Saw You In My Dreams.

"Papa left, but this time, it’s different."

Growing up, I was incredibly close to my dad. I called him "Daddy" with so much affection, and he was always my favorite parent. Whenever I did something wrong and Mom would punish me, I’d run straight into my father’s arms for protection. Every day, when he came home from the office, my sister and I would play hide and seek. It became a ritual. As soon as we heard his car pull up, we’d hide, and the moment he walked through the door, we’d shout, "Where am I, Daddy? Find me!" He’d always play along, pretending not to see us, even when we were hiding in the most obvious spots like under the bed or beneath his writing table. Those moments were a haven of joy and laughter, the kind of memories that seem eternal in a child's heart.

He was one of my first teachers, next to my mom, and he was the first person who taught me to pray. He introduced us to the church, to God, and he was the reason I had faith. He taught me the importance of prayer and how God hears us, even if we cannot express ourselves too much, He can read our hearts. He also taught me to play musical instruments, his voice a constant guide as my fingers stumbled over the keys. In every note, every chord, there was a connection to him, a bond that felt unbreakable.

Twenty-six years ago, our family decided to move back to the Philippines. I thought Daddy was coming with us and staying for good, but he had to leave. Leaving was always painful. He told me that he had to go back to work so we could go to school, have a good life, and fulfill all those dreams he nurtured for us. I still remember crying so hard whenever my dad left, the ache in my chest as if a piece of me was being torn away. I would say a lot of prayers for him, asking God to keep him safe until he could come home again.

He would make long-distance calls once or twice a month. I really don’t remember how often, but he’d call the school to connect with us (my siblings). We would exchange “I love yous” and “I miss yous,” and the inevitable, “When will you be coming home?” But he would never give us a definite answer. Since he was calling from the school principal’s office, I was too shy to tell him exactly how I felt, too embarrassed to let him hear the depth of my longing in front of strangers. So, I kept it inside, a growing well of unspoken words.

He always came back, like he always promised me. He came home every year (?) —at least, that’s how I remember it. There was a time he didn’t come home for two or three years. The reason? I do not know. But with every absence, a part of our bond frayed, and though I tried to hold onto it, the threads began to slip through my fingers.

As I grew older, my love for him matured, but it also changed. I didn’t get as close to him as I once did. When I was a child, I used to sleep beside him, feeling safe and loved. He was my favorite parent, my hero. But as I grew up and found my own voice, we began to have disagreements. I would occasionally argue with him, and we never reconciled. I would talk to him, but I never said sorry for any misunderstandings we had. Stubbornness? Pride? I’m not sure, but I let the distance grow.

That continued for years. He was no longer the parent I adored, and I had become someone he couldn’t quite reach. I changed, and the person I became was colder, less forgiving. April arrived, and I found myself standing beside his casket, looking back and wishing I had been kinder and gentler with him while he had time. Time—my most relentless enemy. I reflected on all the chances I had wasted and desperately wished I could have them back. Despite all the shortcomings, despite the truth that had hurt us both, none of it matters now. When you lose someone, the regrets come like a flood, drowning out everything else.

I am left with memories of what was, and a deep sorrow for what could have been. If only I had known this time would be different. If only I had known that when Papa left, he would never come back.

Sometimes, I feel like I’m living a life I don’t fully deserve. No matter how many achievements I rack up, or how many times people praise my work, there’s this persistent voice in my head whispering that it’s all a fluke. That I don’t belong here. That I’m fooling everyone.

Imposter syndrome is like an unwelcome guest that shows up in the quiet moments, casting doubt on everything I’ve accomplished. It tells me that my success is an accident, that eventually, someone is going to figure out I’m not as capable as I seem. I look at others who seem to move through life with ease, confident and self-assured, and wonder how they do it—how they walk around without the constant fear of being “found out.”

For me, every new challenge feels like a test I might not pass. Even when I’ve prepared, even when I know my stuff, there’s that nagging feeling that somehow, I’m not good enough. The worst part is how easy it is to downplay my own efforts. I’ll tell myself, “It wasn’t that hard,” or, “Anyone could’ve done that,” as if minimizing my work will shield me from the possibility of failure.

But that doesn’t make the fear go away. It just hides it beneath layers of self-doubt. Instead of celebrating my victories, I question them. Instead of owning my success, I attribute it to luck or timing, convinced that at any moment, everything could come crashing down.

The thing is, I know I’m not alone in this feeling. So many of us walk around with this invisible weight, afraid that one wrong step will expose us. But I also know that those feelings aren’t truth—they’re just fear disguised as fact. And though I struggle with it, I’m learning that I don’t have to listen to that voice. I can acknowledge it without letting it dictate how I live.

Because the truth is, I’ve worked hard for what I’ve achieved. I’ve earned my place, even if it doesn’t always feel like it. And just because I grapple with feelings of inadequacy doesn’t mean I am inadequate.

It’s a journey, learning to silence the imposter in my head, but I’m on the path. Every day, I remind myself that I’m not just faking it—I’m showing up, doing the work, and becoming the person I’m meant to be.

I deserved better than these clandestine meetings

I was watching a Netflix feature on the Old Testament book of Exodus today when my son burst in, looked at the screen, and asked, "What are you watching?" I told him, thinking that would be the end of it. Nope. A while later, he casually dropped some knowledge about Exodus 10:13 like a tiny theologian. I had to look it up just to keep up. Kid’s putting me to shame over here!

No I love yous

Diary entry: October 15, 2024

I woke up from a wild dream. You know how dreams work—one moment you're in a familiar place, the next everything shifts. You look behind you, and the scenery changes. You turn to the front, and you're somewhere else entirely. People you know appear alongside strangers who only exist in your dreams. Some places feel real, while others exist only in that dreamscape. It’s surreal.

What really gets to me are the recurring dreams. Sometimes, after months or years of not thinking about a certain place or person, they reappear, unchanged, like no time has passed. But the scariest part? I occasionally dream of things that haven't happened yet—and then they come true the next day. I see signs, premonitions, and when they unfold in real life, it sends chills down my spine.

My mother has this gift of premonition too. For her, it’s a guide—a way to navigate life. I seem to have inherited it, but instead of comfort, it terrifies me. People call it a gift, but I'm not so sure. There are moments when I want to lean on science, to find logical explanations for what I experience. Science can demystify things like this, offering clarity. But then, there are times when I feel pulled toward something deeper—something divine. It’s a strange place to be, caught between wanting to explain everything and accepting that maybe some things are beyond explanation.

So, about that dream—all of a sudden, a familiar face showed up randomly. It was him. He just appeared, casually talking to me, like nothing ever happened. Like he didn’t hurt me in the past. It completely caught me off guard. I’ve moved on, though. We never officially dated, just talked and got to know each other—until the next morning, he pulled the plug because he was pissed. And there he was in my dream, acting as if everything was fine, asking how I was, like we were friends.

You know me—I’m confrontational. In the dream, I was just about to tell him to fuck off, but right then, my alarm went off, jolting me awake.

Groggy, I reached for my phone, turned off the alarm, and checked my notifications. And there it was—his name, lighting up my screen. A message from him on Telegram.

I couldn’t believe it.

Though it's not the first time it happened to me but sometimes I couldn't help but wonder—

What kind of fuckery is this?

I swear nothing has caused more problems for me in my life than my inability to say no or turn people down. Soft and empathetic nature costs you a lot

Writing Prompt #210:

The war has been going on for over a 100 years now. Not that you’ve ever seen it, having been born in a bunker and remained here your entire life. You’ve heard the stories however, of the horrors and dangers out there.

Today, as your family is watching the news, one of the reporters snaps, “I can’t do this anymore. Everything is lie! They’re lying to you! Th-“ and the signal cut out."

In the dim light of the bunker, the flickering screen cast uneasy shadows on the walls. Your family sat in stunned silence, eyes wide as the news anchor's final, frantic words echoed in your ears.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

"Everything is a lie!"

The room seemed to close in as your mind raced. What could be true if the reports were fabrications? You’d always believed the stories of devastation and endless conflict were real, the stories your family told to keep you safe and to explain why you couldn’t ever go outside.

Your father’s face, usually so composed, was now a mask of worry. "It’s just a breakdown," he said quickly, though his voice betrayed his anxiety. "The reporters are under a lot of pressure. Don’t let this shake you."

But something had shifted. The old walls of your reality felt suddenly fragile, and the idea that the world outside might be different—maybe even safe—had begun to seep into your thoughts. Your mother, who had always warned against the dangers of the outside world, seemed unusually quiet, her eyes darting nervously.

"What if it’s true?" you asked, unable to hide the tremor in your voice.

Your father glanced at the door as if fearing it might burst open at any moment. "Even if it is, we have to stay here. It's too dangerous outside."

The silence that followed was heavy, filled with the weight of unspoken fears and the flickering uncertainty of the old news feed that had just cut out. The bunker, once a sanctuary, now felt more like a cage. As you sat there, you couldn’t help but wonder if there was more to the world than the dark tales you had been told—a world you might never see if you stayed hidden in the shadows.

what's on your mind?

Not everyone is meant to be in your future. Some people are just passing through to teach you lessons in life.

I'm honestly not feeling good lately. These past few days had been a roller coaster ride of emotions and I pushed a lot of people away. I put a barricade. I wanted to be alone.

But despite it all, as Hemingway quoted, “The world breaks everyone and afterward many are strong at the broken places."

I am still here. I am strong. I made it. I'm standing still.