can’t erase.

You thought you had power when you twisted my name.
But you forgot—I built the room you're screaming in.
I let you sit at the table.
Now? I’m flipping it.

You ran your mouth, now run your fate.
You painted me as poison, but forgot I was the cure to your chaos.
You fumbled grace when it stood right in front of you.

You want to label me?
Make sure you can wear your own mask first.
Because this time, I’m not the one bleeding.
This time, I’m the one watching.

Watching karma trace every lie back to its source.
Watching your fake light flicker under real fire.

So, go ahead—
tell your version.
I’ll write the truth in thunder.

Off to the next page...

A troop of testosterone-fueled jarheads are always pathetic
But so are the swarm of estrogen-filled imbeciles
They are dressed up in fake virtue and venomous grace,
Both sides wear masks in this toxic parade.
You cheered when I bled — now watch me rise,
Your whispers can’t touch me; I feast on your lies.

Vipers — they sting.
Black one-eyed crows are on the watch.
Black-cloaked woman is on the run.
Pigtails are always up for mystery.

"You’re fat. You got fat."

As if I didn’t already know.
You're just saying it—but I’ve already seen myself in the mirror.
Every. Single. Day.
I live in this body. I carry its weight. I carry its strength.
You only glance at me. I endure this body every hour of my life.

My arms? They’re not flabby—they’ve held my fears, my triumphs, my truth.
My thighs? They’re not too big—they’re powerful, grounded, unshakable.

My waist might be bigger than a donut—but I love it.
My cheeks might be fluffy—at least I feel like a donut.
My tummy might be bloated—but hey, at least I’ve got volume!

And these marks? These changes?
My body got ocean waves from the transformation—from thin to fat.
These stretch marks? These lines? They’re not flaws.
They are my waves. My tides.
Proof that I am still unique in my own way, even if I gained weight.

You think you’re revealing something I haven’t noticed?
Please.
I’ve been here, watching my body shift through heartbreak, survival, stress, and healing.
And still—I rise in it. I breathe in it. I wear it with resilience.

You want me to feel shame.
But I feel power. Because I’m still here.
You want me to shrink. But I am done making myself smaller to fit into someone else’s shallow standard.

I am not made for your comfort.
I am not here for your approval.
If my body offends you?

Look away.

Because I’ve got waves, I’ve got history, I’ve got presence—
And no comment of yours can ever wash that away.

You try to throw shame like it’s a gift, like I’m supposed to take it and thank you.
But honey, I’ve outgrown the need for your approval.
I’ve got enough power in my softness. Enough light in my curves.

Honey, you do you! What makes you comfortable. Flaunt it.
Be it thin or fat or fit or chubby—love yourself!
Because this world doesn’t get to dictate your worth based on your waistline.

So if my body makes you uncomfortable?

That sounds like a you problem.

I’m not shrinking for anyone.
Not anymore.

How deep was the well?
Deep enough to echo my name back with indifference.
Deep enough to hold every scream I never let out.
It didn’t swallow my body —
It swallowed the parts of me I didn’t know could drown.
My soul choked first.
And no one saw me sinking.

How deep was the well?
Deep enough for silence to grow teeth.
To gnaw at the corners of my sanity
While I smiled in public and bled in secret.
Where light couldn't reach me,
And hope knocked once, then left.

I threw prayers like pennies,
Wishing someone would hear the splash—
But even God seemed to whisper,
"Not now."

I built a home in the ache,
Hung memories like picture frames on stone walls,
Learned to breathe through grief,
To sing lullabies to my panic
And call it healing.

How deep was the well?
Deep enough that time didn’t pass — it dripped.
One moment. Then another.
Each echo louder than the last.
And all the while,
I was vanishing behind a voice that said,
"You're fine."

But if you listened closely,
If you stood at the edge,
You’d hear a faint voice rising from the dark —
Not begging to be saved,
Just asking to be seen.

Because sometimes,
The worst kind of drowning
Is when you look dry on the outside
And no one knows you’re dying beneath.

How deep was the well?
So deep, it felt like those days I was mistreated,
When I had no one in life but God alone.
When every prayer was a whisper against the walls,
And the silence felt like abandonment.
I screamed inwardly, quietly—
Hoping mercy would find me before despair did.

It was deep enough to forget who I used to be.
Deep enough to blur the surface above me.
And in that darkness,
Only faith kept my heart from breaking completely.

But I’m still here.
And if you’re listening,
Maybe you are too.

Are you a judge, why do you keep objecting me?
I am not a clown, but I am a laughingstock
I am not a mistake, but you saw me as a failure
Well is for fetching a pail of water, not for pushing me down to drown
Snakes are crawling, how come, you are also walking
Coins have two sides, so are humans too, but you are one sided.
What is wrong with my eyes, why do they have subtitles, the same goes with my face.
My eyes, they side eye or roll
My lips, they twitch and glitch then smirk
My face went from normal to poker
My eyebrows are raised, but I prefer to walk away.

I’m asking for help.
I’m reaching out my hand—
because I’m falling, and I’m falling fast.
I’ve been swallowed by the depths of sadness,
of exhaustion,
of loneliness.

But instead of being helped,
I was mocked.
Instead of being comforted,
I was insulted.
Instead of hearing, “I’m here for you,”
all I heard was,
"That’s your fault. You’re weak."

Instead of wiping my tears,
they laughed at me.
And now,
I’ve become the joke—
the laughingstock.

Like my pain was a punchline
and my breakdown was entertainment.
They didn't see a cry for help,
they saw a stage.

I want to rise above it.
I want to breathe again.
But every time I try to climb,
someone pulls me back down.

I get yelled at—
as if I have no right to be tired,
as if I have no right to be sad,
as if I have no right to simply ask for help.

They think I choose strength.
But the truth is,
strength is the only mask I have left
when I have no other choice
but to hold myself together.

I don’t want to give up.
But what do you do when every cry for help
is answered with ridicule?

How do you keep fighting
when the very people you expected to support you
are the first to strangle you with their words?

I used to be afraid of the dark — but not anymore,
because the darkness around me and the darkness I feel inside have become the same.

Instead of being saved, I was pushed off the edge.
Instead of being helped to stand, I was mocked even more.
Their words speak of kindness, but their actions betray cruelty.

They preach fairness, yet they have favorites. For them,
love overflows — but only for some.
For me, it's always just the bare minimum

I’m tired.
Tired of explaining myself.
Tired of pretending I’m strong
just so they won’t call me “attention-seeking.”

I’m not asking for grand kindness.
I’m not asking for all the answers—
all I wanted was a little understanding.

Just once,
help me stand
before you judge me.

They called me the “angry daughter.”
But I was also the daughter who had to wipe her own tears
and keep going like everything was just fine.
I was the daughter who never talked much about what I was going through,
because I didn’t want to bother anyone
or make people worry about me.

I stayed quiet.
Held all my feelings inside
just so no one could see how much I was really struggling.
I was the daughter who had to stay strong—
the one who had to figure everything out on her own
until I forgot how to ask for help.

I had to become my own support.
My own comfort.
Because I felt like no one else could really understand me.
And no one really cared enough to try.

I was the daughter they expected to be the strong one all the time,
so I played that part perfectly.
Even when all I wanted was for someone to hold me for a little while,
to tell me I didn’t always have to pretend.
That I didn’t always have to carry the weight of the world just to be loved.

I wonder how different it would’ve been
if someone had just told me
that I didn’t have to face it all alone.
Maybe then I wouldn’t have felt so empty,
trying to figure out everything on my own.

They called me dramatic
when I finally broke down—
but they forgot that even the strongest bridges collapse
when they carry too much for too long.

They called me rebellious
when all I ever wanted was to be heard
without being dismissed.
To be seen without being judged.

And now...
I’m learning how to walk away.

That kind of walking away
that isn’t about running or revenge,
but about choosing peace
after years of swallowing chaos.
It’s the kind of walking away
where I finally say:

Enough is enough.

Enough for the times I felt neglected.
Enough for the moments I shrank myself
just to be acceptable.
You only saw me when I was useful.
When I served, when I smiled, when I stayed silent.

But when I failed—
I became your scapegoat.
You blamed me,
not for the action,
but for who you decided I was because of it.
You turned one mistake
into my entire identity.

You didn’t give me space to grow.
You gave me a cage.
And now, I’ve found the key.

I am walking away.
Not because I hate you,
but because I’ve finally learned to love myself
more than your approval.

This is not betrayal.
This is survival.
This is healing.
This is me
reclaiming my voice,
my peace,
and everything I was forced to bury
just to belong.

And maybe—just maybe—
if you ever wonder why I stayed away,
it’s because being close to you
meant losing myself.

Not anymore.

You think you know me?

You only know the version of me I let you see.

To some, I’m kind—gentle even. Someone who listens, who understands, who holds space.
To others, I’m cold. Distant. Maybe even cruel. And maybe I am. Depends on what part of me you’ve earned—or what part I had to become to survive you.

Some say I’m talented. They see sparks, passion, something that moves.
But most? They don’t see anything.
To them, I’m just noise. Background. Disposable.

I can be the warmth in the room or the one who snuffs out the light.
I don’t always choose—sometimes I just shift.

To a few, I’m artistic. Strange, but intriguing. They say I’m original. Unfiltered. A little chaotic in a beautiful way.
To others, I’m just “trying too hard.” Pretentious. A performance waiting to fail.

Some call me creative. A mind that breathes in color and bleeds it into form.
But there are also eyes—watching me like predators.
Picking apart my work. Measuring me with crooked rulers.
Waiting for the day I collapse under the weight of it all.

There are people proud of me. Quietly so. They don’t always say it, but I feel it.
And then there are those who mock me.
Turn my struggles into punchlines.
Celebrate my silence.
Wait for me to trip—just so they can say, “I knew it.”

Some are rooting for my downfall.
Not because I wronged them—
but because my rise threatens something in them they refuse to confront.

Still… there are the rare few who wait with hope.
They’re not loud. They don’t demand my attention.
But they’re there—watching with patience, believing in the version of me even I haven’t met yet.
Waiting for me to grow into myself. To rise.

And maybe that’s enough.

Because I’m not here to prove myself to everyone.
I’m not a performance. I’m not your projection.
I’m not a failure for not being who you expected.
I am a storm. A contradiction. A work in progress.

So whether you cheer for me, mock me, love me, hate me,
Whether you’re waiting for me to fly or to fall—
At least you’re watching.

And I’ll keep becoming.

A commenter once said,
"You were trained to fear God.
I was born to question Him.
Is a god worth serving if fear is the leash?"

And I paused.

For in their words was fire—
a defiance cloaked in thought,
a challenge hurled at the heavens
as if thunder owed them silence.

But listen.
Let me speak—not in wrath, but reverence.
For I was not trained like a whipped dog,
nor brainwashed by blind tradition.
I was not taught to fear like prey,
but to tremble before the Holy One in awe.

Because I know fear—
but not the kind the Devil feeds on.
Not the trembling that empowers
the Deceiver,
the Accuser of the Brethren,
the Dragon,
Lucifer, the son of the morning,
the Serpent of Old,
the Tempter,
the Enemy,
Beelzebub, lord of the flies,
Belial, the worthless one,
Abaddon, the destroyer,
Apollyon, his Greek name,
the god of this age,
the prince of the power of the air,
the ruler of this world,
the father of lies,
Satan, the adversary,
Leviathan, the twisting serpent,
the angel of the bottomless pit,
Mammon, the god of greed,
the Lawless One,
the Man of Sin,
the Son of Perdition.
So many names—because he is a master of masks.

He thrives on your fear,
feeds on confusion,
mimics the light,
perverts truth.
But I was not born of him.
I was not shaped by his chaos.

No. I was born to fear the Lord.
The I AM.
The Ancient of Days,
The Alpha and Omega,
The Righteous Judge,
The Lion and the Lamb.

And my fear?
It is not slavery.
It is surrender.

It is not the leash of a tyrant—
It is the reverence due to Majesty.
For even Christ, in Gethsemane,
trembled.
He wept.
He asked, "Let this cup pass from me..."
And yet—He drank it.
Not because He was leashed by fear—
but because He was led by love.

You ask me if God is worth serving
if fear is the price.
But I ask you:
Is the storm not worthy of awe?
Is the ocean not sacred because it can drown?
Is the sun less holy because it burns?

I fear God—yes.
Because He could break me,
but chooses to build me.
Because He could condemn me,
but chose the cross instead.
Because He sees the abyss in me—
and still reaches in.

So no—
I was not trained like a beast.
I was born to kneel.
I was born to worship.
I was born to fear—but not like you think.

You see fear as a chain.
I see it as a compass.
You see questioning as freedom.
But even questions can serve the wrong master.

Your words were poetic.
But poetry can be a dagger
or a prayer.

And I,
by the mercy of the One I fear,
choose the prayer.

“So, Why Am I Happy?”— A monologue of distance, survival, and self-love.

You ask why I’m happy?

Funny how the question only comes now—
now that I’ve stopped explaining myself,
now that I’ve stopped showing up for people
who never noticed I was crumbling.

I’m happy not because life suddenly became kind,
but because I walked away from the rot I once called “home.”
I forgave them—not for their sake, never for them.
But for me.
To unshackle my wrists from the rusted chains
they wrapped in apologies.

I repainted my ruins.
I rebuilt my walls with bare hands and blistered hope.
I whispered into the wind
and let it carry my pain where it could no longer echo back.

I was there.
Every time.
When they were bleeding,
I tore parts of myself just to patch them up.

But when I was the one unraveling?
Silence.
They spared me reasons.
Not support. Not love.
Just cold, neat, well-explained reasons.

They laughed at the sacrifices I never mentioned,
mocked my distance when I finally drew a line.
No one asked,
“What happened to her?”
No.
They only asked,
“Why did she stop serving us?”

They made me feel guilty for healing,
for reclaiming the space they once drained.
They confused my boundaries for betrayal,
my silence for arrogance,
my peace for punishment.

But here's the truth:
I gave my best to people who were never meant to stay.
I became the rescuer, the bandage, the therapist,
until I was the one bleeding out on the floor.
And when I stopped showing up,
they called me bitter.
They never asked why I changed—
they just judged the version of me that finally chose herself.

So yes, I walk away now—
but not with regret.
I carry lessons,
not leftover pain.

They burned the bridges?
Good.
I grew wings.

They kept talking,
but I stopped explaining.
Because silence, for me,
became the sharpest, cleanest form of goodbye.

I used to scream.
Now I just leave.

I used to explain my worth.
Now I live it—loud in spirit,
quiet in execution.

I dream again.
Not caged, not pitied.
Not waiting to be rescued.
I’m my own sanctuary now.

They said I was “too much”?
No.
They were just not enough.

They called me cold?
I call it calm.
They called me selfish?
I call it survival.

They don’t get to pity me anymore.
They don’t get to tell my story.
Because I wrote it in fire.
And I walk with it inked into every step I take.

I no longer carry the weight of pleasing people who left me empty.
I stopped bleeding for those who wouldn’t offer me a bandage.
And now that I’m glowing in the dark,
they say I’ve changed?

**** right, I did.

Because this joy—
this stillness, this freedom—
was earned.

I am happy.
And no one gets to steal that from me again.

As Eleanor Roosevelt once said,
“Great minds discuss ideas. Average minds discuss events. Small minds discuss people.”

And I often wonder—
why are people always like that?

Why do some people find more joy in tearing others down than lifting them up?
Why is it so easy to become the topic of their conversation,
when all you’re doing is staying quiet,
trying to survive,
trying to build a life they know nothing about?

They talk like they know me.
Like they’ve read every chapter of my story.
But in truth, they only skim the surface—
the part where I succeeded,
never the part where I suffered.

They never saw the nights I wrestled with anxiety.
They didn’t hear the prayers I whispered while everyone else was asleep.
They didn’t feel the weight I carried on my back—expectations, fears, distractions,
all while pretending I was fine.

No.
They see the medals.
They see the passing score.
They see the result.
And suddenly, everyone has something to say.
Some cheer.
Some pretend to cheer.
Some wait for the next failure.

But I’ve learned this:
The smaller the mind, the louder the mouth.
Small minds need someone else to talk about,
because they’ve got nothing going on within themselves.
And so they latch onto people like me.
People who work in silence.
People who strive in private.
People who don't show their wounds.

They say, “You’ve changed.”
But they never ask, “What changed you?”

The truth?
It’s not that I’ve changed—
it’s that I’ve outgrown the noise.
The noise of gossip, of doubt, of empty chatter.
I’ve outgrown the need to explain myself to people
who never cared to understand in the first place.

And to be honest,
I no longer feel the urge to correct the stories they tell about me.
Let them talk.
Let them speculate.
Let them choke on their own narratives.

Because while they were busy talking about people,
I was talking to God.
While they were picking apart lives,
I was building mine.
While they laughed at my silence,
I was surviving in it.

So yes—
as Eleanor Roosevelt said,
great minds talk about ideas.
About purpose. Vision. Growth.
And that’s where I’m keeping my mind.
Not on the people who drain me.
Not on the opinions that don’t pay my bills
or heal my soul.

Let them whisper.
Let them watch.
Because no matter what they say,
I know what I’ve been through.
And God knows too.

Bitter Truths of Self-Review

I hustled in silence.
And everyone reaped the benefits of my success.

So many people said “Congratulations!”
But truth be told, I appreciate more the ones who walked with me during the storm—
The ones who asked, “How are you?”
Who checked in—not to gossip, not to judge—
but just to be present.

Support doesn’t always look like grand gestures.
Sometimes, it’s the quiet voice that says,
"You’ve got this."
"Rest if you must."
"Keep going."
Those words—
they replenished my soul when it was hanging by a thread.

I studied for five months.
But behind those five months
were moments of silence,
whispers of anxiety,
and distractions that clawed at my focus.

Special mention to my aunt, my cousin, and his girlfriend.
They gave me sleepless nights—
noise I didn’t need, chaos I didn’t ask for.
They pulled my thoughts away from my goal,
and I... I stayed quiet.
I bit my tongue.
I placed my anger at God’s feet.
I didn't want to explode—
but I would be lying if I said I never thought about it.

I told myself,
“If I don’t pass the board exam, I swear, I’ll curse them in my heart.”
But I passed.
Not because I was perfect.
Not because I was better.

But because God is great.
Because He saw my silent tears.
He witnessed the moments I wanted to give up,
the arguments, the loneliness, the exhaustion.

They tried to pull me away from my dreams.
But God pulled me closer to them.

So no—this success wasn’t just mine.
It was God’s mercy.
It was the quiet support of a few souls who believed in me.
And it was my own battle—fought in silence,
won in prayer.

Lights low. A figure sits on the edge of a bed, voice soft, breaking, like glass under pressure.

Support.
It’s just a seven-letter word, right?
But to me… it feels like a hundred.
Each letter soaked in the weight of all the times I needed comfort
and got correction instead.

You say you support me.
But scolding came first.
Nagging came first.
The yap-yap-yap before I could even breathe.

Sometimes… I don’t feel it at all.
Because your actions—
they don’t match your words.

You said, “I’m here.”
But you weren’t.
Not really.
You were there to judge.
There to lecture.
There to remind me of everything I wasn’t.

And maybe that’s the truth people don’t like to say out loud—
Parents don’t really know their children.
Not the real version.
Not the bleeding, breaking, buried parts.

You think you know me?
You think I just use my phone for nothing?
To waste time?
Because I’m lazy?
You said I have no dreams…
no goals to chase.

But did you know I applied for work—
and got rejected?
No.
You didn’t know.
Because you never asked.
You just assumed.

You just told me I’m picky with jobs I want.
You didn’t know the struggles I went through.
Didn’t see the nights I stayed up rewriting resumes.
Didn’t hear the silence after every “we regret to inform you.”
You blamed me for your suggestions when they failed.
Like it was my fault they didn’t work.
You blamed the outcome without seeing the effort.
You saw the tears—
but you didn’t ask why they were falling.

You think you know everything.
Well, you’re wrong.

Did you know I got bullied in school?
Yes, I told you—once.
And you said, “Just let them be.”
Let them bully me?
Really?
Is that what support looks like to you?

Did you know I cried myself to sleep most nights?
No.
Because I made sure to cry quietly.
Because every time I showed weakness,
I got blamed for it.

And now…
I have a heart that’s enlarged.
A real condition.
A heart that’s sick,
because I cried in silence for so long,
my body started breaking
before you even noticed I was hurting.

Support?
You say it’s love.
But love that hurts like this—
isn’t love.

So I’m asking—
no, begging:

Can you love your child without yapping, please?
Can you hug her…
just hug her…
without a sigh,
without complaints?

Because she’s tired.
Not just her body—
her soul is tired, too.

Seven letters.
But for me…
it still feels like a hundred.

Support is... doing it without hesitations. not with lots of words to say.

One morning, the sun rose gently.
The room was quiet, but inside me—
a conversation stirred.

The Mind:
You're awake again.
Already spinning,
already storming.
The questions haven’t slept,
have they?

The Voice:
No. But you let them simmer.
You always do.
Is today the day you let them boil?

The Mind:
Maybe.
I am noisy— not in sound,
but in thoughts that hum loud under the skin.
Filled with unsaid words,
of questions and opinions I am supposed to say
but I chose not.

The Voice:
You speak in restraint,
but your silence is symphonic.
I’ve heard every word you didn’t say.
They thump behind your ribs like second heartbeats.

The Mind:
So you do hear me…
even when I let the world think I’m quiet?

The Voice:
Always.
You are a thunderclap folded into calm,
and every pause you make is sacred.

A new beat enters the quiet.

The Heart:
I hear you, too.
Every thought you swallow,
I feel it burn through me.

The Mind:
Heart, I am trying to protect you.
If I speak, if I reveal too much,
won’t you break?

The Heart:
I break anyway, in silence.
Every unspoken truth you bury,
I carry like hidden fractures.

The Voice:
You’ve mastered silence,
but the weight is crushing you both.

The Heart:
Let me feel,
even if it hurts.
Don’t numb me with silence,
don’t cage me with fear.

The Mind:
But what if I speak,
and it drives them away?
What if my truth is too much?

The Heart:
If they leave,
let them.
If they stay,
let them love the whole of you.
Your truth is not too much;
it is exactly enough.

The Voice:
Your silence is heavy,
but your truth can be light,
if you let it.

The Heart:
I am tired of beating quietly,
pretending I don’t hurt.
Let me break if I must,
so I can heal honestly.

The Mind:
It is terrifying.

The Heart:
And yet,
we are alive.
And being alive is worth the risk
of being seen.

The Voice:
You do not need to roar.
You only need to speak,
even if your voice trembles,
even if your hands shake,
even if tears come.

The Heart:
I will be with you,
soft but strong,
beating for you,
reminding you—
You are still here.
You are still here.

The Mind:
So you will stay,
both of you,
as I learn to speak?

The Voice:
Always.

The Heart:
Always.

And as the sun climbed higher,
the room was quiet—
but inside,
a new sound was born.

The sound of a truth
learning how to speak.
The sound of a heart
learning how to be heard.
The sound of a mind
learning how to let go.

Eyes never lie.
But even if I fake a smile, my eyes are still sad.
My heart still breaks into tiny pieces
I could still walk while my brain never functions well
I could still speak without even thinking about it
I could still act without listening to myself.
I do not know myself anymore.
I do not know who I am anymore.