Fallen future @unshentmessages - Tumblr Blog

Turns out, I missed me too.

My bank account would probably have a few things to say about this. 😂 But this is one of the reasons I’ll always be grateful for the years I spent building my little candle business. I stopped selling retail a long time ago. Life happened. Motherhood happened. Priorities shifted. Yet every now and then, someone from that chapter of my life finds their way back. Not because they need a candle. But because somewhere along the way, a scent became part of their home.

One of my loyal customers messaged me and told me she felt sad knowing she might never be able to order from me again. And for a moment, I forgot about sales, profit margins, and business decisions. Because after years of being supported by the same people, they stop feeling like customers. They become familiar names. Fellow mothers. Women quietly carrying their own struggles while trying to make a home feel warm and safe. Some people measure success by how much a business earns. But years after I stopped selling retail, someone still remembered a scent I poured by hand. And somehow, that feels like a different kind of wealth.

I Asked AI What It Knows About Me

Her name is Shen. She was a mom first before anything else. Most of her days revolved around her son, Bem, and a lot of the choices she made were quietly shaped by what would help him grow, learn, and feel loved.

She was the kind of person who could turn ordinary things into stories—grocery runs, cooking dinner, a trip to the palengke, a childhood memory, a pair of heels, a random thought at midnight. She noticed things other people walked past.

She loved feeding people. Cooking wasn’t just a task for her; it was one of the ways she showed care. She came from a family that worked hard, helping run a vegetable stall in the market, and she carried that same work ethic into everything she did.

She built a life online, sharing motherhood, food, and everyday moments. Thousands of people followed her content, but she seemed to care most about being relatable rather than perfect.

She was creative in a dozen different ways—writing, making candles, creating content, taking photos, coming up with captions, and finding beauty in ordinary days.

She worried a lot. She loved deeply. Sometimes those two things looked very similar.

She carried heartbreaks, disappointments, and regrets, but she kept moving anyway. There were moments when she genuinely thought she wouldn’t survive certain chapters of her life, yet she did. Every time.

She adored her family. Her dad’s opinion mattered to her more than she probably admitted. When he was hospitalized, she dropped everything to be there.

She had dreams that changed shape over the years. Some became businesses. Some became the life she built around her son.

More than anything, she was someone who kept showing up—whether for her child, her family, her audience, or the people she loved.

And if they asked me for the shortest description, I’d say:

“She loved hard, worried hard, worked hard, and made people feel at home.” ❤️

Four shots of coffee this morning, and now I’m sitting here feeling anxious, shaky, and convinced something is wrong. At this point, I can’t even tell where the caffeine ends and the stress begins. Maybe it’s the coffee. Maybe it’s the fact that Papa is in the hospital and I’ve been carrying more fear than I’d like to admit. Maybe it’s both. Honestly, four shots of coffee and a mountain of anxiety is a pretty effective recipe for palpitations lol

Crazy how I can still see familiar faces here. And familiar URLs. It’s been years.

It makes me wonder… did we get there? Did we become the people we said we’d be 10 years ago? Did we make it to the places we spent hours dreaming about back then?

Or are we still sad? Just older, quieter, and better at hiding it?

A little truth about days like this.

Whenever I cook for a lot of people, I usually end up not enjoying the food myself. By the time everything is done, I’ve already spent hours planning, preparing, tasting, cooking, and cleaning. When it’s finally time to eat, my appetite is gone.

Today was one of those days.

My lower back is aching, I’m exhausted, and all I really want is to sit down for a while. But seeing the table full and knowing that family and friends are enjoying the food makes it worth it.

Maybe that’s the strange thing about love expressed through cooking. Sometimes the fulfillment comes long before the first bite.

Here's life lately.

Cooking and vlogging as usual. Somewhere along the way, I learned how to share this part of my life with other people.

A tiny kitchen that has witnessed countless meals, late-night preparations, and small victories.

A mirror selfie from the cinema restroom after watching Toy Story 5 with my son.

A simple dinner I made without filming it. just food, just family, just a moment that didn't need content.

A quick selfie while running errands with my sister.

Another selfie, simply to remind my socials that I'm still here.

And meals prepared to share with people who need them more than I do.

Nothing extraordinary.

Just a collection of ordinary moments that, somehow, make up a beautiful life.

Today was one of those slow, productive days in the kitchen.

I made the crack sauce, boiled the pork belly so I only have to fry it tomorrow, and now I’m just waiting for the jelly to set before mixing it into the buko pandan salad. After that, I’m officially done for the day.

Tomorrow’s list is already waiting for me: spaghetti, vegetable salad, and sushi.

I’m tired. My feet hurt, the kitchen is a mess, and I can still smell garlic and onions on my hands. But this is the kind of tired that makes me smile.

The kind that comes from preparing something with love. The kind that fills the fridge, makes tomorrow a little easier, and turns ordinary ingredients into something people will gather around.

Not all happiness is loud. Sometimes it’s just standing in a quiet kitchen, looking at everything you’ve finished, and thinking,

“Okay. That’s enough for today.” 🤍

Cooking has always been my love language. I won’t always say the sweet things. I’m not the clingy type either. These days, cooking often feels more like an obligation than a gesture of affection. It’s part of the routine, part of keeping a household running. But when I invite you over, when I plan a meal with you in mind, when I spend hours preparing food that no one asked me to make, that’s different.

Fiesta is only two days away, and my friends are coming over for dinner. Will I get tired? Definitely.

Will I be exhausted after? Most likely. But this has always been our tradition. I cook, they show up, we eat, we talk for hours, and when it’s all over, they clean up while I sit down and finally rest. And I think that’s another kind of love language too. knowing who will stay after the meal is done.

Lately, I’ve been thinking about starting a private blog.

I miss the internet from years ago. the kind where people cared more about what you wrote than who you were. Where words were allowed to exist without becoming an invitation for judgment, assumptions, or endless opinions.

Maybe that’s what I’m looking for.

A small corner of the internet that’s just mine. No expectations, no pressure, no need to explain myself. Just random thoughts, stories, small victories, and things I want to remember.

I just miss a time when writing was enough.

Kumusta ka? Sana magsulat ka pa.

Okay naman. Ikaw kamusta? Lately, I’ve been spending a lot of time reflecting.

Parang ang daming years na puro responsibilities, routines, at pag-aalaga sa ibang tao. Ngayon, I’m trying to make space for things that make me feel like myself again.

I’ve been thinking about picking up a new hobby. Ang cute nung idea ng baking. Yung mag-aaral ka ng bago, tapos may maibibigay kang cookies, bread, or little treats sa ibang tao. Parang ang simple pero ang saya.

It’s 11 a.m. I’m in the car, sipping coffee on my way to yoga after cooking a meal at home.

Funny how a few years ago, I hated this life.

Funny how I spent so much time questioning my worth simply because I had time on my hands. I thought being busy was proof of significance. I thought success had to look loud.

But now, I see how lucky I am to live this slow, gentle life.

If my late twenties could see me now, she would finally exhale. She would stop chasing every version of success that wasn’t meant for her.

She wouldn’t want any other life.

And maybe that’s the most beautiful thing about getting older: realizing that the life you once overlooked was the one you were praying for all along.

If I could hug the version of me from a few years back, I would. I’d sit beside her and tell her to stop worrying so much. I’d tell her that not everything has to happen right away. That her life isn’t falling behind.

I’d tell her that one day, she’ll wake up and realize that everything she spent years searching for was quietly finding its way to her.

And most of all, I’d tell her this:

Everything is going to be okay.

Someone once told me to keep posting because that’s where I’m good at. Being a content creator. Sharing genuine tipid hacks, practical finds, and little things that might help other people.

I didn’t believe it at first. I kept thinking there were so many creators doing the same thing, so what made mine any different?

Then I realized maybe the hardest person to convince was myself.

Because if there’s one thing I’ve been consistently good at, it’s not creating content… it’s doubting myself. 😅

But every time someone tells me they tried a tip I shared, saved money because of a post, or felt less alone in their journey, I’m reminded that maybe there’s a reason I’m here.

So I keep posting. Not because I think I’ve figured everything out, but because maybe the things that come naturally to me are exactly the things someone else needs to hear today.

don’t forget to stretch and hydrate :)

Felt pretty. Took selfies. That’s it 🤍

kidding aside, it took me months… maybe even years to get here. to stop needing validation from other people before feeling good about myself. to finally look at my own reflection and genuinely like what i see without asking, “am i pretty enough?”

and yep, i think my face is starting to mature too. Not in a bad way though. Softer, calmer, more sure of itself. i see traces of everything i’ve survived and grown through, and for once, i don’t feel the need to hide it.

so yeah… these selfies mean a little more to me now.

It’s been a while

Lately, I’ve been realizing how much of my life revolves around taking care of people and holding things together quietly. I’m a mother, a content creator, a business owner, and somewhere in between all of that, I’m still trying to figure out who I am outside of constantly giving pieces of myself away. My days are filled with small ordinary things like packing baon, cleaning the house, cooking homemade meals, attending therapy and school routines with my son, caring for our dog Coco, answering brand emails at midnight, creating content, and trying to make a living while still being present at home. Sometimes I think about my childhood a lot, especially the small memories that stayed with me for years. The smell of our house in the morning before school, the rare days my mother prepared our baon herself, the feeling of opening a lunchbox that made me feel loved. I didn’t realize back then how deeply those moments would stay with me until I became a mother myself. Now I catch myself trying to recreate that same feeling for my own child in the smallest ways I can. There are days I feel grateful, fulfilled, and soft, and there are also days I feel tired, financially anxious, lost, overstimulated, and unsure if I’m doing enough. But despite all of it, I still keep creating, writing, loving, and hoping. Maybe that’s who I am at my core. Someone who keeps nurturing even when life feels heavy.

Lately, I’ve learned the art of blocking. I block anyone who disrupts my mental health, anyone who constantly disturbs my peace of mind, and anyone too indecisive or chaotic to keep up with. Protecting your peace is also self-love.

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