☆

[appleindigo]

Hey there, welcome.

I’m Apple 🌸 Welcome to my little corner online—my cozy spot for thoughts, stories, rants, and reflections I can’t always say out loud. Some days it’s deep and personal, other days it’s silly, random, or just a little brain dump. Basically, whatever my heart feels like letting out.

Life hasn’t always been smooth sailing. Just like you, I’ve had my share of betrayals, gossip, people who misunderstood me, or even tried to pull me down. There were days I felt watched, judged, or even invisible. But through it all, I’m still here breathing, learning, and finding quiet ways to reclaim my peace. I focus on the little victories, the calm moments, and the things that make life feel joyful and meaningful.

I’m a mix of cozy, curious, and a little spooky. I believe in reincarnation and alternate universes, which makes life feel magical, even if I don’t always voice it out loud. I love curling up with a good book (self-help, philosophy, thrillers, or crime-fiction), diving into horror flicks that give me a good scare, or binge romcoms and animated movies that feel like comfort food for the soul. F.R.I.E.N.D.S. makes me laugh like I’m hanging out with old friends, and Midnight Diner feels like a warm hug after a long day.

I’m someone who deeply values intention, gentle energy, and small rituals that make everyday life feel sacred—like affirmations, journaling, noticing beauty in small things, or offering a short and quick thank-you prayer for unexpected blessings. I also adore cute, calming, and aesthetic things—from phone cases and mood boards to imagining simple yet comfortable life in the countryside. Favorite textures and moments are soft fabrics, pastel and earth tones, morning sun through the window, birds singing in a quiet and slow morning, or a sunset sky.

Biggest fear ay ipis. I’m the third of four siblings, all girls, and that shaped a lot of my quiet resilience. Academic dreams? I’ve finished college, and I hope to pursue a second course once life gives me space. Ambitions? I dream of owning an apartment rental business and nurturing something I’ve always seen potential in.

Writing has always been my way of praying, releasing, and making sense of the chaos around me. If you’ve ever felt unseen, weighed down by others’ opinions, or just in need of a quiet pause, I hope my posts offer comfort, perspective, or even just the thought, “I’m not the only one going through this.”

So, welcome to my blog—a space for reflection, curiosity, cozy vibes, and calm moments. I’m not here to impress. I’m here to be real, to stay rooted, and to remind both you and myself: dum spiro, spero, et fata viam invenient. ♡

With love and light, Apple 🌸

[appleindigo]

maybe that's why i'm so quiet now

i think one of the most painful things a person can experience is realizing they don't really matter to the people who matter to them.

not in words, of course.

most people will tell you they care.

most people will say they're there for you.

but you learn the truth by paying attention to their actions.

you learn it when you're excited to share something and they barely react.

you learn it when you talk and they immediately turn the conversation back to themselves.

you learn it when you spend years listening to their problems, celebrating their wins, supporting them through difficult times, only to realize they never offered you the same energy in return.

what hurts isn't a single incident.

it's the pattern.

it's looking back and noticing how many times you've felt ignored, dismissed, forgotten, or emotionally abandoned by the same people over and over again.

and the worst part is that they don't even realize they're doing it.

or maybe they do.

at some point, i stopped knowing which possibility was worse.

people always talk about communication as if every problem can be solved by speaking up.

what if you've already spoken up?

what if you've already explained how you feel a hundred different ways?

what if you've already told people what hurts, what you need, what you've been carrying, and nothing changed?

eventually, you stop talking.

not because the pain goes away.

because you're tired of watching people prove that they don't care enough to listen.

i've reached a point where i don't expect understanding anymore.

i don't expect support.

i don't expect anyone to notice when something is wrong.

the expectations are gone, but somehow the disappointment remains.

that's the strange thing about emotional neglect.

you can lower your standards.

you can stop hoping.

you can tell yourself not to care.

and it still hurts.

because deep down, a part of you remembers what it felt like to want connection.

to want to matter.

to want someone to be genuinely interested in your life.

what nobody tells you is that resentment starts growing the moment you realize you've been giving people something they were never willing to give back.

your time.

your attention.

your concern.

your presence.

your patience.

you remember the details of their lives because you listened. you remember their struggles because you cared. you remember the stories they've forgotten they even told you.

and then one day it hits you that they can't do the same for you.

not because they forgot once.

because they never really paid attention in the first place.

that's the part that leaves a bitter taste in your mouth.

realizing that while you were treating people as if they mattered, they were treating you as if you were background noise.

someone to talk to.

someone to vent to.

someone to be available.

but never someone worth being curious about.

never someone worth checking on.

never someone worth understanding.

sometimes i think that's why i'm so exhausted.

it's not because life is hard.

it's because i'm tired of carrying relationships that only seem to work when i'm the one doing all the emotional labor.

i'm tired of being expected to listen while nobody listens back.

tired of being expected to care while nobody cares back.

tired of being expected to understand while nobody tries to understand me.

and maybe the ugliest truth of all is that i no longer know whether i'm more hurt by the neglect itself or by the realization that some people can watch you slowly disappear right in front of them and never once ask if you're okay.

all i know is that i'm tired.

and some kinds of tiredness don't go away with sleep.

—Apple, i think i mattered less than i believed 🥀

[appleindigo]

if i’m being honest…

there’s one thing i still can’t fully move on from.

not the betrayal itself. not the gossip. not even the way people suddenly switched sides like loyalty was just a seasonal trend.

what really destroys me sometimes is seeing the people who hurt me doing better than me.

thriving. winning. smiling. posting their achievements like life rewarded them for everything they did.

and meanwhile, i’m here trying to rebuild parts of myself they helped break.

i know it sounds ugly to admit. maybe even bitter. maybe immature. maybe sinful. but i’m tired of pretending i’m always the “bigger person” who instantly heals, instantly forgives, instantly lets go. some wounds don’t disappear just because time passed. some wounds stay alive every time you see the people who caused them living peacefully while you’re still carrying the damage.

there are nights when i genuinely can’t sleep because of it.

i lie there replaying everything in my head like my mind is addicted to reopening old doors. i start asking questions that poison me slowly.

why do people who ruin others still seem blessed? why does the universe sometimes look like it rewards manipulation, arrogance, and cruelty more than sincerity and humility? why are the people who caused the damage sleeping peacefully at night while the people they damaged are the ones losing their minds in silence?

and honestly? those thoughts scare me sometimes.

because the more hurt you carry, the darker your mind can become. you start thinking thoughts you never imagined yourself capable of thinking. not always actions—just thoughts born from deep resentment and injustice. thoughts you immediately feel guilty for after. thoughts you pray against. thoughts you don’t even want to say out loud because they don’t sound like you anymore.

i ask god for forgiveness for that part of me constantly.

but i also think people underestimate what unresolved pain does to a person.

some people think healing is just “choosing peace.” as if peace is a switch. as if betrayal doesn’t change your nervous system. as if character assassination, ridicule, and gaslighting don’t leave fingerprints on your mind long after everyone else moved on.

the hardest part is realizing the world didn’t punish them for it. 💔

the people who hurt you continue living. they laugh. they succeed. they fall in love. they make new friends. sometimes they even become more accepted and admired than ever. and you’re left wondering if being good even matters anymore.

the truth is, i still don’t know how to make peace with it.

i still don’t know how to watch people who damaged me continue living happily like nothing happened. i still don’t know how to stop comparing their progress to my pain. and no matter how much i pray, there are nights when the resentment feels louder than my faith.

maybe that makes me a bad person. maybe it means i still have hatred in my heart. i don’t know anymore…

i just know that some pain doesn’t turn you wise right away. sometimes it just turns you distant. skeptical. closed-off. angry at 2 am.

and maybe the ugliest part of all is that they got to continue their lives… while all i ever got were trust issues, sleepless nights, anger problems, and a version of myself i barely recognize anymore.

—Apple, maybe just bitter tonight 🥀

[appleindigo]

hi friends, it’s my birthday :)

[appleindigo]

it’s one of those nights when you’re looking for something more

lately, i’ve been feeling this strange restlessness i can’t fully explain. like i’m constantly searching for something more, but i don’t even know what “more” is supposed to look like. days pass, conversations happen, mornings turn into nights, and somehow everything still feels suspended. delayed. stuck. like a song that never reaches the chorus.

i keep trying to find ways to be productive, to make my days feel meaningful somehow. tiny steps that would make me feel like i’m moving forward. but every time i try, something always falls apart. something never works out. and honestly, it’s exhausting in a way i can’t even put into words anymore.

i don’t even know what i’m trying to escape from anymore. maybe it’s disappointment. maybe exhaustion. maybe it’s the realization that growing older means learning how to carry sadness without letting it show too much.

sometimes i miss the version of me who could feel excitement so easily. the version of me who believed life would eventually “start” at some point. back then, the future felt so close. now it feels like i keep reaching for something i can’t name.

i don’t really talk about this out loud because feelings become smaller once they leave your mouth. people translate them into things you never meant. they call it drama, laziness, overthinking, sadness, sensitivity—anything but what it really is. so i carry it quietly instead.

but despite everything, some small part of me still refuses to completely give up. and maybe that tiny part is enough for now. maybe healing doesn’t arrive all at once. maybe it begins very softly, almost invisibly, like realizing you still looked for the sunrise even after a difficult night.

—Apple, when everything feels almost 🥀

[appleindigo]

The Softness I Had to Outgrow

The one who kept her guard down like it was no big deal, who trusted too easily because she honestly thought the world played fair.

I look back at her sometimes—that girl who laughed from the gut, who didn’t second-guess every move, who didn’t read too much into silence or side-eyes. She showed up for people like it was second nature, like loyalty was just part of her bloodstream. She didn’t know yet that some folks only clap for you when you’re breaking.

If you met her then, maybe you’d say she was almost too gentle for her own good. She was always trying to make sure everyone was okay, even when she was falling apart behind the scenes. She kept giving until the well ran dry. And when life hit her with one blow after another, she didn’t even fight back—she just tried to carry on like nothing happened.

But life has a way of turning the sweetest parts of you into armor. One betrayal at a time. One disappointment after another. One “I thought you had my back” moment that ends with a door slammed in your face.

And that’s how I ended up here—not a villain, not a monster, just someone who learned how to toughen up because the world wouldn’t stop pushing her around. People see me now and think I’m cold or hard to approach, but they don’t know how many times I tried to keep things together before I finally snapped the old version of me in half.

Sometimes I wonder… if you met the earlier me, would you have stayed? Or would you have played your part in the breaking too?

Either way, she’s gone now. And I’m just learning to live with whoever’s left.

—Apple, tracing the girl I lost along the way 🌸

[appleindigo]

There Is Deep Gratitude in Scarcity

It hits different when you don’t usually get help from people. Most of the time, it feels like you’re invisible, like everyone has somewhere else to be, someone else to care about. Sometimes the thought slips in quietly: “If it were someone else, people would show up for them without a second thought. So why is it that when it’s me, no one comes? Why does it always feel like I’m left to carry it all on my own?” And when you’ve lived that way for so long, you stop expecting anyone to show up and learn to figure it out on your own.

And then one person shows up. One person lends a hand when you didn’t even ask. Out of millions of people who walk past you without a glance, millions who won’t lift a hand even if you stumble—they share what little they have... not because they have plenty, but because they wanted you to feel less alone. They see the weight you’ve been holding and decide to help, even in the smallest way, without asking anything in return. But to you, it’s not small at all.

This isn’t to disrespect or disregard the people who find gratitude in abundance. It’s just… it hits differently for those of us who rarely receive help, who are often denied of it, who live in a space where people look away instead of reaching out.

To someone who rarely receives help, that act of kindness feels monumental, like a miracle... It reminds you that you’re still worthy of being cared for. It feels like a sign straight from heaven, like a quiet nudge from God reminding you He still cares. Because honestly, with all the scarcity and problems stacking up, you thought He had forgotten about you.

Gratitude is more meaningful when you don’t often get reasons to feel it. It lives deeper in the heart. It stays long after the moment passes. And that kind of gratefulness isn’t just about saying thank you. It’s the kind that stops you in your tracks, makes you breathe deeper, makes you whisper to yourself, “...so I’m not alone after all.”

—Apple, collecting the rare moments of care 🌸

[appleindigo]

May I Find the Courage to Disappoint People Who Expect Me to Stay Small

I’m tired of apologizing for existing. I’m tired of making myself digestible so others don’t choke on my presence. They expect me to stay small because my smallness entertains them, reassures them, keeps me beneath them. But I wasn’t built for that, was I?

It’s strange how certain people thrive when you’re stuck. The neighbor who lives for gossip, the coworker who smirks when you struggle, the “friend” who claps when you fail but falls silent when you succeed. They act like you stepping out of the version they designed for you is some kind of betrayal.

And for years, I played along. I lowered my voice, softened my edges, and stayed “safe.” I thought blending in would spare me from the claws of their judgment. But I learned the hard way: no matter how small I make myself, they’ll still find reasons to drag my name.

It’s not easy. The fear is real. I wake up with it. Fear that stepping outside means another round of stares. Fear that no matter how I try to live peacefully, someone will always twist the story. And fear, too, that I will grow old in this same poisoned environment. But in between the fear and the exhaustion, I’ve found a truth I can’t ignore: living small to please others is the slowest kind of death.

The world loves when you doubt yourself. It loves when you silence your own dreams just so no one gets uncomfortable. But I’ve learned that courage often looks like letting people down; especially the ones who only cheered for your weakness, not your strength. It is choosing to rise, even when they would prefer you crawling.

Some days, courage feels like speaking up boldly. Other days, it’s just surviving quietly with grace when everyone around you expects you to be defensive and react. But every act of courage, no matter how small, chips away at the power of those who want me to stay hidden.

Maybe the prayer isn’t for acceptance anymore. Maybe it’s for courage—courage to disappoint them, to let their expectations burn in the background while I move forward anyway.

So here’s my quiet prayer: May I always find the courage to keep stepping out, even when their eyes feel sharp enough to slice through my skin, and burn like fire to my bones. May I never again shrink myself just to soothe their insecurities. May I keep walking and speaking with gentleness but also with strength. May I never get tired of praying for courage until their whispers fade into background noise and lose their power over me. May I dare to grow into the highest version of myself they have always loathed to see.

—Apple, no longer the version they knew 🌸

[appleindigo]

it was never mutual, was it

there’s this moment when it clicks. when you realize you’ve been pouring way too much into a friendship that never really pours back. you’re the one checking in even though they seldom check in on you; trying to plan a trip but no one in the group chat actually responds; remembering the little details, and making sure they feel seen by listening to their rants. and at first, you convince yourself it’s fine, it’s just who you are. you’re the “caring” friend. but after a while, it starts to get tiring.

it’s a weird kind of loneliness—being surrounded by people you call friends, but still feeling like the effort is like a one-way street. it’s not supposed to feel like you’re auditioning for a role in someone’s life, right? and yet, there you are—burning your energy, your time, your heart—just to keep a connection alive that maybe they wouldn’t even notice if it drifted away. it’s like, when it’s their turn… it’s never quite the same…

and it’s not anger that hits you, not even bitterness, not really. it’s more like a quiet disappointment. a slow, steady ache when you realize they don’t chat back the way you chat them, they don’t show up the way you show up, they don’t think of you the way you think of them. it makes you wonder if maybe the love you carried in your heart for them was never equal to what they carried for you.

it’s funny… how giving so much can make you feel invisible at the same time.

—Apple, the friend who noticed 🥀

[appleindigo]

The Quiet Weight

I don’t even know anymore. Every night feels the same. Before I close my eyes, I always end up asking myself: what even happened today? Nothing. Same routine. Get up, eat, work, do whatever I’m supposed to, then crash on the bed again. Copy-paste life.

I can’t exactly say I’m miserable, but I’m not happy either. It’s just flat. Empty. Like I’m running on autopilot—moving because I have to, not because I want to. And I can’t help but feel jealous sometimes, seeing how other people seem so alive. They’ve got plans, they have an active social life, they’re pumped up about life, like they’re running on some kind of fuel I never had. Meanwhile, I’m wide awake at night, overthinking, playing out where I’ll end up five or ten years from now. Scared that maybe I’ll grow old stuck right here… living the same damn life, in the same spot.

It gets tiring to dream or make plans when nothing ever falls into place. Even the simplest and most wholesome dreams fall through. And on the rare days I do get what I want, it comes with so much struggle and heartbreak, only to disappear in a flash as if it was never really mine. Unlike others, who seem to get everything without lifting a finger. What does that even feel like? Sometimes it just wears me out to keep playing the roles people expect—daughter, sibling, friend, employee—when none of it sparks anything inside me.

And then there are the whispers, the stares, the judgments. Even when I’m not doing anything wrong, it feels like someone’s always watching, waiting for me to mess up. Always ready with another story that isn’t even true. You get so tired of defending yourself that you go quiet. But the silence eats you alive, because the overthinking never stops.

It gets to a point where even walking outside feels heavy, like every eye is on you, just waiting. They’ll talk about the way you move, the way you exist. You don’t even get the chance to explain because their version of the story is always louder than your voice. And even if you know it isn’t true, you start replaying it over and over until you begin to doubt yourself.

That’s when it hits you: how long am I supposed to carry all of this? You forget you even have a life of your own because you’re too busy trying to control their narrative. And with every whisper, every stare, little by little, your self-trust slips away.

So you keep quiet on the outside, but inside it’s deafening. Every word, every rumor, every “what if” just keeps looping in your head. And before you know it, you’ve become your own harshest critic.

Then eventually, sleep swallows you whole. And tomorrow will look the same again—wake up, go through the motions, go home, lie down, repeat. The brain keeps running in circles, exhausting itself, but never finding a way out. And so you fall asleep again, still carrying all that weight.

—Apple, waiting for the day it all makes sense 🥀

[appleindigo]

Life Always Hands Me Lemons, But I’m Surviving Anyway

Okay, so apparently life looooves giving me lemons. Every time I think I’m finally catching a break, life sneaks up with a basket of sour, wrinkly lemons, drops them in my lap, and goes, “Here, have fun.” And there I am, fake smile on, kamot-ulo, hingang malalim… because saying anything would probably start a full-on rant. I’ve tried the whole “when life gives you lemons, make lemonade” thing. but honestly, sometimes no lemonade can save the day. Sometimes you just want to throw the lemons back na lang eh. Or maybe squeeze them in someone else’s eye lol jk

And life doesn’t send tiny lemons. They show up in all shapes and sizes: failed relationships teaching me what I don’t want, jobs pushing me to grow, low test scores reminding me to keep showing up, being late to work too many times to count, my graduation cap disappearing 30 minutes before the ceremony… and paying a fine for losing it hahaha putangina talaga. Even clean white sneakers can’t escape the rain. Life loves to laugh at me. Then there are the sneaky lemons: forgetting important stuff at home, losing things I always keep in the same spot, awkward encounters with people I don’t want to see, or problems that turn out to be nothing after days of stressing. They hit just as hard.

Sometimes I wonder if life is testing me, teaching me patience, or just messing with me. Every small victory seems followed by another sour twist—bills, misunderstandings, minor embarrassments, random chaos. Exhausting. But in all the sourness, I notice tiny lessons: resilience, patience, laughing at absurdity, staying calm, and spotting little wins (like managing not to lose my mind when the day refuses to cooperate) And then I tell myself, “even sour lemons can be survived.”

It’s not about making life perfect. It’s about surviving the asim, the alat, the chaos, and keeping your humor intact. It’s about rolling with tiny disasters, awkward encounters, impossible scenarios in your head, missed chances, or problems that seem huge but turn out huger. Life throws curveballs, but somehow, through calm drizzles, relapse playlists, spilled coffee, sudden nostalgia, and endless annoyances—you keep going. That, in itself, is a win. Real, messy, and completely yours.

So yeah. Life keeps handing me freakin’ sour lemons. I squeeze what I can, learn what I can, and laugh at the rest. If life’s this silly, I might as well live through it without losing my mind or humor di ba.

—Apple, surviving one lemon at a time 🌸

[appleindigo]

Comparing is an Insult

It’s wild how fast comparison can eat you alive. One second you’re proud for surviving the week, then suddenly someone else’s “success” makes your own feel like scraps. It makes you forget that your timeline is not late.

“Lucky her, she gets to wander around since she married someone rich...” “Wow, you’ve gained some weight and look so haggard… your cousin is still killin’ it at that age!” “Been at your job for ages and no promotion yet? The neighbor’s son got promoted in just three months...” They throw these words so casually, but they land like glass in the skin. Do they not realize some of us are already cramping just trying to keep our heads above water? That survival alone, in this world of judgments, whispered gossip, and mocking laugh, is already a victory?

I have wasted so much energy measuring myself against people who never had to crawl through what I crawled through. Some people have doors already cracked open for them; all they have to do is walk in. They’ve got friends who vouch for them, hands pulling them up, shoulders to lean on when it gets heavy. Me? I’ve had to carry it all on my own. No connections, no shortcuts, no one slipping me a fast pass to the front. Just me, dragging my own weight, day after day.

Not everyone climbs the same ladder, not everyone walks with the same load. Some of us have had to build the damn ladder first before we could even start. And yet, I let their highlight facebook reel convince me I was falling behind. That’s the insult—when I shrink my own battles just because they don’t look shiny enough for applause.

Comparisons are not motivation, but humiliation disguised as concern. They don’t push you forward; they trap you in shame. And shame, once it takes root, eats at your soul until you start doubting every step, every voice inside that once believed you could be more.

—Apple, building her own goddamn ladder 🌸

[appleindigo]

Behind the Quiet Struggle of Healing

I don’t really like admitting this out loud, but there’s this flicker of satisfaction that creeps up on me when I hear bad news about people who’ve done me dirty. It’s not loud, not vengeful, not some grand celebration in my head. It’s quieter than that—more like the tiniest spark, the kind you almost miss if you blink too quickly. A quick second of happiness, a sudden rush, as if the universe whispered, “See, balance still exists.”

It feels human, but it also feels guilty. It’s not something I’m proud of, but it’s real. Like I’m holding a forbidden fruit in my hands and sneaking a small bite, then quickly hiding it before anyone notices. You taste it, you savor it for a second, then you push it aside and act like nothing happened. That’s how it feels whenever I hear they messed something up or life finally caught up with them.

These are the people who betrayed me; who walked all over me when I was at my lowest. I carried that weight around for so long. Their betrayal and character-bashing didn’t just cut me—it etched itself into how I move through this world now. And so when the ground beneath them cracks, even just a little, it’s like the universe is throwing me a wink, reminding me I wasn’t the only one bleeding. For a split second, it feels fair.

And yet, I’m not blind to the shadow side of this feeling. Because after that fleeting second of sweetness, there’s the aftertaste. The quiet ache of realizing that my spirit still remembers the wound too well. That maybe I haven’t healed as much as I thought I have. If a piece of bad news can still make me smile, then maybe a part of me is still tied to their story, even if I act like I’ve let it go.

It’s such a tricky spot to be in. Because half of me just wants to level up, keep it classy, and not let them live rent-free in my head anymore. The other half is my wounded heart still lingers on the quiet moments when karma speaks. And maybe that’s the tug-of-war I wrestle with every time. I want to be the bigger person, to walk away and not look back, but there’s this stubborn part of me that still wants to see things even out. It’s not about wanting them ruined or destroyed. It’s more about wanting to feel like the scales aren’t permanently tipped against me. That the universe hasn’t turned a blind eye to what they did. It feels like quiet reassurance, a small reminder that justice shows up in ways we don’t always expect.

The truth is, those little bursts of satisfaction don’t stick around for long. They pop up, give me a lift, and then fade just as quickly. What stays is me, still piecing my life back together, still showing up for myself, still calling back all the power they tried to strip away, and still moving forward without dragging their shadows behind me. And that’s the real work—the messy, exhausting, everyday choice not to let their voices, their actions, or their mistakes call the shots on how I carry myself now.

I do feel lighter when I hear something goes wrong for them. And I don’t like to label it as “evil” or “toxic,” because that just makes it harder to face. I’d rather call it what it is: me being honest about the parts of myself that aren’t polished or saint-like. Recognizing it without judgment gradually takes away its power, making it easier to carry.

Maybe healing doesn’t mean never flinching, never smirking, never feeling that tiny spark. Maybe it means being able to hold that moment in my hands, acknowledge it, and then let it softly drift away. To look at it without shame, without rushing to cover it up, and just accept that it’s part of me. Healing, in its truest form, isn’t about scrubbing away every trace of what hurt me. It’s about letting those traces move through me without weighing me down, noticing them without judgment, and then letting them go with grace... knowing they don’t hold any power over my spirit anymore.

—Apple, finding serenity within her inner storm 🌸

[appleindigo]

“To Be Soft is to Be Powerful”

I stumbled upon this phrase and it caught me. But honestly, for most of my life I couldn’t see the power in softness. Everything around me taught the opposite: be tough, be loud, be unshaken, or you will get crushed.

I still remember my elementary graduation. I came late because my parents were fighting at home about who would attend. By the time I reached school, the ceremony was already over. I walked into the room and the class adviser looked at me with disappointment. “Why did you even bother coming?!” Then, almost like she wanted to make sure it stung and as if the knife was not deep enough, she added, “What a shame for a class president.” My classmates turned their eyes on me and I wished I could disappear. My own eyes were red from crying at home, but no one seemed to notice. I wanted to defend myself, to say I didn’t want any of this either. But I just stood there quietly, eyes on the floor, carrying the weight of it alone. The late afternoon air felt thick and hard to breathe because I knew that the low murmurs of my classmates were for me. My friends stayed at their seats like strangers. Or did I really have friends in that room? In that silence I felt humiliated, small, and invisible. Yet at the same time that silence was all I had. It was the only way I knew how to survive that moment, even if it broke me a lot inside.

You see, survival mode makes you wear armor. People glorify toughness because it looks intimidating. A raised voice, a sharp comeback, a roaring and aggressive don’t-mess-with-me stance. Quietness and gentleness often get mistaken for weakness, as if not fighting fire with fire means you are incapable.

But I learned the hard way when I kept my mouth shut and it still cost me. I want to be soft, but I am scared it will be used against me. I want to be gentle, but I don’t want to be overlooked. I crave peace, but I hate how silence sometimes feels like losing. I want to endure, but I also want to be seen. Idk, maybe this mess is exactly where softness finds its strange power.

Softness doesn’t perform. It doesn’t demand the spotlight. It bends but it doesn’t break. It absorbs but it doesn’t lose itself. Softness heals without asking for applause. That is power people notice ONLY after they run out of rage and you are still standing.

Real strength doesn’t need to prove itself. Quiet power is steady, unbothered, and stubborn in its own way. It is not about dominance. It is about endurance.

And maybe that is what makes softness the most radical form of power. In a world that praises the loud, choosing to remain gentle is a rebellion of its own.

—Apple, still learning 🌸