⤷ 𐙚jasghostinˎˊ˗｡𖦹°‧ 𖦹 ☼ ⋆

⤷ where’s my iced americano? ⤷i post all my archived works here and on my other socials, sorry for spamming °‧ 𖦹 ☼ ⤷social work graduate <3 444

[mywastedpotentialsgoneby]

Do You Wanna Be Right, or Do You Wanna Be Happy?

There is a question that sounds almost too simple until you realize how many relationships, friendships, family dinners, and sleepless nights it has quietly ruined:

Do you wanna be right, or do you wanna be happy?

It doesn’t mean you should stop standing up for yourself. It doesn’t mean you should tolerate disrespect, swallow every injustice, or pretend something didn’t hurt just to keep the peace.

Sometimes being right matters.

But sometimes, we become so attached to proving that we’re right that we forget to ask whether winning the argument is actually worth what it costs us.

Because there are arguments where you win the point and lose the person.

You prove that they misunderstood you, but now they don’t feel safe talking to you anymore. You prove that you remembered the situation correctly, but the relationship becomes colder. You deliver the perfect comeback three hours later in your head, imagining how beautifully you could have dismantled their argument—and yet, when the room goes quiet, you’re still unhappy.

And maybe that’s the strange thing about being right:

It can give you victory without giving you peace.

Sometimes we treat every disagreement like a courtroom.

We gather evidence. We remember exact dates and exact words. We replay conversations looking for contradictions. We build our case in our heads. We wait for the moment when we can finally say, See? I told you.

But relationships aren’t courtrooms.

The person you’re arguing with isn’t always an opposing attorney.

Sometimes they’re just another imperfect person trying, badly, to explain why something hurt them.

And sometimes you’re not even fighting about the original problem anymore.

You’re fighting for the satisfaction of having the final word.

The ego loves a scoreboard.

There is something deeply human about wanting to be validated.

We want someone to say, You’re right.

Because underneath the argument, sometimes what we’re really asking is:

Did you understand me?

Did you hear me?

Does my perspective matter?

Was I wrong to feel this way?

And when someone refuses to acknowledge us, being right can start to feel like the closest thing to being seen.

So we keep arguing.

Not because the argument matters anymore, but because we desperately want recognition.

It’s like holding a receipt in the middle of a fire.

“Look! I have proof!”

But the receipt doesn’t matter if everything around you is already burning.

There are moments when you have to ask yourself:

What am I actually trying to win here?

Because if the answer is the argument, you might win.

But if the answer is the relationship, my peace, my sanity, or simply my ability to sleep tonight—

then maybe winning looks different.

Not every hill needs to become a battlefield.

Imagine you’re walking with someone and they insist that the moon is on the wrong side of the sky.

You know they’re wrong.

You could stop walking.

You could point upward.

You could explain astronomy.

You could pull out your phone and show them a diagram.

You could spend twenty minutes proving it.

Or you could keep walking.

The moon will remain where it is regardless of whether they acknowledge it.

Some things are like that.

You don’t need everyone to agree with reality for reality to remain real.

You don’t need someone to admit that they hurt you for your pain to have been valid.

You don’t need someone to acknowledge your perspective for your perspective to matter.

And you certainly don’t need to correct every misunderstanding.

Sometimes silence isn’t surrender.

Sometimes silence is simply refusing to spend your energy on something that doesn’t deserve it.

But happiness doesn’t mean always letting things go.

This is where the question gets complicated.

“Do you wanna be right or happy?” can become dangerous advice when it’s used to tell people to tolerate everything.

Because there are situations where being “right” means protecting yourself.

If someone repeatedly disrespects you, speaking up isn’t choosing unhappiness.

If someone manipulates you, setting boundaries isn’t being difficult.

If someone harms you, leaving isn’t losing an argument.

You shouldn’t sacrifice your dignity just because confrontation makes other people uncomfortable.

There is a difference between peace and peacekeeping.

Peacekeeping says:

“I’ll stay quiet so nobody gets upset.”

Peace says:

“I can walk away because I no longer need to convince you.”

One comes from fear.

The other can come from acceptance.

Sometimes happiness isn’t choosing between being right and being quiet.

Sometimes happiness is knowing when the conversation has reached its limit.

Think of your ego like a fire.

A small disagreement is a spark.

Someone says something annoying.

You respond.

They respond.

You explain.

They defend themselves.

You clarify.

They misunderstand again.

And suddenly, what began as a spark becomes a bonfire.

The strange part is that both people are now standing beside the fire complaining about how hot it is while continuing to throw wood into it.

“But they started it.”

“No, they started it.”

“But I only said that because they said this.”

And the fire doesn’t care who started it.

It only knows that someone keeps feeding it.

At some point, someone has to put the wood down.

Not because they’re admitting defeat.

Because they’re tired of being burned.

There is also a quieter kind of happiness: not needing to be understood by everyone.

Growing up, we often learn to explain ourselves.

Why we did something.

Why we felt something.

Why we reacted.

Why we changed.

Why we left.

We think if we explain ourselves perfectly enough, people will finally understand.

But adulthood teaches you something painful:

Sometimes people misunderstand you because they want to.

Sometimes they only understand the version of you that makes sense to them.

Sometimes they need you to be the villain because it makes their own behavior easier to justify.

And sometimes, no explanation will ever be enough.

You can write an entire autobiography and someone will still reduce you to one chapter.

You can hand someone a map of your heart and they may still insist they know the way better than you do.

At some point, you have to stop trying to convince someone to read the map.

Happiness is sometimes putting down the evidence.

Maybe that’s the hardest part.

Letting go of the screenshots.

The messages.

The paragraphs you wrote but never sent.

The imaginary conversations you keep rehearsing.

The “I should’ve said this.”

The “I should’ve told them that.”

The fantasy of finally getting the apology you deserved.

Because sometimes closure isn’t receiving the perfect explanation.

Sometimes closure is realizing you no longer need one.

It’s closing the courtroom because you’ve realized the trial has been going on inside your head for far too long.

You don’t need another witness.

You don’t need another piece of evidence.

You don’t need a confession.

You just need to go home.

Ask yourself what you’re protecting.

The next time you’re in an argument, maybe don’t immediately ask:

“How do I prove that I’m right?”

Ask:

“What am I protecting right now?”

Is it my dignity?

Then speak.

Is it my boundary?

Then enforce it.

Is it the relationship?

Then listen.

Is it my ego?

Then maybe pause.

Is it the desire to make someone feel as bad as they made me feel?

Then maybe walk away.

Because sometimes the person you’re fighting isn’t even the person you’re angry at.

Sometimes you’re fighting old wounds.

Old rejection.

Old humiliation.

All the moments when you weren’t believed.

All the times someone made you feel small.

And suddenly, this one insignificant disagreement becomes the battlefield where you’re trying to finally win every argument you’ve ever lost.

But the person in front of you may not deserve to fight ghosts they’ve never met.

You don’t have to attend every fight you’re invited to.

That’s perhaps one of the most useful forms of emotional maturity:

learning that not every invitation deserves a response.

Someone can misunderstand you.

Let them.

Someone can dislike you.

Let them.

Someone can think they won.

Let them.

Someone can have the wrong version of the story.

Let them.

You know what happened.

You know who you are.

You know what you meant.

And if correcting them costs you more peace than their misunderstanding ever could, maybe the correction isn’t worth it.

There is freedom in realizing that you don’t have to control the story everyone tells about you.

Sometimes you simply leave the room and let people tell whatever story they want.

Because one day, the argument will be over.

And this is the part we forget.

The conversation ends.

The messages stop.

The phone gets put down.

The room becomes quiet.

And you’re left alone with yourself.

And maybe the person who was “wrong” has already forgotten about the argument.

Meanwhile, you’re still awake at 2 a.m., replaying every sentence.

So ask yourself:

Was being right worth losing the evening?

Was the final word worth the distance?

Was proving your point worth the knot in your chest?

Was winning worth becoming someone you don’t recognize?

Because sometimes the greatest victory isn’t making someone admit that you were right.

It’s being able to walk away without carrying the argument home with you.

You can be right and still choose peace.

You can know you were wronged and still refuse to become cruel.

You can know the truth without forcing everyone else to acknowledge it.

You can leave someone with the last word and still keep your dignity.

And maybe that’s what the question really means.

Not “Do you want to be right or happy?”

But:

“What matters more to you in this moment—the satisfaction of winning, or the freedom of letting go?”

Because life is too short to turn every disagreement into a war.

There will always be someone who misunderstands you.

Someone who remembers things differently.

Someone who thinks they’re right.

Someone who needs the last word.

Let them have it.

Sometimes you don’t lose by putting down the sword.

Sometimes you finally realize—

you were never supposed to be fighting in the first place.

[mywastedpotentialsgoneby]

i wish we were privileged

sometimes, i wish i was born into a family that had money.

not rich enough to own a mansion kind of money. not private jets, designer bags, or vacations every month. i mean the kind of money where you don’t have to think twice before buying something you need. the kind where a school fee is just a school fee. where a broken phone is an inconvenience, not a crisis. where getting sick doesn’t immediately come with the question, “how are we going to pay for this?”

i wish money was something we had, rather than something we constantly had to think about.

i wish i grew up knowing what it felt like to simply want something and get it.

to buy clothes without calculating what else could have been bought with the same amount. to eat somewhere nice without feeling guilty afterward. to travel without wondering if the money would have been more useful somewhere else. to pursue a dream without first asking whether we could afford the journey toward it.

because when you grow up without much, you learn that almost everything has a price beyond its actual price.

a ₱500 purchase isn’t just ₱500.

it’s five hundred pesos that could have been used for food.

it’s transportation.

it’s electricity.

it’s school requirements.

it’s medicine.

it’s something your family might need later.

there are also things that other people might consider ordinary that feel like luxuries to us.

going to the dentist.

a vacation.

a staycation.

a proper hospital check-up instead of waiting until something becomes serious enough that we can no longer ignore it.

back-to-school shopping where you can actually buy everything on the list without calculating which things can wait.

getting the trendy item everyone suddenly has.

walking into a grocery store and filling the cart without mentally putting things back because the total is getting too high.

even something as simple as buying a shirt.

i remember seeing a ₱500 shirt that i genuinely liked, but instead of admitting that i wanted it, i pretended i didn’t.

“it’s ugly anyway.”

“i don’t really like it.”

“i don’t need it.”

but the truth was, i couldn’t afford it.

and sometimes, pretending you don’t want something hurts less than admitting that you can’t have it.

that’s one of the quietest humiliations of growing up without money.

you learn to make your wants smaller before anyone else has the chance to tell you they’re too expensive.

you convince yourself you didn’t like it.

you tell yourself you didn’t want to go.

you say you’re not hungry.

you say you don’t need anything.

you say “i’m fine.”

until eventually, you become so good at wanting less that people mistake it for contentment.

but there is a difference between being content and learning how to live without the things you want.

and i think i’ve spent a lot of my life learning the latter.

i remember pretending i was really into thrifting.

and the funny thing is, i actually am.

i genuinely love thrift shops. i love finding something unexpected, digging through racks, finding a piece that feels uniquely mine. i love the idea of reusing clothes instead of constantly buying new ones. i love the ethical side of it.

but if i’m being completely honest with myself, there was another reason i loved it so much.

i needed it.

most of my shirts, jackets, and clothes were from thrift shops because i didn’t have the money to constantly buy new ones.

so when someone asked, or when it came up in conversation, i’d say,

“oh, i just really love thrifting.”

and i did.

but deep down, there was a quieter sentence underneath it:

“because i don’t have anything new to wear.”

i didn’t want to keep wearing the same few shirts over and over again.

i wanted new outfits for school.

i wanted something different to wear when hanging out with people.

i wanted to feel like i had options.

but the options were usually simple:

thrift something,

or repeat the same few shirts again.

and i couldn’t bring myself to keep asking for new clothes.

because my parents were already giving me an allowance for my everyday expenses while i was staying at the dorm.

it wasn’t enough to make life comfortable, but it was enough to get by.

and somehow, enough to get by became something i felt guilty for asking more from.

how could i ask for another shirt when they were already giving me money for food and transportation?

how could i ask for new clothes when i knew there were other things that mattered more?

so i learned to make do.

i learned to make repetition look intentional.

i learned to make thrifted clothes look like a choice rather than a necessity.

i learned to turn “i can’t afford new clothes” into “i prefer secondhand.”

and maybe that’s another thing poverty teaches you:

how to turn limitations into personalities.

how to turn “i can’t” into “i don’t want to.”

how to turn “we can’t afford it” into “it’s not really my thing.”

how to make deprivation look like preference.

and i remember doing the same thing with food.

there were days at the dorm when i didn’t eat breakfast because i couldn’t afford to eat three times a day.

but i didn’t tell people that.

i just pretended i wasn’t a breakfast person anyway.

“i don’t really eat breakfast.”

“i’m not hungry in the morning.”

“i’m used to skipping breakfast.”

as if it were a lifestyle choice.

as if my stomach simply didn’t want food before noon.

when really, sometimes i was calculating how much money i had left.

if i ate breakfast, would there still be enough for lunch?

if i spent a little more today, would i have enough tomorrow?

so i’d buy the cheapest lunch i could find.

sometimes i’d skip dinner too.

and i’d tell myself it was fine.

because what else was i supposed to say?

“i’m hungry, but i can’t afford to eat again.”

there’s something incredibly lonely about being hungry and pretending you’re not.

about sitting with people while they eat and acting like you aren’t interested.

about choosing the cheapest thing on the menu and pretending it was what you wanted.

about watching your remaining money decrease and feeling your anxiety increase with every meal.

and the saddest part is that i became good at hiding it.

i could make poverty look like preference.

i could make hunger look like lack of appetite.

i could make repeating clothes look like minimalism.

i could make thrifting look like an aesthetic.

i could make not going somewhere look like disinterest.

i could make “i can’t afford it” sound like “i don’t really want it anyway.”

and maybe nobody ever knew how often those things were actually about money.

maybe that’s why financial insecurity can feel so invisible.

because sometimes it doesn’t look like someone is struggling.

sometimes it looks like someone who is simply low-maintenance.

someone who doesn’t ask for much.

someone who doesn’t eat breakfast.

someone who loves thrifted clothes.

someone who doesn’t care about trendy things.

someone who is perfectly okay staying home.

but sometimes, underneath all of that, is a person quietly thinking,

if only i had enough money.

the simplest things can feel extravagant when you’re used to scarcity.

sometimes privilege isn’t about having a luxury car or living in a mansion.

sometimes privilege is simply being able to go to the dentist before your tooth becomes unbearable.

being able to get a check-up without wondering how much it will cost.

being able to take a vacation without spending the entire trip thinking about the money you spent getting there.

being able to buy everything you need for school at once.

being able to fill a grocery cart and not feel your heart sink when the cashier starts scanning.

being able to buy a ₱500 shirt because you like it—and not because you have convinced yourself that you deserve it, but because you simply have enough money to buy a shirt.

those things sound so small when you say them out loud.

but when you’ve grown up without them, you realize how much of a privilege it is to experience ordinary life without constantly having to calculate its cost.

so even when you finally have a little money of your own, spending it doesn’t feel like spending your money.

it feels like taking something away from your future self.

sometimes i wonder what it must feel like to live without that voice in your head.

the voice that says do you really need this?

what if something happens tomorrow?

what if you run out of money?

what if your family needs something?

what if you regret spending this?

i wish i could experience life without constantly calculating its cost.

i wish i could say yes more often.

yes, let’s go.

yes, i’ll buy it.

yes, i’ll try it.

yes, i want that.

yes, i can afford to make a mistake.

instead, i grew up learning how to say maybe next time.

and sometimes, there is no next time.

and this isn’t only about the things i couldn’t buy.

it’s also about the places i couldn’t go.

whenever my friends asked me to hang out, to go somewhere new, to eat at a restaurant, sit in a café, travel somewhere, or simply spend the day together, i never really knew what to say.

sometimes i’d give an unsure answer.

“maybe.”

“i’ll see.”

“let me check.”

“i’m not sure yet.”

and sometimes, i would just stay silent.

because deep inside, i already knew the answer.

i couldn’t afford it.

i wanted to go.

god, i wanted to go.

i wanted to experience those places with them. i wanted to sit across from them at a café, order whatever i wanted, laugh about stupid things, take pictures, go somewhere unfamiliar, make memories that weren’t confined to the few places i could actually afford.

but wanting to go and being able to go were two completely different things.

and i didn’t know how to say,

“i can’t afford to hang out with you.”

so instead, i became vague.

i became distant.

sometimes without even realizing it.

little by little, i stopped replying as enthusiastically.

i stopped saying yes.

i stopped suggesting places.

i stopped making plans.

i started disappearing.

not because i didn’t love my friends.

not because i didn’t want to see them.

but because every invitation came with a financial calculation i was too embarrassed to explain.

how much is the fare?

how much will i spend on food?

do i need to buy anything?

what if they want to go somewhere else afterward?

what if i don’t have enough money left to get home?

what if something happens tomorrow and i already spent it today?

even hanging out became something i had to budget for.

and eventually, i think my friends probably got tired of me.

because the only kind of hangout i could confidently afford was somewhere cheap.

somewhere close.

somewhere near.

somewhere that didn’t require too much transportation, too much food money, or too much planning.

and i know that can be disappointing.

i know i probably disappointed them.

maybe they wanted friends who could spontaneously say,

“let’s go there.”

“let’s try this restaurant.”

“let’s travel.”

“let’s go somewhere far.”

and i couldn’t be that friend.

not because i didn’t want to be.

but because i was unable to.

there’s a painful difference between being unwilling and being unable.

and i think i have spent so much time being misunderstood as the former when i was really the latter.

i slowly distanced myself from people i cared about because somewhere deep inside, i knew i couldn’t keep up with them.

i couldn’t afford their kind of friendship.

and that sentence hurts to even admit.

because friendship is supposed to be about companionship, not purchasing power.

but sometimes the world makes you feel like even belonging has a price.

i started feeling like everyone was moving forward without me.

my friends were going places.

trying restaurants.

going to cafés.

traveling.

having spontaneous plans.

experiencing life.

and i was always somewhere in the background, watching.

i know people my age are supposed to be making memories.

and i want to make them too.

i want to have embarrassing stories from trips.

i want pictures from random cafés.

i want to complain about how expensive a restaurant was because i actually got to eat there.

i want to be invited somewhere and not immediately think about whether i can afford it.

i want to receive a message saying “let’s go!” and simply say “sure.”

without opening my calculator.

without checking my wallet.

without thinking about what i might have to sacrifice afterward.

without feeling that familiar knot in my stomach.

i want to just do it.

i want to live spontaneously.

i want to experience my youth while i’m still young.

instead, i’ve become so isolated.

and sometimes i wonder if they found other people who can go with them.

people who don’t hesitate.

people who don’t disappear.

people who don’t constantly say “maybe.”

people who won’t disappoint them.

and maybe that’s why it hurts so much to feel left behind.

because i don’t think i lost people because i stopped loving them.

i think i lost people because i couldn’t afford to participate in the life they were living.

and i can’t even admit that.

how do you tell someone,

“i’m not avoiding you. i’m just broke.”

how do you say,

“i want to come, but i have to choose between this and eating for the next few days.”

how do you explain that silence isn’t rejection?

that distance isn’t hatred?

that sometimes you’re just embarrassed?

embarrassed that you can’t keep up.

embarrassed that something as simple as a café can become a financial problem.

embarrassed that you have to think about transportation costs while everyone else is thinking about where to go next.

embarrassed that you can’t say yes.

and it hurts.

it hurts seeing people my age experience life.

not because i resent them.

i don’t.

i am happy that they get to go places.

i’m happy they get to have fun.

i’m happy they’re making memories.

but sometimes watching other people live the life you desperately want feels like standing outside a window.

you can see everything.

you can hear the laughter.

you can see the lights.

you can see people making memories.

you just can’t walk inside.

and maybe that’s what financial insecurity has taken from me the most:

not things.

not clothes.

not restaurants.

not vacations.

but participation.

the ability to participate in my own youth.

the ability to say yes.

the ability to be present.

the ability to be spontaneous.

the ability to make memories without first asking whether i can afford them.

there is a particular kind of loneliness that comes from being unable to afford the places where everyone else is gathering.

and sometimes i wonder if people realize that the person who keeps saying no might actually be the person who wants to go the most.

there is a particular kind of sadness in watching other people experience things you have always wanted—not because you don’t want them to have it, but because you know that you could have loved those experiences too if money wasn’t always standing between you and the life you imagined.

financial problems have never just been about money.

they have shaped decisions.

they have shaped opportunities.

they have shaped dreams.

they have shaped the way i see myself.

there are things i wanted to become but couldn’t fully pursue because pursuing them required money we didn’t have. there are places i wanted to see, things i wanted to learn, opportunities i wanted to take, versions of myself i wanted to discover—but every dream seemed to come with an invisible question:

can we afford it?

and sometimes, the answer was no.

i hate that money can make a person feel incapable.

because sometimes i wasn’t incapable.

i was simply under-resourced.

but those two things can feel painfully similar when you’re young.

you start thinking maybe you aren’t talented enough, ambitious enough, hardworking enough, brave enough.

when sometimes, you just didn’t have the money to get yourself where other people could casually go.

and maybe that’s what hurts the most.

knowing that some people get to experience life with a head start you never had.

they can fail without worrying that one mistake will destroy everything.

they can change their minds.

they can take risks.

they can pursue their passions.

they can travel.

they can study.

they can buy things simply because they like them.

they can have hobbies that aren’t productive.

they can waste money and still be okay.

they can live.

and i wish i had known what that felt like.

i wish i had been born into wealth—not because i wanted to be spoiled, but because i wanted to know what freedom felt like.

the freedom to not constantly think about money.

the freedom to make choices based on what i want, instead of what i can afford.

the freedom to dream without immediately turning the dream into a budget.

but then comes the part that makes everything complicated.

because how do you stay angry at your parents when you know they were struggling too?

how do you blame someone for failing to provide when you know they were also trying to survive?

there are moments when i want to be angry.

i want to ask,

why couldn’t you give us more?

why did we have to struggle this much?

why did i have to grow up worrying about things children shouldn’t have to worry about?

but then i remember that they didn’t exactly have an abundance of choices either.

they were trying to build a family with whatever they had.

and suddenly, my anger becomes pity.

then guilt.

then understanding.

then anger again.

and i hate that i have to hold all of these feelings at the same time.

because i can understand why my parents couldn’t provide everything we needed and still be hurt that they couldn’t.

both things can be true.

i can love my parents and still grieve the childhood i didn’t have.

i can understand their circumstances without pretending that those circumstances didn’t affect me.

i can be grateful for what they gave us while still wishing they could have given us more.

and perhaps the hardest part is thinking about my older siblings.

they were never supposed to raise me.

they were never supposed to carry responsibilities that belonged to our parents.

they didn’t owe me the things they gave me.

they didn’t have to provide for me.

they didn’t have to sacrifice their own money, comfort, wants, and opportunities just because our parents couldn’t always provide enough.

but they did.

and sometimes that makes me incredibly grateful.

and sometimes it makes me incredibly sad.

because they didn’t deserve that burden either.

they were children too.

they were supposed to be building their own lives, dreaming about their own futures, spending their own hard-earned money on themselves.

instead, some of that money had to become food, tuition, necessities, and things for their younger sibling.

and i will always carry the complicated feeling of being loved through sacrifices i never asked anyone to make.

there is gratitude in that.

but there is also grief.

because sometimes being loved means realizing how much other people had to give up just so you could have something.

and that realization can make receiving feel almost painful.

maybe that’s why i feel guilty whenever i spend money.

because somewhere inside me, money has become synonymous with sacrifice.

someone worked for this.

someone skipped something for this.

someone saved for this.

someone gave something up for this.

so how could i possibly spend it carelessly?

how could i enjoy it without feeling guilty?

how could i buy something just because i like it when i know what it took for that money to exist?

i wish i didn’t have to think this way.

i wish money could just be money.

i wish receiving didn’t come with guilt.

i wish wanting things didn’t feel selfish.

i wish i could experience something beautiful without immediately wondering how much it cost.

i wish i could stop mentally converting every pleasure into its monetary equivalent.

because sometimes i don’t want to be responsible.

sometimes i don’t want to be practical.

sometimes i want to be young.

i want to buy something stupid.

i want to go somewhere just because it’s beautiful.

i want to eat something expensive and not think about the meals it could have paid for.

i want to say yes to opportunities.

i want to travel.

i want to learn.

i want to create.

i want to experience.

i want to live a life that isn’t constantly interrupted by the question of whether we can afford it.

and maybe that is what i really mean when i say,

i wish we were privileged.

i don’t necessarily wish for a life without problems.

i wish for a life where money isn’t the problem standing between me and almost everything i want to do.

because financial insecurity is exhausting in ways people don’t always understand.

it’s not just worrying about bills.

it’s constantly making imaginary calculations about a future that hasn’t even happened yet.

it’s thinking ten steps ahead because you know there might not be enough room to recover from one mistake.

it’s being excited about an opportunity and then immediately wondering how you’re going to pay for transportation.

it’s receiving money and already knowing where every peso needs to go.

it’s wanting to save but also needing to live.

it’s wanting to live but being afraid to spend.

it’s slowly becoming financially better off and realizing that better still isn’t the same as enough.

sometimes i think that is the cruelest part.

you work.

you save.

you become more capable.

you start earning.

you slowly afford things you couldn’t afford before.

and yet the fear doesn’t disappear immediately.

because when you’ve spent your whole life without enough, having more doesn’t automatically teach your brain that you’re safe.

you can finally afford something and still hesitate before buying it.

you can finally have money and still feel poor.

you can finally give yourself something nice and still hear that little voice asking whether you should have saved it instead.

maybe that’s the psychological inheritance of scarcity:

even when the circumstances change, the fear can remain.

and i don’t want that to be the rest of my life.

i don’t want financial anxiety to be the narrator of every decision i make.

i don’t want money to be the reason i don’t become who i want to be.

i don’t want to spend my entire life trying to recover from a childhood of not having enough.

i want liberty.

not just financial liberty, but the kind of freedom that comes when your brain finally stops treating every peso like an emergency.

i want to reach a point where i can help my family without destroying myself in the process.

where i can give back to the people who gave to me.

where my siblings can finally enjoy the things they sacrificed for us to have.

where my parents don’t have to worry so much.

where i don’t have to feel guilty for buying myself something.

where my dreams don’t have to begin with a financial feasibility study.

where i can look at something i want and think,

yes. i can have this.

and maybe someday, i will.

maybe someday i’ll earn enough that the things i once considered luxuries become ordinary.

maybe i’ll travel to places i’ve only seen through screens.

maybe i’ll buy things without checking my bank account five times afterward.

maybe i’ll pursue the dreams i had to postpone.

maybe i’ll finally experience the version of life i spent so much time imagining.

and when that happens, i hope i don’t forget where i came from.

not because i want to romanticize poverty.

i don’t.

there was nothing beautiful about having to choose between needs.

there was nothing noble about children having to understand financial problems too early.

there was nothing character-building about being unable to afford something you desperately needed.

struggle is not inherently beautiful.

survival is not a personality trait.

and poverty should never be something we tell people to be grateful for.

but i hope i remember the people who carried me when i couldn’t carry myself.

especially the siblings who never should have had to.

i hope i remember every small sacrifice.

every meal.

every commute.

every school expense.

every time someone said, “i’ll take care of it.”

every time somebody gave something up so i could have something.

because maybe the life i wish i had been born into isn’t the life i was given.

and i am allowed to mourn that.

i am allowed to wish things had been easier.

i am allowed to be angry.

i am allowed to feel jealous.

i am allowed to look at wealth and think,

god, i wish that were me.

that doesn’t make me ungrateful.

it makes me human.

because gratitude should not require pretending that deprivation didn’t hurt.

i can love my family and still wish they could have given me more.

i can appreciate what i have and still want more for myself.

i can understand why my parents couldn’t provide everything and still grieve the things their limitations cost me.

i can be grateful for my siblings and still wish they never had to sacrifice for me.

i can love where i came from without wanting to stay there forever.

and maybe that’s the dream now.

not becoming rich just for the sake of being rich.

but becoming financially secure enough that the people i love don’t have to constantly choose between what they need and what they want.

secure enough that a bad month doesn’t feel like the end of the world.

secure enough that i can say yes to life.

secure enough that my future children, if i ever have them, won’t have to inherit this fear.

i want to be the person who finally breaks the cycle of “we can’t afford it.”

i want to be able to say,

“go.”

“try it.”

“buy it.”

“study it.”

“travel.”

“dream.”

“we’ll figure it out.”

because i’ve spent so much of my life hearing “maybe someday.”

i want my someday to finally arrive.

and until it does, i think i’ll keep carrying this complicated mixture of anger, gratitude, guilt, love, resentment, and hope.

because i didn’t choose to be born without privilege.

and i don’t have to be ashamed that sometimes i wish i had been born with it.

i just want a life where surviving isn’t the most impressive thing i can say i’ve done.

i want to live.

really live.

without apologizing for the cost.

[mywastedpotentialsgoneby]

my potential will forever haunt me

and maybe, so will ours.

There is a particular kind of grief that comes from knowing you could have been someone else.

Not because you failed completely. Not because your life is terrible. Not because you made one catastrophic mistake that ruined everything.

Sometimes, you simply look at your life and wonder:

What if I had tried harder?

What if I had been braver?

What if I had believed in myself sooner?

What if I hadn’t been so afraid of becoming the person I knew I could be?

And somehow, the hardest person to mourn is not the person you used to be.

It is the person you could have been.

I. my potential

I think my potential will haunt me more than my failures ever could.

Because failure has an ending.

You can point to it. Name it. Remember the day it happened. Say, I tried and it didn’t work.

But potential?

Potential is infinite.

It is every version of yourself that exists somewhere in the space between what could have been and what actually happened.

It is the degree you almost pursued.

The talent you stopped practicing.

The dream you kept postponing.

The application you never submitted.

The person you could have become if you weren’t constantly exhausted from simply trying to survive.

It is the life that exists only in your imagination, where you made different choices at different intersections.

Sometimes I think about the versions of me that never got the chance to exist.

The confident one.

The disciplined one.

The creative one who actually finished things.

The girl who wasn’t afraid of being seen.

The girl who said yes more often.

The girl who left when she needed to leave.

The girl who didn’t spend years wondering whether she was good enough.

The girl who knew her worth before someone else had to prove it to her.

I wonder if she is somewhere inside me, disappointed.

Not because I didn’t become extraordinary.

But because I knew I could have done more.

And maybe that’s what makes unrealized potential so painful: you cannot prove it wrong.

You can never know whether you would’ve succeeded.

You can never know whether that dream would’ve worked.

You can never know if you would’ve become happier, richer, more successful, more confident, more loved.

There is no funeral for a life you never lived.

So you carry it.

Quietly.

You carry every almost.

And sometimes, when you’re alone at night, you meet all of them.

The person you could’ve been sits across from you.

And you wonder if you wasted them.

But maybe potential was never a promise.

Maybe I was never supposed to become every version of myself I could imagine.

Maybe being capable of something doesn’t mean I’m obligated to do it.

Maybe the tragedy isn’t that I didn’t become everything I could have been.

Maybe the tragedy would be spending the rest of my life hating who I am because I am obsessed with someone I never became.

Because there is another kind of potential I’ve learned to fear.

Not my potential.

Ours.

And somehow, that one hurts differently.

II. our potential

Because there is a special kind of heartbreak in losing someone you loved.

But there is another kind that happens when you lose something that never even had the chance to become real.

Us.

Not you and me.

Not the relationship we actually had.

But the relationship we could have had.

And maybe that’s why some people are so difficult to forget.

Because sometimes you aren’t mourning the person.

You’re mourning the possibility.

The version of us that existed in your head.

The imaginary timeline where we communicated better.

Where you stayed.

Where I stayed.

Where we were ready at the same time.

Where we met each other with the right amount of healing, maturity, courage, and timing.

Where we didn’t misunderstand each other.

Where we didn’t let pride speak louder than love.

Where the circumstances were different.

Where we had enough time.

Where we chose each other.

Where we actually became the people we kept imagining we could be together.

I think that’s what haunts me most.

Not what we were.

But what we could have been.

Because I can accept that we didn’t work.

What is harder to accept is that maybe we could have.

Maybe there was a version of us that would’ve been beautiful.

Maybe we would’ve had stupid inside jokes.

Maybe we’d know each other’s coffee orders without asking.

Maybe we’d fight about something ridiculous and laugh five minutes later.

Maybe we’d take terrible pictures together and keep every single one.

Maybe we’d become each other’s safest place.

Maybe we’d grow old enough to forget what our lives looked like before each other.

Maybe you would’ve met every version of me I was afraid to show anyone.

Maybe I would’ve gotten to know every version of you that the world never got to see.

Maybe we would’ve built something ordinary.

And isn’t that the cruelest part?

Sometimes the life you mourn isn’t some grand cinematic romance.

Sometimes it’s just a Tuesday that never happened.

A grocery run.

A late-night call.

A birthday together.

A random “look what I saw today.”

Falling asleep beside each other.

Getting annoyed over something stupid.

Making up.

Growing together.

Existing together.

All those tiny, insignificant moments that would’ve become significant simply because they were ours.

And I’ll never know.

That’s what makes potential so cruel.

There is no evidence.

No ending scene.

No proof that it would’ve worked.

Only imagination.

Only maybe.

And maybe is a dangerous word when you loved someone.

Because maybe you would’ve been happy.

Maybe they would’ve changed.

Maybe you would’ve changed.

Maybe the timing would’ve eventually been right.

Maybe if you had said one more thing.

Maybe if they had stayed five minutes longer.

Maybe if you had both been a little less scared.

Maybe.

Maybe.

Maybe.

But eventually, you have to accept that potential is not the same thing as possibility.

And possibility is not the same thing as reality.

We could have been everything.

And we still weren’t.

Maybe that’s the lesson nobody teaches you about love:

You can love someone.

You can see their potential.

You can see your potential together.

You can genuinely believe there was something beautiful waiting for you on the other side of all the fear and circumstances and bad timing.

And still—

not become it.

Maybe we were two people standing at the doorway of a life we could have built, staring at the same house, imagining what the rooms would look like—

but neither of us walked inside.

And I think I’ll always wonder what it would’ve been like.

Not because I want you back.

Not necessarily.

But because some questions don’t disappear just because you stop asking them.

Some versions of ourselves remain ghosts.

My potential.

Your potential.

Our potential.

Three lives that existed only as possibilities.

And perhaps I’ll spend years wondering about them.

But maybe growing up means learning that I don’t have to resurrect every ghost just because I miss the life they represent.

Maybe I can grieve the person I could have been without hating the person I became.

Maybe I can grieve the relationship we could have had without believing that losing you meant losing my only chance at love.

Maybe some things are allowed to remain unfinished.

Maybe not every almost needs to become an eventually.

And maybe—

just maybe—

the most beautiful thing about potential isn’t that it tells us who we failed to become.

It’s that it reminds us there is still so much of ourselves left to become.

And there are still so many ours waiting somewhere ahead of us.

Just not ours.

Ours.

The kind that actually stays.

[mywastedpotentialsgoneby]

WHAT IF HEALING WASN’T ABOUT BECOMING SOMEONE NEW?

What if it was about remembering who you’ve always been?

We talk about healing like it is a transformation.

Like one day, after enough crying, enough journaling, enough therapy, enough boundaries, enough self-awareness, enough “choosing yourself,” you will finally emerge as someone completely different. Better. Stronger. More confident. Less afraid. Less sensitive. Less affected.

As if the person you were before the pain was somehow incomplete.

As if healing means becoming someone your past could never break.

But what if healing was never supposed to be about becoming someone new?

What if it was about remembering who you were before you learned that you had to become someone else just to survive?

Because maybe you were never broken in the first place.

Maybe you were adapting.

There is a difference.

The child who learned to stay quiet when people were angry wasn’t weak. They were learning how to remain safe. The person who became hyperaware of everyone’s moods wasn’t “too sensitive.” They were learning how to anticipate danger. The person who stopped asking for things wasn’t necessarily independent. Maybe they simply learned that needing something made them vulnerable to disappointment.

Psychology has long recognized that human beings adapt to their environments. Attachment theory, for instance, explains how our early relationships can shape the expectations we carry into later ones. We learn, through experience, whether closeness feels safe, whether people can be trusted, whether our needs will be met, and whether love is something freely given or something we have to earn.

And sometimes, what we call a personality is partly a survival strategy that became permanent.

You become the easygoing one because you learned that having needs caused conflict.

You become the funny one because making people laugh was safer than letting them see that you were hurting.

You become independent because relying on people repeatedly ended in disappointment.

You become emotionally detached because feeling everything became unbearable.

You become a perfectionist because mistakes once came with consequences.

And eventually, you forget that these things were adaptations.

You start calling them who you are.

That is where healing becomes complicated.

Because modern self-improvement culture often tells us that healing means fixing ourselves. We are constantly encouraged to become our “best selves,” to optimize our routines, regulate our emotions, set perfect boundaries, become emotionally intelligent, become more productive, become more confident, become more desirable, become our “highest selves.”

Even healing can become another performance.

Another checklist.

Another version of the question:

“How can I make myself better?”

But perhaps a more important question is:

“Who was I before I became so busy trying to be acceptable?”

Carl Rogers’ person-centered theory offers an interesting way of understanding this. Rogers described the tension between the real self and the ideal self—between who we actually are and who we believe we are supposed to be. When the distance between those two becomes too large, we experience what he called incongruence.

Maybe that’s why becoming someone new can sometimes feel strangely exhausting.

Because perhaps you aren’t tired from growing.

Perhaps you’re tired from constantly trying to become a person you think other people will finally approve of.

You are trying to become less emotional because someone told you your feelings were inconvenient.

You are trying to become prettier because someone made you believe love had conditions.

You are trying to become successful because you were taught that being ordinary meant being worthless.

You are trying to become independent because depending on anyone feels terrifying.

You are trying to become “unbothered” because caring has hurt you too many times.

And eventually you have to ask yourself:

Is this growth—or am I just learning how to hate the parts of myself that other people didn’t know how to love?

Because there is a difference between changing because you are growing and changing because you believe the original version of you was unworthy.

The first is healing.

The second is self-rejection disguised as self-improvement.

And maybe this is why healing sometimes feels like remembering.

Not remembering a perfect childhood or returning to some untouched version of yourself that existed before everything went wrong. You cannot simply erase what happened. You cannot unlearn every painful lesson your body and mind have absorbed.

But you can begin separating yourself from the adaptations that once kept you alive.

You can look at the person who constantly apologizes and ask, “When did I learn that my existence was something I needed to apologize for?”

You can look at the person who is terrified of abandonment and ask, “Who taught me that someone leaving automatically meant something was wrong with me?”

You can look at the person who never asks for help and ask, “When did needing someone become something I was ashamed of?”

And suddenly, the goal is no longer to destroy these parts of yourself.

You understand them.

You meet them with compassion.

You tell them:

I know why you became this way.

You were trying to protect us.

But you don’t have to do it anymore.

That is where trauma-informed thinking becomes so powerful. A coping mechanism can be understandable without being something we have to keep forever. A behavior can once have protected you and still become something you eventually need to change.

Understanding yourself doesn’t mean excusing everything you do.

It means finally giving yourself enough compassion to understand why you do it.

And perhaps that is the beginning of change that doesn’t feel like self-erasure.

Because we are not shaped by our wounds alone.

We are also shaped by the society around us.

We often talk about identity as if it is something we independently construct, but sociology reminds us that we are constantly being told who we are supposed to be. Family, culture, gender expectations, religion, class, school, work, media, relationships, and communities all contribute to the identities we perform.

Erving Goffman’s idea of social life as a kind of performance captures this beautifully. We learn to present different versions of ourselves depending on who is watching.

There is the version of you your family knows.

The version your friends know.

The version your classmates knew.

The version your coworkers know.

The version you post online.

The version you become when you’re alone.

And somewhere underneath all these performances is a frightening question:

Which one of them is actually me?

Maybe you’ve spent so long being the responsible daughter, the strong friend, the successful student, the funny one, the mature one, the understanding one, the person who never needs anything, that everyone became attached to a version of you that was built around what they needed.

And eventually, you became attached to it too.

You forgot that being strong was never supposed to mean never needing help.

Being mature was never supposed to mean swallowing your feelings.

Being kind was never supposed to mean tolerating everything.

Being independent was never supposed to mean being alone.

Being lovable was never supposed to require being convenient.

Sometimes, healing means disappointing the people who benefited from your lack of boundaries.

Sometimes it means becoming “different” in the eyes of people who only loved the version of you that never said no.

And that can be terrifying.

Because when you stop performing the role everyone gave you, you may temporarily feel like you have no identity at all.

But maybe that emptiness isn’t the absence of a self.

Maybe it is the space where your actual self finally has room to breathe.

This is also why healing can feel like grief.

Because remembering yourself means remembering the things you abandoned.

The hobbies you stopped doing.

The songs you used to love.

The way you used to laugh without checking whether it was too loud.

The clothes you wanted to wear before you became conscious of other people’s opinions.

The dreams you quietly gave up because someone told you they were unrealistic.

The strange little interests you hid because you were afraid of being judged.

The softness you became embarrassed of.

The hope you stopped admitting you had.

Maybe there was once a version of you who danced when nobody was watching.

Who got excited over small things.

Who believed people easily.

Who wanted to be loved without being afraid of what love might cost.

And then life happened.

Someone laughed at you.

Someone betrayed you.

Someone left.

Someone made you feel like you were too much.

Someone made you feel like you weren’t enough.

Someone taught you that vulnerability was embarrassing.

Someone convinced you that caring deeply was weakness.

So you edited yourself.

Not all at once.

Just little pieces at a time.

Until one day, you looked in the mirror and realized:

“I don’t recognize myself anymore.”

But perhaps you were never truly gone.

Narrative psychology suggests that we understand ourselves through the stories we create about our lives. We don’t simply experience events—we interpret them. We turn them into conclusions about who we are.

People always leave me.

I’m difficult to love.

I’m too sensitive.

I’m not interesting enough.

I have to be useful to deserve love.

If I make mistakes, people will leave.

If I need too much, I’ll become a burden.

And after hearing these stories inside our heads long enough, we stop recognizing them as stories.

They become facts.

Maybe healing is not pretending those things never happened.

Maybe it is learning to tell the story differently.

Not:

“It didn’t hurt.”

But:

“It hurt, and it wasn’t proof that I was unworthy.”

Not:

“They didn’t leave.”

But:

“They left, and I survived their leaving.”

Not:

“I was too sensitive.”

But:

“I felt deeply, and I was surrounded by people who didn’t always know how to hold what I felt.”

The event remains part of your history.

But it no longer gets to decide what the history means.

And perhaps that is what healing actually looks like.

Not deleting the past.

Not becoming someone who has never been hurt.

Not becoming permanently happy.

Not reaching some final version of yourself where nothing triggers you anymore.

Maybe healing is simply becoming someone who can experience pain without immediately turning that pain into a verdict about their worth.

Because you will still have bad days.

You will still remember.

You will still miss people.

You will still get scared.

You will still sometimes become the old version of yourself when something feels familiar enough to trigger an old wound.

A certain song can take you back.

A smell can take you back.

A particular tone of voice can make your stomach drop.

Someone’s silence can awaken an old fear.

And that doesn’t necessarily mean you’ve failed to heal.

It means you are human.

Healing isn’t deleting the archive.

It’s learning that you don’t have to live inside it.

Maybe that’s also why the idea of the “inner child” resonates with so many people. Not because there is literally a separate child living inside us, but because there are younger parts of ourselves that still carry memories, needs, fears, and beliefs formed during times when we had fewer resources to understand what was happening.

Instead of looking back at your younger self and asking,

“Why were you so stupid?”

you can ask:

“What did you know then?”

“What were you trying to protect?”

“What did you need that nobody gave you?”

And maybe the hardest question of all:

“What did you stop being because you thought nobody would love you if you stayed that way?”

Maybe healing is answering that child.

Not by turning them into someone else.

But by finally becoming the person they needed.

This is where the idea of post-traumatic growth can also be held carefully. Psychologists Richard Tedeschi and Lawrence Calhoun explored how some people experience meaningful psychological changes after adversity. But growth after trauma should never be confused with trauma being good.

Your suffering did not need to happen for you to become wise.

Your pain does not become justified because you learned from it.

You don’t have to be grateful for the people who hurt you.

You don’t have to call your trauma a blessing.

You are allowed to say:

“It destroyed parts of me, and I still found a way to rebuild.”

Both things can be true.

You can acknowledge what happened without allowing it to become the only thing you are.

Because you are not only what happened to you.

You are also what remained.

And maybe that is the part we forget when we talk about becoming a “new person.”

You don’t have to become fearless.

Maybe you just have to remember that you were brave even when you were afraid.

You don’t have to become completely independent.

Maybe you have to remember that needing people was never a weakness.

You don’t have to become emotionally detached.

Maybe you have to remember that your ability to feel deeply was never something shameful.

You don’t have to become harder.

Maybe you have to learn that softness and boundaries can exist in the same body.

You don’t have to become unbothered.

Maybe you just need to stop letting everyone else’s opinion become your mirror.

And maybe you don’t have to “find yourself” at all.

Maybe you have to stop abandoning yourself.

Stop abandoning yourself every time someone is disappointed.

Stop abandoning yourself to keep the peace.

Stop abandoning yourself to be chosen.

Stop abandoning yourself because someone misunderstood you.

Stop abandoning yourself because somebody else couldn’t love the person you actually were.

There is something profoundly radical about choosing not to abandon yourself.

Because sometimes the greatest act of healing isn’t becoming the person who no longer gets hurt.

It’s becoming the person who knows what to do when they are hurt.

The person who can say:

This isn’t okay.

I need help.

I need rest.

I don’t want this anymore.

I made a mistake.

I am allowed to change my mind.

I can love you without losing myself.

I don’t have to be useful to be worthy.

I don’t have to be perfect to deserve love.

Those aren’t necessarily signs that you’ve become someone new.

Maybe they’re signs that you’re finally returning to yourself.

Because perhaps the person you’ve been trying so desperately to become has been with you the entire time.

Under the people-pleasing.

Under the perfectionism.

Under the anxiety.

Under the numbness.

Under the fear.

Under the need to be chosen.

Under the version of yourself that learned how to survive everyone else’s expectations.

There is still a person underneath all of that who laughs at stupid things.

Who gets excited over little things.

Who wants to be loved gently.

Who wants to create.

Who wants to be understood.

Who still dreams.

Who still wonders.

Who still hopes.

Who still wants a life that doesn’t feel like an apology.

Maybe you don’t need to manufacture that person.

Maybe you just need to make enough room for them to come back.

So perhaps healing isn’t a transformation.

Perhaps it is a return.

Not a return to who you were before everything happened, because you cannot undo your history.

Not a return to innocence.

Not a return to the person you were before you knew what heartbreak, betrayal, grief, disappointment, or fear felt like.

But a return to the parts of yourself that you abandoned in order to survive them.

Returning to your softness, but with boundaries.

Returning to your curiosity, but with wisdom.

Returning to your hope, but without naivety.

Returning to your ability to love, but no longer at the expense of yourself.

Returning to your voice.

Your laughter.

Your weirdness.

Your tenderness.

Your anger.

Your dreams.

Your right to take up space.

Your right to exist without constantly proving that you deserve to.

Maybe the goal was never to become someone who doesn’t have scars.

Maybe it was to stop letting the scars introduce you.

Because you are not only the person who survived.

You are also the person who existed before survival became necessary.

And perhaps healing is not the creation of a new person at all.

Perhaps it is the slow, painful, almost sacred realization that beneath everything you had to become to survive—

you were there the whole time.

Waiting.

Not for someone else to save you.

Not for the world to finally become gentle.

Not for your past to disappear.

But for you to finally recognize yourself again.

To look at all the versions of yourself you’ve abandoned and say:

“I remember you.”

And maybe, after everything, that’s what healing is.

Not becoming someone new.

Just finally coming home to someone you never actually lost.

Yourself.

[mywastedpotentialsgoneby]

The People We Never Meet: What Happens If You Never Find “The Right Person”?

Some fears arrive dramatically.

They announce themselves with racing hearts and sleepless nights.

Others are quieter.

They sit beside you while you’re washing dishes. They accompany you on your commute home. They appear after another wedding invitation, another engagement post, another anniversary photo captioned, “When you know, you know.”

Then they ask the question you’ve been avoiding:

“What if I never find my person?”

Not “What if I get rejected?”

Not “What if my current relationship fails?”

But something much heavier.

What if there simply isn’t anyone waiting for me?

People often dismiss this fear.

“Love comes when you least expect it.”

“There’s someone for everyone.”

“Just focus on yourself.”

Comforting words.

But they’re still assumptions.

Because the uncomfortable truth is that no one can promise us love.

No one can guarantee that the right person exists, or that if they do, your paths will ever cross.

Perhaps the saddest part of adulthood is realizing that there are no cosmic guarantees.

Not everyone gets the happy ending movies trained us to expect.

Romance has become something we consume before we ever experience it.

We grew up watching couples survive impossible odds.

Two strangers lock eyes in a crowded café.

A chance encounter changes everything.

The airport confession.

The grand gesture.

The soulmate.

The one.

Love stories taught us that if we were patient enough, kind enough, broken enough, or deserving enough, eventually someone would arrive carrying the missing half of our story.

Nobody prepared us for the possibility that life isn’t written like a screenplay.

Sometimes timing loses.

Sometimes distance wins.

Sometimes two people love each other but never become “us.”

Sometimes nobody comes at all.

Psychologists call this attachment needs.

Human beings aren’t simply social creatures—we are biologically wired to seek closeness.

From infancy, our brains develop through attachment. We learn safety through being held, understood, and chosen.

As adults, romantic relationships often become the continuation of that search.

Not because we’re incomplete.

But because intimacy is one of humanity’s deepest psychological needs.

We don’t only want someone to love.

We want someone who witnesses our existence.

Someone who knows how we take our coffee.

Who notices when our smile is slightly different.

Who remembers stories we’ve forgotten telling.

Who becomes evidence that we were here.

The fear of being alone forever isn’t always about lacking romance.

Sometimes it’s about fearing you’ll go through life unseen.

There’s a term in psychology called anticipated loneliness.

It’s not loneliness you’re currently experiencing.

It’s loneliness you imagine existing decades from now.

It’s seeing yourself eating dinner alone at sixty-five.

Watching couples walk through parks.

Going home to an empty apartment after retirement.

Wondering who’ll visit you in the hospital.

Who’ll hold your hand when your memory starts slipping.

Who’ll know your favorite song after you’ve forgotten it yourself.

The brain experiences imagined futures almost as vividly as present realities.

Which means we grieve lives that haven’t even happened yet.

Sometimes we’re mourning possibilities rather than realities.

Social media quietly magnifies this fear.

Every scroll feels like proof that everyone else is finding love.

Engagements.

Gender reveals.

Wedding photos.

Vacation reels.

Anniversary edits.

People only upload milestones.

No one uploads the nights they cried wondering if they’re lovable.

No one posts the conversations that never happened.

The dates that ended in silence.

The almost-relationships.

The years they spent believing they were impossible to choose.

Comparison doesn’t simply make us feel behind.

It convinces us we’re the only ones standing still.

Society doesn’t help.

There seems to be an invisible timeline.

Graduate.

Get hired.

Find someone.

Get married.

Buy a house.

Have children.

As birthdays pass, questions become less curious and more urgent.

“You still don’t have a boyfriend?”

“When are you going to get married?”

“Maybe you’re just too picky.”

As if love were a deadline.

As if singlehood were a problem waiting to be solved.

We rarely ask married people if they’re truly happy.

Yet we constantly ask single people when they’ll stop being single.

Perhaps the cruelest part is this:

Being surrounded by love stories can make your own silence feel louder.

You start wondering if you’re difficult to love.

Too quiet.

Too emotional.

Too much.

Too little.

Too late.

You replay conversations.

Question every version of yourself.

Thinking maybe if you had been prettier.

Kinder.

More interesting.

More outgoing.

Less complicated.

Maybe someone would’ve stayed.

But compatibility is not a reward for self-improvement.

Love is not an exam where perfect people receive perfect partners.

Sometimes extraordinary people remain alone.

Sometimes deeply incompatible people stay together for decades.

Life isn’t fair enough to use relationship status as proof of worth.

There’s another fear hidden beneath this one.

It isn’t simply dying alone.

It’s dying unknown.

Imagine spending an entire lifetime collecting inside jokes that nobody else remembers.

Favorite songs no one associates with you.

Recipes nobody asks you to make.

Stories that disappear because no one heard them enough to retell them.

Perhaps that’s what many people actually fear.

Not solitude.

Erasure.

To love someone is to become part of another person’s memory.

Without that witness, some people worry they’ll slowly disappear.

But maybe we’ve misunderstood what “finding your person” means.

We’ve compressed the entire human experience into one role.

We expect one romantic partner to become our best friend, therapist, travel companion, emergency contact, co-parent, roommate, financial teammate, soulmate, and emotional home.

That’s an impossible amount of responsibility for one human being.

Historically, people survived through villages, extended families, neighbors, lifelong friends, cousins, coworkers, and communities.

Modern life shrank all of that into a couple.

When we don’t have one, it feels like we have nothing.

Perhaps what we’re grieving isn’t only romance.

Perhaps we’re grieving the disappearance of community.

Still…

None of this erases the ache.

You can have wonderful friends.

A loving family.

A successful career.

Meaningful hobbies.

A beautiful apartment.

And still wish someone reached for your hand in crowded places.

Both things can be true.

Gratitude does not cancel longing.

Being fulfilled doesn’t make you incapable of wanting more.

Missing something doesn’t mean your current life has no value.

What if the right person never comes?

It’s a terrifying question because it has no universal answer.

Some people eventually meet someone at fifty.

Others fall in love after divorce.

Some remain single by circumstance rather than choice.

Some build families from friendships instead of romance.

Some discover that the life they feared became softer than they imagined.

Others continue carrying that ache until old age.

Every version exists.

And pretending otherwise only makes lonely people feel more alone.

Maybe the bravest thing we can do isn’t convincing ourselves that love is guaranteed.

Maybe it’s choosing to build a meaningful life even without that guarantee.

To keep making memories worth remembering.

To keep becoming someone interesting enough to know—even if only by ourselves for now.

To keep loving people without calculating what they’ll become.

To keep believing that our lives deserve tenderness whether or not they’re witnessed by a romantic partner.

Because while we cannot control whether someone chooses us…

We can refuse to postpone living until they do.

And if someday someone finally arrives—

they won’t be rescuing a life that never began.

They’ll simply be joining one that was already beautifully, painfully, courageously in progress.

Maybe that’s what love was always supposed to be.

Not proof that your life finally started.

But company for the road you’ve already learned to walk.

[mywastedpotentialsgoneby]

The Things We Couldn’t Say: Why Reposting Became Gen Z’s Love Letter to the World

There was a time when we wrote diaries.

We folded our feelings into paper, hid them beneath mattresses, locked them inside notebooks with tiny plastic keys, or scribbled them in the last pages of our school notebooks. If we wanted someone to know how we felt, we had to gather the courage to say it ourselves.

Today, we don’t always write our own words.

We repost someone else’s.

A thirty-second TikTok about missing your childhood. A blurry edit of a rainy bus ride. A quote saying, “I wish someone noticed I stopped smiling.” A meme about burnout. A cat staring out a window while melancholic music plays.

To older generations, it looks lazy. Unoriginal. Maybe even childish.

But to Gen Z, reposting has quietly become one of the most intimate forms of communication.

Not because we have nothing to say.

But because sometimes, someone else has already found the words we couldn’t.

Reposting is often dismissed as copying. Yet psychologically, it resembles something far older than social media.

Humans have always borrowed symbols to communicate what language alone cannot.

Long before TikTok, people dedicated songs on the radio, underlined passages in books, quoted poetry, wore certain colors during mourning, exchanged flowers that each carried hidden meanings, and pasted magazine clippings onto bedroom walls. We have always used things outside ourselves to say what we couldn’t say directly.

TikTok is simply the newest language.

The repost button is its punctuation.

Every repost whispers,

“This is me.”

Or perhaps even more painfully,

“I wish someone realized this was me.”

Psychologists describe something called self-disclosure—the process of revealing parts of ourselves to others. Healthy relationships are built upon it. Yet self-disclosure is frightening because it makes us vulnerable.

What if nobody understands?

What if they laugh?

What if they leave?

Gen Z grew up in a world where vulnerability is both celebrated and punished.

We are told to “talk about your feelings,” yet mocked for being “too sensitive.”

We are encouraged to seek help, yet become memes the moment we cry online.

So we discovered something safer.

Indirect vulnerability.

Instead of saying,

“I’m lonely.”

We repost a video about loneliness.

Instead of saying,

“I’m exhausted.”

We repost someone crying in their parked car after work.

Instead of confessing,

“I think I’m falling apart.”

We repost a slideshow that says,

“Does anyone else feel like they’re watching their own life happen?”

It feels less dangerous because the words technically belong to someone else.

If nobody responds, we can always pretend,

“I just thought it was relatable.”

The repost becomes emotional camouflage.

A confession disguised as content.

There is another psychological reason reposting feels so natural: emotional validation.

Sometimes, the greatest comfort isn’t advice.

It’s recognition.

When we see a stranger describe the exact feeling we’ve never been able to explain, something inside us exhales.

We aren’t broken.

We aren’t dramatic.

Someone else feels it too.

Reposting is often less about sharing a creator’s work than preserving a moment of being understood.

It says,

“I finally found someone who translated my heart.”

Sociologically, this makes sense.

Every generation develops its own emotional language.

Baby Boomers often expressed themselves through music records and handwritten letters.

Generation X leaned into mixtapes, underground magazines, and film.

Millennials mastered Facebook statuses, Tumblr blogs, vague tweets, and Instagram captions.

Gen Z?

Algorithms.

Edits.

Slideshows.

Reposts.

We inherited an internet overflowing with content, where creating isn’t the only way to express ourselves.

Curating became expression.

Our identity isn’t only what we make.

It’s what we save.

What we like.

What we bookmark.

And especially—

what we repost.

Our digital footprint has become a collage rather than a diary.

Thousands of tiny pieces borrowed from strangers somehow assemble into a portrait of who we are.

There is also something deeply sociological happening beneath all this.

Sociologist Erving Goffman argued that people perform different versions of themselves depending on the audience, like actors changing costumes on different stages.

TikTok complicates this performance.

Sometimes the video we post publicly is polished.

Funny.

Pretty.

Confident.

But the videos we repost tell an entirely different story.

Our uploads are often our mask.

Our reposts are often our reflection.

One is the face we intentionally paint.

The other is the fingerprint we accidentally leave behind.

This is why friends sometimes check each other’s reposts before asking,

“Are you okay?”

The repost page has quietly become an emotional weather forecast.

Not perfectly accurate.

But revealing.

Because many people no longer announce sadness directly.

They leak it.

One repost at a time.

A tired song.

A lonely quote.

A joke that hurts just enough to stop being funny.

Sometimes, that is the cry for help.

Not dramatic enough to scare people away.

Not invisible enough to be ignored.

Just loud enough for someone who is listening.

Yet reposting is not only about pain.

It has become the scrapbook of joy as well.

A cute puppy.

A silly inside joke.

An edit of your favorite fictional couple.

A sunset that somehow reminds you of home.

A recipe you’ll never cook.

A random stranger dancing without embarrassment.

A line that captures exactly how it feels to fall in love.

We repost futures we hope for.

Memories we miss.

Lives we imagine.

Dreams we haven’t touched yet.

Our reposts become tiny museum exhibits curated from moments that made our hearts pause.

Perhaps this is why older generations sometimes misunderstand it.

They ask,

“Why don’t you just say what you feel?”

But emotion has never been that simple.

Not everyone can describe grief.

Not everyone knows how to explain anxiety.

Not everyone has the vocabulary for longing.

Sometimes a twenty-second edit with nostalgic music accomplishes what an entire conversation cannot.

Art has always spoken where language fails.

TikTok merely made that art portable.

There is something strangely beautiful about millions of strangers unknowingly writing each other’s diaries.

Someone in Seoul uploads a video after a breakup.

Someone in Manila reposts it because it perfectly explains their own heartbreak.

Someone in São Paulo sees that repost months later and feels understood.

None of them know each other’s names.

Yet for a brief moment, they become translators of one another’s inner worlds.

The internet is often criticized for making us disconnected.

Ironically, reposting reveals the opposite.

It reminds us that human emotions have always been communal.

Your sadness rarely belongs only to you.

Someone has survived it before.

Someone is surviving it now.

Someone else will survive it tomorrow.

Maybe that is why reposts matter so much.

Because beneath every algorithm is a person desperately trying to say,

“Please understand me.”

Not through speeches.

Not through perfectly crafted captions.

But through borrowed words.

Borrowed music.

Borrowed images.

Borrowed feelings.

And maybe that isn’t borrowing at all.

Maybe it’s proof that emotions were never meant to be owned.

Only shared.

In the end, a repost isn’t just a button.

It is a folded note passed across a crowded classroom.

A song dedicated without saying your name.

A hand quietly reaching into the dark, hoping another hand reaches back.

Perhaps Gen Z didn’t stop expressing themselves.

Perhaps they simply found a new language.

And if you listen closely enough to someone’s reposts, you may discover they have been talking to you all along.

[mywastedpotentialsgoneby]

The Sari-Sari Store Was the First Place We Ever Learned What Happiness Cost.

There was a time when happiness had a price tag.

Not hundreds. Not thousands.

Just five pesos folded tightly inside a sweaty little palm.

It was the kind of money you refused to lose because, somehow, it could become almost anything. An ice candy. A handful of colorful sweets. A tiny spinning top. A fake ring that would stain your finger green. A whistle your parents would regret buying. Bubble gum that lost its flavor after a minute but somehow remained worth every peso.

The funny thing is, we never walked into a sari-sari store thinking we were simply buying something.

We walked in carrying possibilities.

Every Filipino child knows that feeling of standing in front of the tiny window, eyes darting from one hanging snack to another, mentally adding and subtracting prices while trying to squeeze the most happiness out of a few coins. Five pesos wasn’t spent carelessly—it was strategized. Should you buy one bigger snack? Or four tiny ones? Should you save one peso just in case someone started selling ice candy later? Could you convince Ate to let you owe 5 pesos until tomorrow?

Looking back, it was probably the first time many of us practiced budgeting, delayed gratification, and decision-making without realizing it. Psychologists call it executive functioning—the ability to weigh choices, resist impulses, and think ahead. We simply called it “Ano kaya ang mas sulit?”

And somehow, making those tiny decisions felt important.

Because once the candy was gone, it was gone.

Tomorrow’s five pesos would have to create tomorrow’s happiness.

Then came the reward.

The plastic corner of an ice candy torn open with your teeth, the cold rushing against your lips after hours of running beneath an unforgiving afternoon sun. You’d press the frozen plastic against your cheeks or forehead for a second before taking another sip, then immediately sprint back into the street because the game hadn’t stopped waiting for you.

The sweetness wasn’t what made the ice candy unforgettable.

It was where you were eating it.

Halfway through a game of tumbang preso.

While someone argued they weren’t “it” anymore because they had already reached the base.

While another friend yelled that the ball landed outside.

While your slippers kicked up dust that settled on your legs.

The ice candy wasn’t just cooling you down.

It became part of the afternoon itself.

The sari-sari store never sold just snacks.

It sold fuel for childhood.

Every purchase found its way back onto the streets.

A bag of chichirya became something everyone reached into without asking. Bubble gum turned into lipstick as everyone laughed at one another’s bright pink lips. We stuck it onto our mouths dramatically, pretending we were celebrities, then immediately burst into laughter while comparing whose tongue had turned the brightest blue, green, or red. No one told us to do it. No trend suggested it. Children have always been experts at turning ordinary things into extraordinary games.

Even Mik-Mik came with its own ritual.

Someone would always insist they knew the proper way to eat it.

Someone else would accidentally inhale the powder.

Then came the coughing.

The dramatic choking.

The tears.

The laughter from everyone watching.

Yet the very next day, we’d spend another peso on another packet as though nearly suffocating yesterday had somehow become part of the experience.

Maybe it was.

Because childhood was never about perfection.

It was about stories.

Even the toys were temporary.

Tiny water guns that leaked.

Plastic soldiers that disappeared into the grass forever.

Sticky hands that collected more dust than walls.

Cheap whistles that broke before sunset.

Little spinning tops.

Fake jewelry.

Paper dolls.

Nothing lasted very long.

But somehow, neither did we expect them to.

As children, we had a remarkable ability to love things despite knowing they wouldn’t last. Adults often chase permanence—we want expensive things because we expect them to survive years. Children only ask one question:

“Will this make today fun?”

Maybe that’s why so many of those cheap little trinkets remain more memorable than the expensive things we’ve bought as adults.

Not because they were better.

But because we were.

Sociologists often describe places like cafés, parks, or community centers as “third places”—spaces that aren’t home or school but quietly hold communities together.

For many Filipinos, that place was never a café.

It was the sari-sari store.

It was where neighbors exchanged stories while waiting for soft drinks.

Where mothers yelled for their children to come home before dinner.

Where teenagers bought iced water after their basketball game.

Where grandparents sat on monoblock chairs watching life happen one customer at a time.

The owner wasn’t simply a shopkeeper.

They were the unofficial historian of the neighborhood.

They knew whose family just welcomed a newborn.

Who was preparing for graduation.

Who had a parent working overseas.

Who still owed three pesos but would definitely pay tomorrow.

Nothing about the place felt lonely.

Even when you came alone, someone usually knew your name.

Maybe that’s why those memories refuse to disappear.

Psychologists describe nostalgia as a deeply social emotion. We often think we’re remembering objects—the candy, the toys, the snacks—but our brains are actually remembering relationships. The laughter. The voices. The heat of the pavement. The friend who always shared half their chichirya without being asked. The neighborhood dog that followed everyone. The familiar voice from inside the store saying, “Ano’ng gusto mo?” before you even reached the window.

The sari-sari store became the backdrop of thousands of ordinary moments that, together, quietly built our childhood.

And perhaps that’s the biggest irony of growing up.

As adults, we’ve become surrounded by abundance.

Infinite online shopping.

Thousands of restaurants.

Same-day delivery.

An endless number of choices.

Yet psychologists have found that too many options often leave us less satisfied—a phenomenon known as the paradox of choice. We spend so much time wondering whether something better exists that we forget to enjoy what we already have.

Children standing before a sari-sari store never had endless choices.

They only had enough.

Enough coins.

Enough snacks.

Enough time before sunset.

Enough friends waiting outside.

Enough imagination to turn five pesos into an unforgettable afternoon.

Maybe that’s why those memories glow so brightly.

Not because life was easier.

Not because everything was perfect.

But because joy had fewer places to hide.

It lived inside a one-peso candy.

Inside an ice candy melting faster than you could eat it.

Inside blue tongues and powdered milk that made you cough.

Inside dusty streets echoing with laughter.

Inside cheap plastic toys that only survived until sunset.

Inside a tiny wooden store tucked into the corner of almost every Filipino neighborhood.

We thought we were buying candy.

But what we were really buying were memories that would outlive the wrappers.

Years later, the candies have changed. Five pesos can barely buy anything. Some of the toys have disappeared, replaced by phone screens and online shopping carts. Many of us have moved away from the streets where we once played.

Yet every time we pass a sari-sari store, something inside us still slows down.

For a second, we’re no longer adults rushing home from work or worrying about bills.

We’re just children again, carefully counting coins, believing that the hardest decision we’ll make all day is whether happiness tastes better as an ice candy… or as one more piece of candy hanging from a string.

And maybe that’s the greatest thing the sari-sari store ever sold us.

Not snacks.

Not toys.

But proof that the richest days of our lives were the ones where five pesos was enough to make us feel like we had everything.

[mywastedpotentialsgoneby]

The Hierarchy of Asia: When “Asian” Only Means East Asian

There is a question that has bothered me for years.

When people say they love Asians, who exactly are they talking about?

The answer is almost always the same.

Not all Asians.

Just one kind.

When someone says “Asian beauty,” you already know the face they’re imagining before they even say it. Fair skin. Straight black hair. Small face. Double eyelids. Slim nose. Someone who could pass as Korean, Japanese, or Chinese. Somewhere along the way, the word Asian stopped representing an entire continent and became shorthand for East Asian.

And the saddest part is that hardly anyone notices.

Asia is home to nearly 60% of the world’s population. It stretches from the Middle East to South Asia, Southeast Asia, Central Asia, and East Asia. It contains thousands of ethnic groups, hundreds of languages, and every shade of skin imaginable. Yet despite this overwhelming diversity, global media has somehow convinced us that only one face represents Asia. We say “Asian representation,” but what we usually mean is East Asian representation.

Filipinos, Indonesians, Malaysians, Cambodians, Thais, Vietnamese, Indians, Bangladeshis, Nepalis, Sri Lankans—millions upon millions of people who are just as Asian as anyone else—are often left invisible unless they fit the same narrow beauty standard.

It makes you wonder whether this is really admiration or simply another hierarchy wearing prettier clothes.

For centuries, Europe convinced the world that whiteness meant civilization, intelligence, wealth, and beauty. Colonialism exported those ideas across continents until they became embedded in institutions, education, media, and even family values. Although formal colonial rule has largely ended, many of those beliefs never disappeared. They simply adapted. Instead of chasing European whiteness alone, many Asian societies began valuing whatever appeared closest to it—lighter skin, finer features, and higher economic status.

Sociologist Pierre Bourdieu described this as symbolic capital: certain traits become valuable because society collectively decides they are. Beauty is rarely just beauty. It becomes social currency. Fair skin is associated with wealth because historically it suggested a person did not have to work under the sun. Certain facial features become desirable not because they are objectively superior but because movies, advertisements, influencers, and celebrities repeatedly tell us they are.

Eventually people stop asking why.

They simply accept them as truth.

Psychologists call this Social Learning Theory. We are not born believing lighter skin is prettier or that one nationality is more attractive than another. We learn it. We hear parents telling children not to play outside because they’ll get darker. We see whitening products advertised as confidence in a bottle. We notice which actors become famous, which influencers gain millions of followers, and whose faces dominate luxury brands. Over time, those repeated messages become internal beliefs.

That is why colorism is so dangerous.

It disguises itself as preference.

People insist they simply “prefer fair skin,” as if preferences exist in a vacuum. But preferences are shaped by culture, history, and power. They are not immune from influence. When every magazine cover, television drama, beauty campaign, and social media algorithm consistently rewards one appearance while overlooking another, what we call preference often reflects conditioning.

The consequences reach far beyond beauty.

They shape how people are treated.

Across different parts of Asia, migrant workers from countries like the Philippines, Indonesia, Vietnam, Nepal, and Bangladesh have reported experiences of discrimination, being stereotyped as poor, less educated, or only fit for low-status work. Their value is often reduced to their labor rather than their humanity. This prejudice is not unique to one country, nor should it be used to stereotype entire populations. Every society has people who reject racism and people who perpetuate it. But pretending these patterns do not exist only allows them to continue.

Some incidents become impossible to ignore. A recent controversy erupted after a Chinese media outlet used racist language and imagery comparing Filipinos to monkeys, invoking one of the oldest forms of racial dehumanization. The backlash was immediate, not simply because it was offensive, but because it reflected a prejudice many Southeast Asians say they have encountered in different forms for years.

South Korea, despite giving the world incredible contributions through music, cinema, fashion, and television, has also faced criticism over discrimination toward migrant workers and negative stereotypes directed at Southeast Asians. Filipino workers and entertainers have shared experiences of being looked down upon because of their nationality or darker complexion. Similar reports have emerged from people across Southeast Asia. These experiences should never be used to claim that “Koreans are racist” or that any nation is inherently prejudiced. Such generalizations are themselves unfair. But they do point to a broader issue: economic power, media influence, and beauty standards can create hierarchies that shape how people see one another.

Ironically, those on the receiving end of these hierarchies often continue to admire the very cultures that exclude them.

Why?

Psychology offers an uncomfortable answer.

Humans naturally seek belonging. According to Social Identity Theory, people derive part of their self-esteem from the groups they identify with. When one group is consistently portrayed as glamorous, successful, fashionable, and desirable, many people begin wanting to associate themselves with it. K-pop, K-dramas, skincare, fashion, and entertainment have become global cultural forces. There is nothing wrong with enjoying them. The problem begins when admiration quietly transforms into self-rejection.

It happens in subtle ways.

“I wish I looked Korean.”

“I hate my Filipino nose.”

“I wish my skin were lighter.”

“You don’t even look Filipino.”

“You look Korean—that’s such a compliment.”

Read that last sentence again.

Why is looking less Filipino considered a compliment?

What does that say about how we see ourselves?

This is internalized racism—when people absorb society’s messages so deeply that they begin believing their own ethnic features are inferior. It is one of the cruelest consequences of discrimination because eventually the prejudice no longer needs an oppressor. We continue it ourselves.

Even within the Philippines, we see this hierarchy reproduced. Whitening products remain popular. Lighter-skinned actors dominate television. Children are praised for having fair skin while darker relatives are teased. We criticize racism from abroad while repeating colorist beliefs at home. The cycle feeds itself.

Perhaps the most disturbing part of all this is how invisible it has become.

If a Western celebrity openly mocked Asians, outrage would be immediate. Yet when prejudice occurs within Asia, it is often dismissed as misunderstanding, cultural difference, or an isolated incident. Fans rush to defend celebrities, companies, or entire industries because acknowledging prejudice would threaten an identity they have emotionally invested in. Psychologists call this cognitive dissonance. When new information conflicts with our deeply held admiration, it is easier to explain away the evidence than to confront the discomfort.

This is why so many people continue supporting cultures that have, at times, produced stereotypes about people who look like them. They are not necessarily excusing racism. They are protecting an emotional attachment.

But loving another culture should never require hating your own.

Being fascinated by Korean music should not mean believing Korean faces are the standard of beauty.

Enjoying Japanese animation should not mean forgetting Southeast Asia exists.

Admiring Chinese history should not mean remaining silent when racist language is used against Filipinos.

Appreciation and accountability can exist together.

Asia does not need its own version of whiteness.

It does not need a “superior Asian.”

There is no such thing as a default Asian face.

The continent is far too vast, too complicated, and too beautifully diverse to be represented by one skin tone, one eye shape, or one nationality.

Maybe the real tragedy isn’t that the world has forgotten what Asia looks like.

Maybe it’s that so many Asians have forgotten too.

The greatest success of any hierarchy is not convincing others that you are beneath someone else.

It is convincing you to believe it yourself.

For all our obsession with finding the “most beautiful Asians,” perhaps we’ve been asking the wrong question all along.

Beauty was never supposed to have a single face.

A Korean face tells the story of a peninsula shaped by resilience, art, and centuries of history. A Japanese face carries generations of traditions that have survived wars and modernization. Chinese faces represent one of the oldest continuous civilizations in the world, spanning countless ethnic groups and cultures that cannot even be reduced to a single appearance.

But so do the rest of Asia.

Filipinos carry the features of islands where Austronesian roots, Indigenous peoples, centuries of trade, and complex histories came together. Our brown skin is not something that needs correcting; it is a record of our geography, our climate, and our ancestors who thrived beneath the tropical sun. The broad noses, deep brown eyes, warm complexions, and textured hair that so many Filipinos try to hide are not flaws—they are evidence that we belong to this land.

Indonesians, Malaysians, Bruneians, and many of our Southeast Asian neighbors share the beauty of the equator—golden and bronze skin, rich cultural diversity, and faces shaped by thousands of islands connected through oceans rather than borders. Vietnamese, Thai, Cambodian, Lao, and Myanmar communities each possess their own distinct histories, languages, and physical features that cannot be lumped together under one stereotype.

Then there is South Asia, home to an astonishing range of appearances. Indians, Pakistanis, Bangladeshis, Nepalis, Bhutanese, and Sri Lankans are not defined by one skin tone or one look. Their beauty exists in every shade—from the lightest to the deepest brown—reflecting mountains, valleys, deserts, coastlines, and thousands of years of migration and civilization. Their eyes, curls, noses, smiles, and complexions tell stories just as old and just as worthy of admiration as any other part of Asia.

Even Central and West Asia remind us that the continent cannot be simplified. Kazakhs, Uzbeks, Kyrgyz, Tajiks, Mongolians, Armenians, Georgians, Iranians, Arabs, and many others each reflect centuries of movement along trade routes like the Silk Road. Asia has never had one face because it has never had one history.

The irony is that the very thing that makes Asia extraordinary is the thing beauty standards try to erase.

They flatten thousands of ethnic identities into one marketable image.

One skin tone.

One hairstyle.

One eye shape.

One version of beauty.

But a continent as vast as Asia was never meant to fit into a single aesthetic.

Maybe true Asian beauty isn’t found in looking the same.

Maybe it is found in refusing to.

Every wrinkle carved by desert winds, every freckle kissed by tropical sunlight, every monolid, double eyelid, curly strand, straight strand, bronze complexion, olive skin, deep brown skin, porcelain skin, high cheekbone, broad nose, soft jawline, and every feature inherited from generations before us deserves to exist without being ranked against another.

Because diversity was never Asia’s flaw.

It has always been its masterpiece.

[mywastedpotentialsgoneby]

When Did Everything Have to Be Niche? How Gatekeeping Became the New Personality Trait.

There was a time when loving something was enough.

You watched a movie because it made you cry. You listened to a band because their lyrics found words for feelings you couldn’t explain. You wore clothes because you liked them. You went to cafés because the coffee tasted good.

Now?

Everything has to be niche.

Everything has to be underground.

Everything has to be something nobody else knows about—because the moment it becomes popular, somehow, it’s “ruined.”

People don’t just enjoy things anymore.

They curate them.

They weaponize them.

They gatekeep them.

Somewhere along the way, we stopped asking,

“Do I genuinely like this?”

and started asking,

“Does this make me look interesting?”

We’re living in an era where identity isn’t just discovered anymore—it’s marketed.

Music taste.

Books.

Coffee shops.

Film cameras.

Fashion.

Restaurants.

Artists.

Even mental illnesses.

Everything is now part of someone’s personal branding.

Not because people are inherently shallow.

But because the internet rewards uniqueness more than authenticity.

Psychologist Erik Erikson’s theory of Identity vs. Role Confusion argues that people constantly search for a stable sense of self.

In previous generations, identity was built through family, religion, occupation, or community.

Today?

Identity is built through algorithms.

Instead of asking your neighbors who you are, you ask your “For You Page.”

Instead of belonging to a neighborhood, you belong to aesthetics.

“Cottagecore.”

“Old money.”

“Clean girl.”

“Dark academia.”

“Indie sleaze.”

“Doomer.”

“Coquette.”

Identity has become infinitely customizable—but also infinitely fragile.

Because if everyone can copy your identity overnight…

Was it ever really yours?

That’s where gatekeeping begins.

Gatekeeping isn’t always about protecting art.

Sometimes…

it’s protecting the ego.

According to Social Identity Theory by Henri Tajfel and John Turner, people derive self-esteem from belonging to groups.

Being part of an exclusive group creates a feeling of superiority and belonging simultaneously.

It’s comforting to believe,

“We’re different.”

“We understand this.”

“They don’t.”

Once too many outsiders arrive…

the exclusivity disappears.

And with it,

the psychological reward.

So people gatekeep.

Not because the music changed.

Not because the café became worse.

But because being “one of the few” was the point.

Look at what happens every single time an underground artist suddenly goes viral.

People don’t celebrate.

They mourn.

“TikTok ruined them.”

“The fans are annoying now.”

“You only know their popular songs.”

Sometimes these criticisms are valid.

Algorithms can flatten art into trends.

But often…

the anger isn’t directed at commercialization.

It’s directed at accessibility.

Because if everyone can enjoy it…

then it no longer feels like a secret.

And secrets make people feel special.

French sociologist Pierre Bourdieu called this cultural capital.

Certain knowledge, tastes, and interests become social currency.

Knowing an obscure director.

Listening to vinyl.

Reading untranslated literature.

Drinking obscure coffee beans.

Owning niche fashion brands.

None of these are inherently bad.

Until they stop being passions…

and start becoming status symbols.

Suddenly, culture becomes another luxury item.

Knowledge becomes something to flex instead of something to share.

There’s an irony here.

The same people who complain that corporations destroy art…

often recreate the same exclusivity on a smaller scale.

Instead of money,

the currency becomes obscurity.

Instead of wealth,

the privilege becomes knowing first.

Instead of expensive designer bags,

it’s expensive taste.

Different costume.

Same hierarchy.

Psychologists also describe something called psychological reactance.

When people perceive that something they once “owned” is becoming common or taken away, they experience discomfort.

Ironically, popularity can reduce perceived value—not because the object changed, but because its exclusivity disappeared.

It’s the same reason limited-edition products sell out.

Scarcity creates desire.

Popularity destroys scarcity.

And for some people,

scarcity was the attraction all along.

Social media intensifies this.

Algorithms reward being first.

First to discover.

First to predict trends.

First to “put everyone on.”

Because being early brings social capital.

But staying after everyone arrives?

That’s apparently embarrassing now.

It’s almost as if people love discovering artists…

but hate watching those artists succeed.

What’s heartbreaking is that this mindset slowly kills joy.

Imagine finding the perfect café.

The coffee is amazing.

The atmosphere is peaceful.

The owner finally gains enough customers to keep the business alive.

Instead of happiness…

people comment,

“Don’t post this place.”

“Delete this.”

“Gatekeep.”

Think about that.

A small business finally earns recognition—

and the response is to hide it.

The same people who say they want independent creators to succeed become upset the moment they actually do.

Success was acceptable—

as long as it stayed invisible.

This isn’t limited to businesses.

Books.

Movies.

Fashion.

Hobbies.

Even acts of kindness become performances of uniqueness.

People race to be “different.”

Ironically…

everyone ends up looking the same.

Different fonts.

Same script.

Of course, not all gatekeeping is selfish.

Sometimes communities protect sacred traditions from exploitation.

Marginalized cultures have every reason to guard practices that have been commercialized, appropriated, or stripped of meaning.

There is a difference between protecting culture and protecting your ego.

One preserves dignity.

The other preserves exclusivity.

Confusing the two only weakens conversations about genuine cultural respect.

Perhaps what we’re witnessing isn’t simply gatekeeping.

It’s a symptom of loneliness.

In an attention economy where millions compete to be noticed, being “different” feels like one of the few remaining ways to matter.

When validation is measured through engagement, uniqueness becomes survival.

And if your identity rests on being rare, someone else discovering your favorite song can feel—irrationally—as though they’re taking a piece of you.

Not because they’ve stolen your taste.

But because they’ve challenged the story you told yourself about who you are.

Maybe that’s the real tragedy.

We’ve mistaken exclusivity for individuality.

They’re not the same thing.

Individuality isn’t threatened when others enjoy what you love.

If anything, it becomes richer.

A song doesn’t become less beautiful because more people sing it.

A book doesn’t lose meaning because it reaches more readers.

An artist doesn’t become less talented because they finally pay their rent.

Love was never meant to be a private club.

Art was never meant to survive in locked rooms.

Culture grows because it is shared.

Maybe being “cool” isn’t knowing something before everyone else.

Maybe it’s having the confidence to celebrate it after everyone else finally catches up.

[mywastedpotentialsgoneby]

The First Generation Raised by Screens Didn’t Choose Them. The First Generation Raised By Screens Never Had a Choice.

“The problem isn’t that children have gadgets. It’s that, somewhere along the way, the gadgets became the parents.”

Every time another story of a child hurting a classmate surfaces online, the comments arrive before the facts do.

“TikTok ruined this generation.”

“Video games are making kids violent.”

“Social media is poisoning children.”

It is always the same villain.

The phone.

The tablet.

The internet.

Rarely do we ask the harder, more uncomfortable question:

Where were the adults?

We live in a culture obsessed with blaming the object instead of the person who handed it over.

A tablet has never tucked a child into bed.

An algorithm has never taught empathy.

A YouTube Shorts feed has never explained why hitting someone is wrong.

Those were never supposed to be its job.

Yet somehow, they became it.

Millennials grew up hearing that television would rot their brains.

Now many of them have become parents in a world where the television fits inside a six-inch rectangle that follows their child everywhere.

Not every millennial parent, of course. Many are deeply present, loving, and intentional. But a growing cultural pattern has emerged: exhausted parents handing over an iPad because they are overwhelmed, overworked, unsupported—or simply because it works.

The child stops crying.

The restaurant becomes quiet.

The grocery trip becomes easier.

The tantrum disappears.

The screen becomes less of a tool and more of a substitute.

Not because parents are evil.

Because convenience slowly disguises itself as parenting.

And children cannot tell the difference.

Developmental psychologist Jean Piaget argued that children learn by actively interacting with the world.

They need to stack blocks.

Touch dirt.

Lose games.

Fight with siblings.

Read facial expressions.

Be bored.

Invent imaginary friends.

Solve problems that don’t come with a Skip Ad button.

The brain literally wires itself through interaction.

Replace enough of those experiences with endless passive stimulation, and you’re not just changing entertainment.

You’re changing development.

Psychologist Lev Vygotsky believed children learn through social interaction.

Language.

Emotional regulation.

Conflict resolution.

Perspective-taking.

These aren’t downloaded.

They’re practiced.

When a toddler cries because another child took their toy, that’s a lesson.

When a parent kneels beside them and says,

“I know you’re upset, but we don’t hit. Let’s use our words.”

that moment is education.

Not academic education.

Human education.

If the response instead becomes,

“Here, watch YouTube.”

the emotion disappears.

But the lesson never arrives.

The feeling is silenced.

Not understood.

Attachment Theory, developed by John Bowlby and expanded by Mary Ainsworth, reminds us that children build emotional security through consistent, responsive caregiving.

Not perfection.

Presence.

When children repeatedly seek connection and instead receive distraction, they may learn that comfort comes from devices rather than people.

A screen can entertain.

It cannot attune.

It cannot notice subtle sadness.

It cannot recognize loneliness hiding behind silence.

It cannot say,

“I can tell something’s wrong.”

Then there is Albert Bandura and Social Learning Theory.

Children imitate.

They don’t become who we instruct.

They become who they observe.

If parents spend dinner scrolling, children learn scrolling.

If parents avoid conversations with screens, children learn avoidance.

If adults solve discomfort by escaping into devices, children inherit the same coping strategy.

Children are mirrors with shorter legs.

Sociology tells an equally uncomfortable story.

Technology didn’t raise children alone.

Society helped.

Many households now require two incomes simply to survive.

Parents work longer hours.

Commutes are longer.

Burnout is common.

Grandparents may live far away.

Communities have become less connected.

Childcare is expensive.

Parents are tired.

Very tired.

So the screen becomes a babysitter.

At first for fifteen minutes.

Then thirty.

Then every meal.

Then every car ride.

Then every bedtime.

Eventually, the child doesn’t ask for a bedtime story.

They ask for Wi-Fi.

This isn’t just an individual parenting issue.

It’s also the product of an economic and social system that leaves many families with too little time and too little support.

Recognizing those pressures matters. But understanding why something happens doesn’t mean we stop asking whether it has consequences.

When stories emerge about students insulting teachers, physically attacking classmates, recording fights for entertainment, or treating cruelty like content, many people immediately point to social media.

Certainly, online platforms can amplify harmful behavior, normalize aggression, reward outrage with attention, and expose children to content they are not emotionally ready to process.

But social media doesn’t wake children up for school.

It doesn’t teach accountability.

It doesn’t decide whether a child apologizes after hurting someone.

It doesn’t establish household boundaries.

It doesn’t explain consequences.

Parents do.

Or at least, they are supposed to.

A phone cannot teach empathy if empathy was never modeled.

An app cannot replace thousands of tiny conversations that build conscience over years.

When every failure is blamed on TikTok, YouTube, Roblox, Fortnite, or Instagram, something convenient happens.

Responsibility quietly shifts away from the adults.

The technology becomes the scapegoat.

The parenting escapes examination.

Children are not born knowing how to regulate frustration.

That ability develops through co-regulation: adults helping children identify feelings, tolerate disappointment, repair mistakes, and understand other people’s perspectives.

When those moments are consistently outsourced to digital distraction, children may become very skilled at avoiding discomfort without ever learning to manage it.

That’s not because screens are inherently evil.

It’s because emotional growth cannot be automated.

Perhaps the saddest image of modern childhood isn’t a child using an iPad.

It’s a child who no longer knows what to do without one.

Boredom used to create imagination.

Now boredom creates panic.

Silence used to become curiosity.

Now silence feels unbearable.

A five-second loading screen feels like an eternity because the brain has been conditioned to expect constant stimulation.

Attention becomes fragmented.

Patience becomes unfamiliar.

Real life begins losing the competition against algorithms specifically designed by thousands of engineers to keep people engaged for as long as possible.

Adults struggle against those systems.

Expecting children to resist them alone is unrealistic.

This is not an argument against technology.

Technology has taught children languages.

Connected long-distance families.

Helped disabled learners.

Opened classrooms to the world.

Saved lives.

The problem was never the screen.

The problem begins when the screen replaces the parent instead of assisting them.

A calculator is useful.

You still need to understand math.

Likewise, an iPad can be useful.

But children still need eye contact.

Conversation.

Correction.

Affection.

Boundaries.

Presence.

Perhaps the greatest irony is this:

The same adults who say,

“Kids these days are addicted to screens,”

are often the ones who introduced the addiction before the child could even speak.

Children didn’t order themselves an iPad.

They didn’t create unrestricted internet access.

They didn’t install every app.

Adults did.

Then, years later, those same adults ask,

“What happened to this generation?”

Maybe the better question is:

What happened to parenting?

Not because parents should be perfect.

Not because raising children isn’t exhausting.

But because no algorithm should know a child’s interests better than their own mother.

No influencer should spend more time with a child than their father.

No tablet should become the primary voice shaping a child’s understanding of love, kindness, discipline, or right and wrong.

Children deserve technology.

But they deserve parents even more.

And perhaps history won’t remember this generation as the children who grew up on iPads.

It may remember them as the children who were quietly asked to grow up without enough people truly present beside them.

[mywastedpotentialsgoneby]

My First Bully Called Me “Anak.”

Some Storms Learn to Call Themselves Mothers.

There is a question I have carried since I was a child.

Why do you have to be angry?

Not Why are you angry? I know life wasn’t gentle with you. I know poverty, disappointment, broken dreams, and impossible expectations leave scars. I know you carried burdens long before you carried me.

But why did your pain always have to arrive wearing my name?

Why did your anger always find its way home?

People say children don’t remember much.

They’re wrong.

Children remember the feeling.

I don’t remember every word you said.

I remember the terror.

I remember listening for your footsteps before I listened to my own heartbeat. I remember the silence that came before an explosion, the way the whole house seemed to inhale because everyone knew what was coming next. I remember learning that “home” wasn’t where you rested.

It was where you braced yourself.

You were always angry.

Angry at money.

Angry at relatives.

Angry at neighbors.

Angry at life.

But somehow your anger always found the easiest target.

The child who couldn’t fight back.

Sometimes I wonder if you knew how small I really was.

Not in height.

In power.

You were the biggest person in my world.

When you shouted, the walls became your accomplices. When you slammed doors, the whole house shook as if it too had learned to fear you. Your voice could make a room feel too small to breathe in.

People ask why I hate yelling.

They don’t understand that I grew up believing volume determined who was right.

You didn’t teach me why what I did was wrong.

You taught me to be afraid of getting caught.

There was no conversation.

No explanation.

No “Let’s sit down and talk.”

Only screams.

Only threats.

Only hands.

Sometimes the punishment didn’t even fit the mistake.

Sometimes there wasn’t even a mistake worth remembering.

A spilled drink.

A forgotten chore.

Not wanting afternoon nap.

Not knowing how to read.

Answering too slowly.

Answering too quickly.

Existing at the wrong moment.

And somehow those tiny moments justified full-force beatings.

The kind where your body hurts less than your dignity.

The kind where your tears only make the punishment last longer because now you’re “talking back” by crying.

Children don’t understand discipline.

They understand fear.

I didn’t become well-behaved because I understood right from wrong.

I became well-behaved because pain is an effective teacher.

Fear is obedient.

Fear is quiet.

Fear learns quickly.

I wish someone had told you there is a difference between raising a child and training one to survive you.

You cared so much about what people would say.

If I embarrassed you, it wasn’t just my mistake.

It became your humiliation.

Your reputation was somehow heavier than my bruises.

It felt like you weren’t protecting me from the world.

You were protecting yourself from the world’s opinion.

I learned very early that appearances mattered more than emotions.

As long as people thought we were a good family…

It didn’t matter what happened after the front door closed.

You loved an audience that never had to hear what your children heard.

Sometimes I think your greatest fear wasn’t losing me.

It was losing face.

Then there were your dreams.

The ones life stole from you.

The ones you quietly stitched into my skin until I couldn’t tell where you ended and I began.

I wasn’t allowed to become myself.

I was expected to become your second chance.

Every achievement belonged to the family.

Every failure belonged to me.

I spent years chasing goals that tasted like someone else’s hunger.

And then there was another kind of punishment.

The silence.

Somehow your silence was louder than your screaming.

When you were upset, you wouldn’t tell us why.

You wouldn’t ask questions.

You wouldn’t explain what hurt you.

You would simply disappear into yourself.

The air in the house would become heavy.

You’d stop talking.

Stop laughing.

Stop looking at us.

You turned the entire home into a waiting room.

We all became detectives, trying to solve a crime no one confessed to committing.

“What’s wrong with Mom?”

“Did I do something?”

“Should I apologize?”

“For what?”

No one knew.

But everyone felt guilty.

It was as if your sadness became a punishment we all had to serve.

Children should never feel responsible for restoring a parent’s happiness.

But we tried anyway.

We apologized for things we didn’t understand.

We became smaller.

Quieter.

Kinder than we felt.

Not because we had done something wrong.

But because we wanted the weather inside the house to change.

I learned that love meant managing someone else’s emotions before I even knew how to understand my own.

The hardest sentence I have ever admitted is this:

I know you love me.

I have never doubted that.

Love was there.

It was just buried beneath rage.

Beneath control.

Beneath fear.

Beneath wounds you never allowed yourself to heal.

People think love and abuse cannot exist together.

I wish that were true.

Because then leaving would be easy.

Then grieving would make sense.

But some parents kiss the same forehead they frightened the night before.

Some parents cook dinner with the same hands that left bruises.

Some parents would die for their children—

without ever learning how to stop hurting them while they’re alive.

That contradiction is what breaks you.

Because you spend your entire childhood trying to reconcile two versions of the same person.

The mother who loves you.

And the mother you’re terrified of.

I don’t think you were born cruel.

I think you inherited storms that no one ever taught you to survive.

I think you confused emotional survival with emotional maturity.

I think your own wounds became family traditions.

Pain that isn’t healed rarely disappears.

It becomes an heirloom.

Passed from one generation to the next until someone finally decides the inheritance ends here.

I spent years wondering what was wrong with me.

Now I spend years wondering what happened to you.

But understanding your pain does not require me to erase mine.

I refuse to romanticize survival.

You deserved therapy before you became someone’s mother.

Not because you were broken.

Because children should never become the therapists, punching bags, or emotional caretakers of the adults raising them.

You taught me how to read moods before books.

How to apologize before understanding.

How to shrink before growing.

How to fear before trusting.

Those weren’t personality traits.

They were survival instincts.

People often ask children of angry mothers,

“But she did her best, didn’t she?”

Maybe she did.

But sometimes someone’s best still leaves another person bleeding.

Love can be sincere.

And still be unsafe.

I don’t hate you because you were imperfect.

I hate that your anger became my first language.

I hate that fear introduced itself before tenderness ever could.

And I grieve for the childhood we both lost—

yours long before mine,

and mine because yours was never allowed to heal.

“You Couldn’t Heal, So You Raised Me With Your Wounds.”

[mywastedpotentialsgoneby]

Third World Lovers

I.

I love you.

That is precisely why I keep asking you to wait.

People think poverty only empties pockets.

It doesn’t.

It empties choices.

It teaches you that every “yes” must be paid for by ten “no’s.” It turns every dream into a budget meeting. Every date into a calculation. Every anniversary into another apology.

I don’t want to love you like this.

I don’t want to check my bank account before checking on you.

I don’t want to count coins while counting the days until I can finally see you.

I don’t want to celebrate your birthday with promises instead of presents.

I don’t want every “I wish I could” to become our love language.

Because love should never feel like choosing between seeing you or eating tomorrow.

People say, “If they really love you, they’ll stay even when you’re broke.”

Maybe.

But I don’t want you to survive me.

I want you to experience me.

I want to hold your hand without secretly worrying about the fare home.

I want to ask, “Have you eaten?” without praying the answer is yes because I can’t afford to buy you dinner.

I want flowers that weren’t picked from empty lots because I couldn’t buy them.

I want to love you generously.

Not in expensive ways.

In unafraid ways.

Poverty steals more than comfort.

It steals the freedom to give without calculating what you’ll lose in return.

So if I keep saying, “Not yet…”

Please understand.

I’m not postponing my love.

I’m postponing the life I want to give with it.

────────

II.

And yet…

I would’ve loved you anyway.

Not because I enjoy suffering.

Not because poverty is romantic.

It isn’t.

There is nothing poetic about skipping meals so someone else can eat.

Nothing beautiful about power outages, unpaid bills, borrowed money, and dreams postponed by another payday.

But I never wanted your wallet.

I wanted Wednesdays with you.

I wanted the walk home after work.

Street food shared in plastic cups.

Umbrellas too small for the rain.

Conversations stretched longer than our phone batteries.

I never asked for grand gestures.

I only wanted to witness your ordinary life.

The version of you too embarrassed to show anyone else.

You thought loving me while poor meant loving me less.

I thought loving you while poor meant proving that love could survive more.

Maybe we were both wrong.

Because poverty is not just the absence of money.

It is the constant presence of fear.

Fear of emergencies.

Fear of unemployment.

Fear of getting sick.

Fear that one unexpected expense will erase months of hard work.

Fear has a way of moving into a relationship until it becomes a third person.

It sits between two lovers at dinner.

Sleeps between them at night.

Answers questions before either of them can.

“Can we go out?”

“Next payday.”

“Can we dream bigger?”

“Maybe next year.”

“Can we finally start our life together?”

“We’ll see.”

Eventually, you’re no longer fighting poverty.

You’re fighting the version of yourselves it created.

────────

III.

“Ayaw kong umibig nang gipit.”

Because I refuse to love you in installments.

I don’t want to buy you flowers with borrowed money.

I don’t want every date to begin with,

“Kasya pa ba?”

I don’t want my love to arrive with receipts attached.

I want to give without counting.

I want to choose you without wondering what I’ll have to give up tomorrow.

I don’t want to love you poorly.

────────

“Pero mahal mo na ako.”

I never asked you for expensive things.

I asked for you.

You keep talking as if love is something you purchase.

As if your worth rises and falls with your salary.

Do you really think I measure your heart in pesos?

────────

“Hindi mo naiintindihan.”

No.

You don’t understand.

Because you’ve never watched your mother skip dinner so everyone else could eat.

You’ve never pretended not to be hungry because there’s only enough for one.

You think poverty is an empty wallet.

I know it’s an inheritance.

It teaches your hands to let go of everything before you can become attached.

Even people.

Especially people.

────────

“Then let me be the one thing you don’t let go of.”

────────

“And if tomorrow I have nothing?”

────────

“Then we’ll have nothing together.”

────────

“That’s exactly what I’m trying to protect you from.”

Today, I can give you my time.

Tomorrow, maybe not.

This month, I can afford flowers.

Next month, only apologies.

I refuse to make you fall in love with a man who keeps saying,

“Next payday.”

────────

“Ayaw kong hintayin yumaman ka para mahalin ka.”

Because hunger doesn’t scare me.

Losing you does.

You keep treating love like it’s a luxury we’ll buy after we’ve paid all the bills.

What if life never gives us that day?

────────

“Then you’ll resent me.”

────────

“No.”

────────

“You will.”

One day you’ll wake up beside unpaid bills.

A leaking roof.

A broken fan.

An empty refrigerator.

You’ll look at me—

and you’ll wonder if loving me was another expense.

────────

“No.”

I’ll look at you—

and wonder why you keep believing poverty is more powerful than I am.

────────

“Because it is.”

It has buried better people than us.

It has made fathers strangers.

Mothers exhausted.

Children older than their birthdays.

You think our love is strong.

I think you’ve never seen what survival can do to it.

────────

“Then let it.”

Let life test us.

Let the world laugh at us.

Let our pockets be empty.

Just don’t empty your heart before the world even gets the chance.

────────

“You call it faith.”

────────

“What do you call it?”

────────

“Mercy.”

I would rather lose you now…

than watch poverty slowly teach you to regret choosing me.

────────

“And I would rather regret choosing you…

…than spend the rest of my life wondering why you never let me.”

────────

Silence.

Not because there was nothing left to say—

but because love had reached the place where words could no longer carry it.

One believed love should wait until it could give everything.

The other believed love was the only thing that remained after everything had been taken.

Neither surrendered.

Neither won.

Because somewhere between “I can’t love you like this”…

and “Love me anyway”…

they forgot that time has always favored empty chairs.

It waits patiently beside lovers who promise,

“Not now.”

Until one day,

the seat across from them

is no longer reserved.

It is occupied.

────────

“They never argued about whether they loved each other. They argued about whether love should arrive before dignity, before stability, before the weight of survival had finally loosened its grip. One reached out with empty hands. The other kept pulling those hands away, not because they were unwilling to hold them, but because they wanted the day their hands would carry more than promises. Between ‘love me now’ and ‘wait for me,’ they forgot that both sentences were spoken from the same heart.”

[mywastedpotentialsgoneby]

Graveyard Shift Lover

There is something cruel about being loved only after dark.

Not in the romantic way movies teach us—where midnight phone calls mean longing too unbearable to wait until morning. No. I mean the kind where the notifications only arrive when the world has gone quiet enough for boredom to become loneliness.

“u up?”

“can’t sleep.”

“thinking about you.”

How convenient.

The night has always been an excellent hiding place. In daylight, people have responsibilities, reputations, lovers, friends, careers, entire identities to protect. But darkness blurs the edges of morality. At 2 A.M., everyone becomes a little lonelier, a little more impulsive, a little more willing to knock on doors they pretend don’t exist once the sun rises.

And somehow, mine is always the door they choose.

You don’t miss me.

You miss being alone.

Psychologists have long observed that nighttime changes the way we think. As our bodies grow tired, self-control weakens. Emotional regulation declines. The mind becomes more vulnerable to nostalgia, rumination, and impulsive decisions. We crave familiarity because the brain mistakes it for safety. That’s why old lovers suddenly feel unforgettable at midnight. Why unread conversations become irresistible. Why names buried for months suddenly find their way into search bars.

The brain isn’t necessarily seeking you.

It’s seeking relief.

Maybe that’s why you text me.

Not because my name carries love.

But because it carries comfort.

There’s a painful difference.

The moon has become an accomplice to temporary affection. Every evening, it watches people mistake loneliness for intimacy. It watches empty hearts borrow warmth from whoever answers first. It watches “I miss you” become another way of saying, “I hate being by myself.”

Morning exposes everything.

The same fingers that typed paragraphs at 2 A.M. can’t even spare a “good morning.”

The same person who called you beautiful beneath the stars walks past your existence in broad daylight.

Because daylight requires commitment.

Night only requires reception.

Maybe that’s why I have begun to resent sunsets.

They don’t just paint the sky orange.

They announce the beginning of my shift.

I become someone’s emotional night guard.

Someone’s insomnia medication.

Someone’s emergency exit from silence.

A human melatonin.

Never the sunrise.

Always the sedative.

People speak about “night owls” as though they are creatures of romance, but I’ve learned there are also night scavengers—people who wander through the dark collecting pieces of affection they have no intention of keeping. They feed on vulnerability because vulnerability is easiest to find after midnight.

The stars are beautiful because they keep their distance.

People are dangerous because they don’t.

Perhaps that’s why conversations at night feel so deep. The darkness removes witnesses. We confess things we would never dare admit beneath fluorescent lights. We mistake vulnerability for permanence. We think that because someone shared their wounds with us, they’ve handed us their heart.

But wounds are not promises.

Sometimes they’re just leaks.

And some people only come to you because you’re absorbent enough to catch what spills.

I used to think our relationship was nocturnal.

Now I think it was just eclipsed.

An eclipse is cruel because it tricks the world into believing the darkness means something is finally coming together, when in reality, it’s only one body blocking another’s light.

That’s what you were.

Not my moon.

Just something standing between me and daylight.

The cruelest part isn’t that you only loved me at night.

It’s that every sunrise proved you survived without me.

While I spent every morning recovering from conversations you never intended to remember.

You never loved me.

You loved the version of yourself that felt less lonely when I answered.

And maybe that’s why your messages always arrived after midnight.

Because some people don’t look for love.

They look for electricity.

Just enough to keep the darkness from swallowing them.

Until morning comes.

Then they unplug.

“you only remember I exist when the world gets quiet,”

[mywastedpotentialsgoneby]

The Philippines Doesn’t Have a Fan Problem. It Has a Worship Problem.

It breaks my heart how easy it is for Filipinos to hand over their minds to someone else.

Not just to religious leaders.

Not just to politicians.

Not just to celebrities.

To anyone who speaks confidently enough.

Somewhere along the way, admiration stopped being admiration. It became devotion. And devotion slowly became identity.

You can’t criticize their favorite politician without being called an enemy.

You can’t question their religious leader without being labeled evil.

You can’t say you dislike a K-pop group without being attacked by fans who act like you’ve insulted their own family.

You can’t even ask simple questions anymore. Because questioning is seen as betrayal.

It’s exhausting.

The saddest part isn’t that influential people exist. Every society has charismatic leaders, celebrities, and public figures.

The saddest part is how desperately many Filipinos seem to want someone else to think for them.

We don’t just support people anymore.

We surrender to them.

You can see it everywhere.

Some religious communities demand absolute obedience, treating leaders as if they’re incapable of making mistakes. Others build entire belief systems around historical figures, turning them into symbols that transcend healthy admiration. There are literal cults that prey on loneliness and vulnerability.

Politics isn’t much different.

Supporters stop defending policies and start defending personalities. Every criticism becomes “fake news.” Every mistake gets excused. Every scandal becomes someone else’s fault. It stops being about improving the country and starts becoming a competition over whose idol deserves unquestioning loyalty.

The Philippines has lived through years of political polarization where people reduced themselves to labels instead of conversations. Suddenly every issue became black and white. You were either with us or against us.

Then there’s social media.

One viral personality appears, and within days thousands gather behind them. People quote them like scripture. Defend them before knowing the facts. Attack strangers on their behalf.

The recent obsession surrounding Rene Baterbonia is another reminder of how quickly online personalities can attract intense devotion. Whether people support him sincerely, ironically, or simply because of algorithms amplifying the trend, it shows how rapidly internet culture can transform an individual into an object of fascination. Sometimes the internet doesn’t even ask if something deserves attention—it simply rewards whatever captures it.

Maybe tomorrow it’ll be someone else.

The cycle repeats.

It’s frightening how quickly collective judgment disappears once enough people start clapping.

I don’t think Filipinos are uniquely gullible.

I think we’re hungry.

Hungry for certainty.

Hungry for belonging.

Hungry for someone who promises easy answers in a country that has never been easy to live in.

When institutions fail you, when education is unequal, when life constantly feels uncertain, it’s comforting to believe someone has all the answers.

That’s exactly why manipulation works.

Real leaders welcome questions.

False ones punish them.

Healthy communities allow disagreement.

Unhealthy ones demand loyalty.

A good religion shouldn’t fear questions.

A good politician shouldn’t fear accountability.

A good influencer shouldn’t want followers who blindly imitate them.

Even the artists we love shouldn’t become people we worship.

Because the moment someone becomes too important to criticize, they’ve stopped being a public figure.

They’ve become an idol.

And history has never been kind to societies that confuse loyalty with truth.

Maybe what the Philippines needs isn’t another charismatic leader.

Maybe we need citizens who are harder to manipulate.

People who read before sharing.

Who verify before believing.

Who admire without worshipping.

Who follow ideas instead of personalities.

Because democracy dies when citizens stop thinking.

And every cult—whether religious, political, or digital—begins the moment people decide someone else’s voice matters more than their own.

Psychologists have long known that people don’t join cult-like movements because they’re unintelligent. They join because they’re human.

Our brains are built to seek certainty in uncertain times. When life feels chaotic, we’re naturally drawn to people who speak with absolute confidence. Someone who says, “I have the answers,” is psychologically more attractive than someone who says, “It’s complicated.”

That’s why charismatic leaders exist in every part of society—not just religion. Politics has them. Entertainment has them. Social media creates them overnight.

There’s also something called social identity theory, the idea that people define themselves through the groups they belong to. Being part of a fandom, a religious community, or a political movement isn’t just about shared interests anymore—it becomes part of who you are. Once your identity is attached to a group, any criticism of that group feels like a personal attack.

That’s when rational thinking begins to lose.

Another powerful force is confirmation bias. We naturally seek information that confirms what we already believe and reject anything that challenges it. Algorithms make this even worse. Social media keeps feeding us posts that reinforce our existing beliefs until it feels like everyone agrees with us. Slowly, disagreement starts to look like ignorance, criticism becomes “hate,” and skepticism becomes betrayal.

Then comes cognitive dissonance.

Imagine spending years defending a politician, donating to a church, or dedicating thousands of hours to a fandom. If evidence appears that contradicts what you’ve believed, admitting you were wrong isn’t just intellectually difficult—it feels emotionally devastating. So instead of changing their beliefs, many people double down. The more they’ve invested, the harder it becomes to walk away.

Psychologists also describe something called a parasocial relationship—a one-sided emotional bond with someone you’ve never actually met. Fans can genuinely feel as though a celebrity, influencer, or public figure is part of their lives, even though the relationship only exists in one direction. There’s nothing inherently wrong with enjoying artists or creators. The problem begins when admiration becomes emotional dependence, when defending that person becomes more important than protecting reality itself.

The Philippines has seen this phenomenon before.

One of the clearest examples was AlDub. What began as a wildly popular television love team evolved into something much deeper for a portion of its fanbase. Even after the performers publicly pursued separate careers and lives, some supporters remained convinced that the romantic narrative was still secretly real. Online communities built elaborate explanations to preserve that belief, dismissing contradictory evidence as deception or part of a larger conspiracy. For many, AlDub wasn’t simply entertainment anymore—it had become a shared reality, reinforced by fellow believers and sustained through constant validation within the community.

The important point isn’t to mock those fans. It’s to ask why that level of attachment became possible.

Because it wasn’t just about two celebrities.

It was about hope.

Hope that love like that could exist.

Hope that the story didn’t have to end.

Hope that something pure could survive despite reality.

When people become emotionally invested in hope itself, facts often become secondary.

That’s the psychology behind cult-like devotion. Whether it’s a preacher, a politician, a celebrity, an influencer, or an internet personality, the mechanism is strikingly similar: belonging, certainty, identity, emotional investment, and a community that rewards belief while discouraging doubt.

The person being followed may change.

The psychology rarely does.

Maybe that’s what hurts the most.

Filipinos seem to be constantly searching for someone to believe in—not because they’re weak, but because hope has become so difficult to find. When life is filled with poverty, corruption, broken systems, and endless disappointments, people begin looking for someone who can carry their hope for them. A preacher who promises salvation. A politician who promises change. An influencer who promises purpose. An idol who offers comfort. It becomes less about what these people actually do and more about what they represent. They become vessels for every dream, every frustration, every “maybe this time.”

But hope placed entirely in another human being is dangerous. Humans fail. They lie. They disappoint. They abuse power. Yet many would rather defend the person than admit the hope they invested was misplaced. Because accepting that means starting over—accepting that no leader, no celebrity, no religion, no internet personality can single-handedly save them. And perhaps that’s why Filipinos don’t just follow people. We cling to them. We need them to be right, because if they aren’t, then we’re forced to face a much harder truth: no one is coming to rescue us.

TikTok - Make Your Day

[mywastedpotentialsgoneby]

The Last Plate at the Table

People love saying, “The youngest has it easy.”

I wonder where that youngest child lives.

Because it wasn’t here.

Being the youngest sometimes feels less like being the baby of the family and more like arriving after the story has already ended. Everyone has already fought their battles, built their lives, made their mistakes, claimed their space. By the time you arrive, there isn’t much left to divide.

You’re the bonus child.

The extra one.

The one who gets whatever remains.

The leftovers aren’t always money. Sometimes they’re rooms. Opportunities. Patience. Attention. Time.

I don’t even know what it’s like to have a room I could honestly call mine. A place where I could close the door and exist without feeling like I was borrowing someone else’s space. Somewhere I didn’t have to apologize for taking up.

Maybe that’s why I always feel temporary.

Like I shouldn’t unpack too much.

Like I’m just passing through.

It hurts in ways that are difficult to explain because nothing looks dramatic from the outside. You have food. You have a roof. You’re alive.

So why does it still ache?

Maybe because being provided for isn’t the same as feeling like you belong.

The hardest part isn’t even the lack of space.

It’s the lack of a voice.

In some families, the youngest is expected to listen, not speak. To understand, not question. To adjust, not complain. The moment you try to explain how you feel, you’re reminded that you’re being disrespectful.

Somehow, silence became another form of obedience.

So you swallow every sentence before it leaves your mouth.

You rehearse conversations you’ll never have.

You cry where no one can hear you.

You convince yourself that maybe your feelings really are too much.

After all, everyone else had it harder.

Everyone else came first.

Maybe you’re just supposed to accept whatever’s left.

But here’s the thing about always getting scraps: eventually, you start believing scraps are all you’re worth.

You stop asking for more because you’ve spent your whole life learning that wanting anything beyond the leftovers makes you ungrateful.

You become an expert at making yourself smaller.

Taking up less space.

Needing less.

Speaking less.

Feeling less.

Until one day you look at your own life and wonder why it feels like you’ve been living as a guest in it.

I don’t think what hurts the most is being the youngest.

I think what hurts is constantly wondering if my existence was meant to fit into the empty spaces everyone else left behind.

Like my life was never meant to have a place of its own.

Maybe that’s why I carry this quiet feeling that I don’t belong anywhere.

Not because no one loves me.

But because I’ve spent so long living in borrowed spaces that I no longer know what it feels like to be chosen first.

I don’t want someone else’s leftovers anymore.

I want a place where I don’t have to earn the right to exist.

A room where I don’t feel like an inconvenience.

A voice that isn’t mistaken for disrespect.

A life that doesn’t feel like an apology.

Because maybe I wasn’t born first.

Maybe I came after everyone else.

But that should never have meant I deserved less.

[mywastedpotentialsgoneby]

Who’s Going to Be My Maid of Honor?

Lately, I’ve been planning my future wedding.

Not because I’m engaged. Not because I even have a groom.

I don’t.

The only thing I have is an overactive imagination, a Pinterest board I pretend doesn’t exist, and enough delusion to know exactly what flowers I’d like at a wedding that may or may not happen.

The venue? I’ve thought about it.

The dress? More times than I’d like to admit.

The playlist? Already has a few songs.

The groom?

We’ll… outsource that problem to fate.

But somewhere between choosing colors I’ll probably change fifty times and imagining the first dance, a question kept bothering me.

Who’s going to be my maid of honor?

It sounds ridiculous until you actually think about it.

I have friends.

Good people.

People I laugh with, chat with, meet every once in a while.

But do I have that friend?

The one who knows exactly how I take my coffee without asking.

The one who has witnessed every version of me—the embarrassing, the heartbroken, the successful, the unbearable—and still chose to stay.

The one I could confidently say, “You’re standing beside me on the biggest day of my life.”

I don’t think I do.

And maybe that’s the saddest realization.

It’s strange because loneliness isn’t always measured by how many people surround you. Sometimes it’s measured by the absence of that one person.

That person who would fight for the title of maid of honor.

That person whose wedding I’d help plan without being asked.

That person I’d cry for before I cried for myself.

If one of my friends got married tomorrow, I’d congratulate them. I’d be happy for them.

But I don’t know if I’d naturally be the first person they’d call.

Honestly?

I don’t think I would.

And I can’t even blame them.

We’re friends.

Just… not that kind of friends.

Maybe adulthood quietly teaches you that friendships don’t always deepen just because time passes. Sometimes they simply exist—comfortable enough to call each other friends, distant enough that your lives could drift apart without making much noise.

It’s a weird grief.

Not losing someone.

Just realizing you never had someone in the first place.

People always say your wedding is surrounded by the people who matter most.

Which makes me wonder—

If that day ever comes…

Who will be standing beside me?

Who knows the stories behind my smiles?

Who knows what my silence means?

Who has loved me long enough to earn that place?

I don’t know.

Maybe by then, I’ll have found my people.

Maybe I’ll meet a friend who feels like home.

Maybe the maid of honor hasn’t entered my life yet.

Or maybe she’ll be someone unexpected.

Until then, I guess I’ll keep planning a wedding for a man who doesn’t exist yet.

Finding the groom suddenly feels easier than finding the person I’d ask to stand beside me.

[mywastedpotentialsgoneby]

We Keep Looking for Ourselves in Other People

Perhaps that’s what every conversation has always been.

Not understanding.

Recognition.

Everyone wants to carve their own scars into someone else.

Not out of cruelty—at least not always—but because pain feels less unbearable when it has a witness. We tell our stories hoping someone interrupts with, “Me too.” We reveal our wounds not because they have healed, but because we desperately want proof that they can exist outside of us.

Maybe that is why we ask questions whose answers we already know.

Maybe that is why strangers become therapists, lovers become mirrors, and friends become confession boxes.

We’re not always searching for people.

Sometimes, we’re searching for ourselves inside them.

Every person becomes a canvas for projection. We paint them with our fears, our regrets, our childhoods, our unmet needs. We call someone “cold” because we’ve been abandoned before. We call someone “perfect” because we’re starving for hope. We call someone “our soulmate” because they carry pieces of a fantasy we’ve spent years writing.

And sometimes, we don’t just project our pain.

We project our insecurities.

The person who secretly believes they are unlovable may constantly question another’s loyalty. The one ashamed of their own dishonesty may become obsessed with catching others in lies. The person terrified of rejection may interpret every delayed reply as abandonment. Those who cannot forgive themselves often become the harshest judges of everyone else.

Our deepest insecurities rarely stay contained within us.

They search for somewhere else to live.

It is easier to accuse someone of thinking you’re not enough than to admit you’ve believed that about yourself all along. It is easier to convince yourself everyone is judging you than to confront the voice in your own head that never stops. Sometimes the criticism we hear from others is merely our own inner critic speaking through someone else’s silence.

We rarely see people as they are.

We see them through the cracks in our own self-image.

Psychologists call it projection—the unconscious act of attributing our own feelings, fears, or traits to someone else. Outside of textbooks, it is painfully ordinary. It is the insecure person assuming everyone is looking down on them. It is the jealous person convinced everyone else must be jealous too. It is the person who feels inadequate believing others see nothing but their flaws.

Because if the insecurity belongs to everyone…

Then perhaps it doesn’t have to belong to us alone.

We long for connection because existence is unbearably private. No matter how well we explain ourselves, no one can fully occupy our mind. No one can feel our memories exactly as we do. Language is imperfect. Emotions lose shape the moment they’re spoken.

So we keep trying.

We compare heartbreaks.

We exchange traumas.

We trade stories like evidence that says, “See? We survived similar storms.”

Not because suffering is a competition, but because shared pain feels like proof that we’re not anomalies.

Yet projection has its danger.

When we become too desperate to find ourselves in others, we stop seeing who they actually are.

They become symbols instead of people.

They become containers for our fears instead of individuals with lives beyond our imagination.

We mistake resemblance for understanding.

We confuse assumptions with empathy.

The hardest kind of love isn’t finding someone who reflects your scars.

It’s meeting someone whose wounds are completely different—and choosing to understand them anyway.

Perhaps true connection begins where projection ends.

Where we stop asking,

“Who reminds me of myself?”

and start asking,

“Who are you, beyond everything I imagine you to be?”

Because maybe love, friendship, and understanding were never about finding another version of ourselves.

Maybe they were always about making room for someone else’s story without forcing it to resemble our own.