Rambling Flower

Writing as I grow, rambling as I go.

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  • May You Continue

    May You Continue

    Ah, the New Year.

    The time when the scent of something fresh floats in the air. Fresh starts, fresh opportunities, a fresh look. New year, new anything.

    The New Year has been culturally seen as a reset button. When a new year arrives, we’re expected to begin something, or to change with it.

    And honestly, the logic makes sense. A fresh, clean slate is the perfect time to begin again. The calendar becomes our canvas, and a new year feels like we’re all handed a brand-new one to draw and paint on.

    So we list the things we want to change, the goals we want to conquer, and the habits we think we should start. We create resolutions.

    On the surface, this sounds hopeful. But underneath, there’s an unspoken self-dialogue here:

    • I need to change.
    • I failed last year. I need to be better.
    • I need to fix this version of me.

    And this is where the quiet harm lingers.

    The pressure to change…to reinvent, to become better, to conquer new heights…can subtly suggest that who we were before January wasn’t enough.

    Growth becomes framed as correction. Improvement begins to feel like a requirement rather than a choice.

    And in that framing, something tender gets lost.

    We become so focused on what we should fix that we stop seeing what is already working. We scan ourselves for flaws instead of recognizing the habits, values, and ways of being that have carried us through.

    Continuity isn’t celebrated, only reinvention is.

    Still blooming, still continuing.

    Just to be clear, this isn’t about pretending last year went well if it didn’t.

    If you failed your exams, struggled at work, lost a job, or watched things fall apart despite your effort, it makes sense to want change. It makes sense to set new goals, build new habits, and try a different approach. Growth is often born from friction.

    But change doesn’t have to come from self-rejection.

    Wanting to improve what isn’t working doesn’t mean everything about you needs to be replaced. Even in years that feel like failure, there are parts of you worth continuing.

    There’s nothing wrong with self-awareness and wanting to build habits that support our well-being. But there are also parts of us that don’t deserve to be abandoned. Parts that have kept us afloat, made us feel alive, and make us who we are.

    Not every new year calls for a new version of ourselves.

    Sometimes, it asks us to stay with what is good, steady, and already enough.

    And so my quiet prayer for you this year is this:

    May you continue.

    Continuing, as the sea does.

    May you continue breathing with ease, and may your body move effortlessly through life.

    May you continue to give room for rest.

    May you continue finding moments of stillness.

    May you continue responding to life with presence, not pressure.

    May you continue to feel and hold your emotions, no matter how heavy or gentle they are.

    May you continue to forgive yourself, and others.

    May you continue holding yourself with grace, compassion, and kindness.

    May you continue to show up, even in uncertain, challenging, and heartbreaking times.

    May you continue choosing yourself, even when the world asks you to put yourself last.

    May you continue giving yourself permission to start again whenever you need to.

    May you continue to nurture yourself and the relationships that matter to you.

    May you continue learning the art of letting go, the art of knowing that not everything deserves your response, your explanation, or your attention.

    May you continue embracing the versions of yourself you are meeting along the way.

    May you continue being the person your younger self needed.

    So glad.

    May you continue letting your inner child play.

    May you continue allowing your lips to stretch into wide, genuine smiles.

    May you continue celebrating your wins, no matter how small they may seem.

    May you continue to give hope a home in your heart.

    May you continue to brighten someone’s day in your own small, quiet ways.

    May you continue to give people kindness and understanding, even if it’s hard.

    May you continue to be witnessed as you become the person you’ve always wanted to be.

    May you continue choosing clothes, foods, and hobbies that bring you comfort and genuine joy.

    May you continue listening to songs that lift your spirit.

    May you continue exploring new ideas, new places, new cultures, and new traditions.

    May you continue sharing what you’ve learned, no matter how small or random, even if it’s just a silly piece of trivia.

    May you continue holding the values your parents and ancestors passed down to you.

    And in a world that constantly asks you to become someone else,

    May you continue being you.

  • The Song That Found Me This Year

    The Song That Found Me This Year

    As another year fades into the background, everyone’s sharing their recaps. I love looking at mine, especially the music. Not every song carries deep meaning (sometimes it’s just a vibe), but there are always a few tracks that somehow hold a piece of the year.

    So when my music app told me my number one song for 2025 was “Multo” by Cup of Joe, I wasn’t surprised.

    Truth be told, I’ve been obsessed. “Multo” settled in my heart, and it looks like it’s staying.

    I first heard it through a trending Instagram reel that used a few lines from the chorus. Most of the reels were about relationship heartbreaks. The exes, the ones that got away, the almosts.

    I assumed that was the whole message of the song and didn’t bother listening to the full tune. As I get older, I find myself clinging more to the songs of my childhood and teenage years. Nostalgia brought comfort. Exploring new music suddenly feels like it requires more energy, more openness, more courage. So, unless something really pulls me in, I tend to stay inside the familiar.

    Then one day, I finally had the mental and emotional space to sit with something new. I was craving a Tagalog song, something that can sit quietly with me. So I played it.

    Man.

    Within seconds, I realized the reels I saw didn’t even scratch the surface.

    Some things can’t be fixed, only carried.

    “Multo” wasn’t just about broken relationships. It struck something deeper, somewhere I wasn’t prepared to go that day.

    It spoke to me about grief.

    About losing someone.

    About death and the way it haunts you long after the world thinks you’ve “moved on.”

    I was calm when it started, but halfway through I was suddenly crying. I was having an average day, and one song cracked me wide open.

    That’s grief. Unpredictable, uninvited, wild.

    There were specific lines that gutted me. Lines that didn’t just land, they lingered.

    “Binaon naman na ang lahat. Tinakpan naman na ‘king sugat

    Ngunit ba’t ba andito pa rin? Hirap na ’kong intindihin.”

    When I heard that, it felt like someone read my insides out loud.

    Because… yes.

    I already buried my dad, literally lowered him to the ground.

    I tended my wounds. Made space for the pain. I did all the grief work I knew.

    But it’s never enough. The ache still shows up even when life is moving beautifully.

    The day ended. The grief didn’t.

    “Kahit sa’n man mapunta ay anino mo’y kumakapit sa ’king kamay.”

    God. That line.

    Wherever I go, even when I’m full of fun and gratitude, there’s a moment when I remember he’s not there to see it. He’s not there to experience what I’m experiencing.

    It’s like you’re having the best day, and suddenly grief taps you on the shoulder, reminding you that joy will always have a shadow.

    Not to ruin it.

    Just to say: “I’m still here.”

    And that last line…

    “Ako ay dahan-dahang nililibing nang buhay pa.”

    …that one hit in a different place.

    Because that’s exactly what grief feels like sometimes.

    Not dramatic, not loud. Just this quiet, suffocating heaviness. A slow burial.

    When my dad died, it wasn’t just him I buried. A version of me was buried, too.

    The version of me who still had a father.

    The version of me who can feel joy without it echoing.

    The version of me who can be content without the undertone of longing.

    The point of life, I guess

    I don’t think people talk enough about how grief kills the past version of you, and how you’re forced to live on as someone slightly altered. Not broken. Just changed.

    I still feel joy. I still laugh. But they don’t land the same way anymore.

    They have texture now.

    Shadows. Edges.

    And maybe that’s what the song meant.

    That the weight of loss buries parts of you even as you move, breathe, travel, laugh, and exist. You learn to live with that slow burial. You learn to live after the version of you who didn’t know this kind of grief.

    But even with the heaviness it stirred, I found comfort in the song.

    It became my go-to for weeks. I’d listen to it on loop. Every time a new live performance came out, I’d drop everything just to watch it.

    At some point, it stopped being “just a song” and turned into something I reached for,  the way you reach for a blanket or a familiar scent. I wasn’t just obsessed with it, I was held by it. It gave me something steady to return to on the days when the grief sat closer to the surface.

    From Bencab Museum; it reminds me of the days I rode my bike with my dad.

    Then one day, I saw a video of Cup of Joe accepting Song of the Year for ‘Multo’. Well-deserved. During the speech, one of them smiled and said:

    “Sana hindi kayo makalaya.”

    I found myself smiling too.

    Yes. Exactly that.

    I don’t want to break free from grief.

    Because what a strange privilege it is to grieve someone. Grief is love. To grieve is to love. It’s a painful, stubborn reminder of connection and care. It’s uncomfortable and brutal, but it means you lived and loved deeply. It means someone mattered that much.

    And here’s the thing I only realized recently: grief isn’t always pain.

    Sometimes it’s warmth. Sometimes it’s memory. Sometimes it’s the soft reminder of all the good things about the person you lost.

    The joy they brought, the quiet ways they loved you, the small traditions they unknowingly passed on. I see traces of my dad in the things I do, in the values I’ve held onto, and even in the things I now teach my own child.

    One of those things is Christmas.

    I see my dad everywhere, even in these Santa decors

    When my dad passed, I surprisingly found myself having a better relationship with the holiday. Not because his absence made anything easier. Far from it.

    But because I finally understood where all the Christmas magic of my childhood came from. It was him. Along with my mom, he made sure our holidays felt festive, warm, alive.

    And this was despite the fact that we didn’t have much. He worked with whatever we had, and somehow it was always enough.

    Now, every time I decorate and plan for Christmas, it’s my way of honoring him. It’s my way of continuing something he started.

    A quiet tradition that reminds me that grief isn’t just sadness, it’s also love carried forward.

    If breaking free from grief means forgetting your smile, then I choose to drown in it.

    Grief is devastating, yes. But it’s also deeply human. It carries beauty alongside the ache.

    Two truths can exist together, and I can carry both at once.

    I don’t want to get rid of grief.

    Even if on some days, it tightens my chest and brings me anxiety.

    Even if on some days, it reminds me of the things I should’ve said, should’ve done.

    I don’t want it gone. Because grief is my reminder that I can love, that I have loved, that I was loved back.

    And what a luxury that is.

    Grief is a forever companion, one I’m learning to befriend. I want to be comfortable in its presence, because the alternative is forgetting, and I’d rather ache than forget my dad.

    Maybe that’s the real lesson this song gave me: to carry the ache and let it remind me of love.

    Oo. Sana hindi ako makalaya. Dahil ayoko rin.

  • What’s Still Beautiful, Even When Everything Feels Too Much

    What’s Still Beautiful, Even When Everything Feels Too Much

    There’s a strange kind of weight that comes from living in a world where we’re expected to know everything, instantly.

    Whether it’s the news, a disaster, or a breakup…it’s all right there, in our hands. Every scroll brings another headline, another loss, another argument, another tragedy.

    We’re seeing too much, knowing too much, too fast.

    But our brains, our hearts, and our bodies aren’t built to hold this much of the world all at once.

    We were never meant to witness the pain of strangers and the disasters across the globe, while also answering work emails and remembering to drink enough water.

    And yet here we are, being asked to process the entire world in real time through endless tabs, feeds, and pings. We’re being asked to care about every single thing, instantly.

    No wonder we feel frayed, hopeless, and doomed.

    The algorithm feeds us fear, outrage, and heartbreak on repeat. A constant stream of reasons to believe the world is falling apart.

    But still, beautiful things are unfolding all around us. Ordinary, human moments that quietly prove life is still kind.

    They’re not loud enough to make the headlines, but just enough to make you pause and remember:

    God, there’s still beauty everywhere.

    I know that can feel strange to say right now. Like many, I’ve been watching everything unfold with a mix of grief, frustration, anger, and helplessness.

    But I’m learning we can hold both. We can acknowledge the heartbreak and injustice, and still let the small, beautiful things in. Not to ignore the pain, but to remember they can coexist.

    There’s light, if you let it in.

    This isn’t a post about looking away. It’s just something I wrote during a moment when I needed to breathe. A reminder to myself that even in noise and chaos, the world is still a beautiful place.

    If it’s been hard to see the good lately, maybe these will help.

    • Your heart is still beating, and you don’t have to ask it to. It’s been there for you, quietly, all this time.

    • Your name, said with love. Maybe a friend texted it. Maybe someone will say it tomorrow. What a gift it is to be known.

    • Somewhere, a farmer woke up before sunrise to tend to the fields. The food you’ll eat today began as someone’s early morning labor. 

    • A retired K9 dog who once searched for danger is now chasing butterflies. No vest, no commands. Just a soft yard, a full bowl, and a loving family.

    • A newborn just took their first breath. Right now. (Welcome, little one)

    • The tree outside your window, if there’s one. What a privilege it is to live near something that roots and grows and doesn’t ask for much.

    • A teenager is learning guitar alone in their room. They just nailed the chord they’ve been practicing for weeks.

    • Someone is silently writing a novel, even if no one’s reading yet. One day, that story might save someone else.

    • Your skin healed from that last paper cut. Isn’t that amazing?

    • Your feet. Think of all the places they’ve taken you without complaint, without applause. They’ve carried you through every kind of terrain.
    May joy find you wherever you go.
    • Somewhere, two young souls are sitting in silence, sharing one pair of headphones. No words, just the music. And the feeling that someone finally gets it.

    • A cat is sleeping in a warm sunbeam. Unbothered. Fully present.

    • The moon is still doing her thing. Waxing, waning. Whether or not you’re watching. 

    • Someone just got an email. After all the rejections, the silence, the interviews that led nowhere, this one said yes.

    • Your ancestors once dreamed of rest, of a world where they didn’t have to fight for survival every day. And here you are, living parts of that prayer.

    • A stranger just helped someone carry their groceries. Not for praise, just because they could.

    • A parent trying to say “I’m proud of you.” It came out as “Drive safe” or “Did you eat?” But the love is in there.

    • Someone just laughed so hard they cried. Belly-deep, breathless, joy.

    • Somewhere deep in the ocean, tiny creatures are glowing in the dark. Unseen, but still showing off.

    • A friend remembered your favorite thing and saved it for you. Just because.

    • An old man lies in bed, his children beside him, his grandchildren close. And though the room is full of tears, he is smiling. Because this? This is a good ending.
    Solar-powered and unbothered.
    • Your eyelashes grew in your sleep. A proof that something is still working, even when you feel like falling apart.

    • Somewhere, someone is falling in love for the first time. They don’t even know it yet, but everything is about to feel new.

    • Someone is whispering a prayer into the night. Not because they’re sure it works, but because hope is still alive.

    • The hands that made your clothes. Somewhere far away, someone sewed the fabric you’re wearing. A thread of connection.

    • Somewhere, two women in their 60s are sitting at the edge of the ocean. They talked about this trip for years. And now, it’s real.

    • A song, made by someone you’ll never meet, can touch something deep in you. How magical is that?

    • Someone out there is in therapy for the first time. Speaking their truth, even if their voice shakes.

    • The message you sent that helped someone. Maybe you forgot, but they haven’t. A message, a hug, a “you okay?”….still echoing.

    • Someone is standing at a flower stall, hoping one of the flowers will say: “This will make your person smile.”
    Hey grandma, look what I did!
    • Your hands. Think of all the things they’ve held. All the things they’ve made, the letters they’ve written, the textures they’ve felt. Still here, still capable.

    • A farmer bathes his carabao in the river. Not as a chore, but as a thank you.

    • Your local bakery being up before dawn, shaping the pandesal that will warm your tummy with the sunrise.

    • Someone is lighting a candle on their father’s birthday. They whisper “I’m okay, Dad,” just loud enough for memory to hear it.

    • Somewhere, an old friend is being forgiven. And just like that, the years between them start to feel smaller.

    The world is loud. Sometimes, it’s unforgiving and harsh in ways we can’t always make sense of.

    But it still moves in beautiful, amusing, and often unexpected ways. Even when it feels like everything is too much, even when the algorithm tries to convince you otherwise.

    The beauty in the world hasn’t left, it’s just been whispering.

  • Pieces of Clarity

    Pieces of Clarity

    Clarity rarely arrives whole, it comes in fragments. Some sharp, some soft, some fleeting.

    Each season of my life hands me a new version of myself, and with her come new pieces of clarity. Some stay and steady me, some shift as I grow, and some drift away as gently as they arrived.

    For now, this is what I know. Bits of clarity that belong to me in this moment, though I expect them to evolve as I do.

    As strong as a mountain, as soft as the morning light
    DRT, Bulacan

    My strength isn’t just in how I rise or stand tall, but in how I soften when things get hard.

    It turns out I don’t have to pick between being grounded and being fluid. I flow best when I’m rooted.

    Healing is never linear, and often, I find myself starting from the bottom again.

    The fire in me doesn’t burn like it used to. Grief, exhaustion, time, and growth have tamed it. And that’s okay. Maybe I’ve been burning for too long. Maybe I wasn’t meant to burn forever. Maybe I’m glowing now, and that’s beautiful too.

    I’ve learned to stop chasing happiness. It’s fleeting anyway. Joy, curiosity, and contentment feel more real to me now.

    I used to carry shame for living a “boring” or “mediocre” life. No big title, no wild ambition. But now I see it clearly…this calm is what I’ve always needed.

    Carry it with grace
    Vigan, Ilocos Sur

    Grief is terrible. It’s heavy, messy, and never on schedule. But it made me look at life differently.

    Regret often disguises itself as a memory. I’m learning to hold space for the things I didn’t do, say, or feel in time, and to forgive myself anyway.

    For a long time, I blamed the world for most of my pain. Only later did I realize that my own choices were feeding my suffering, and accountability slapped the excuses right out of me.

    I might not be walking the path I dreamed of as a child, but I’m damn sure I’ve become the person she needed back then.

    Sometimes I don’t think I have a big purpose in life, and that’s okay. My presence is enough. Being here, right now, is enough.

    I can’t keep blaming my parents for what they lacked. They did their best with what they knew and had. The ceilings they broke became the ground I now stand on.

    The flowers came anyway
    Meycauayan, Bulacan

    Avoiding stress isn’t realistic. Managing it gently and intentionally is all I can do.

    There are days that I want to die. Not because I want to stop living, but because I’m exhausted. And sometimes, it’s really just that.

    When my ‘yes’ comes with resentment, it’s actually a no. When my ‘no’ brings guilt, it’s still a no. Learning this is how I finally stopped abandoning myself.

    My body remembers what I try to forget.

    I overthink because I care too much. But not every thought is real. These days, I’m trying to listen to my heart more than my head. The heart speaks quietly, but it rarely lies.

    I used to think deep breathing was just wellness fluff. Now it’s the anchor I reach for when everything feels like too much.

    Still, but not passive
    Liyan, Batangas

    I’ve learned to pause before reacting. Some things won’t matter tomorrow. For the ones that will, I try to meet them with clarity, not heat.

    I used to think compassion was about showing up for others. But it’s also about showing up for myself with gentleness instead of judgment.

    Discipline doesn’t come naturally to me. But I’m starting to see it as a form of self-love, not punishment.

    Some of my proudest moments live in silence. I’ve learned to hold them gently, without needing to prove anything to anyone.

    I still have a “wild” side. She’s just wiser now and knows when to come out. She doesn’t perform on demand anymore.

    I dread aging, but I’m also aware of how lucky I am to grow older and witness the people I love go through their own seasons too.

    Let the tides take it
    San Fernando, La Union

    Clarity often comes when I’m resting or when I allow myself to feel grateful.

    Being bored is a luxury. Not everyone gets to slow down.

    Slowing down gives me a different perspective and magnifies gratitude in a way that rushing never can.

    I love my solitude. But I also know that if I want a village, I need to show up as a villager too.

    Treating myself isn’t always about sweets, skincare, or trips. Sometimes it’s doing nothing and not feeling guilty about it.

    There are still kind, gentle souls in this world. I just need to keep my heart open long enough to find them.

    Nature remains the best therapy. Always has been.

    Until tomorrow
    San Juan, La Union

    What I’ve shared here are pieces that feel true to me in this season of becoming.
    They may not last forever, and that’s part of their beauty. Clarity is meant to move and shift, just as we do.

    And if any of these pieces resonate with you, may they remind you that through the ebb and flow of life, you are never moving alone.