Hip-hop Has Always Thrived On Beef, And 2024’s Rap Battle Between Kendrick Lamar And Drake, Fueled

Saying goodbye to someone you once loved hits differently—it feels like you’re losing a piece of yourself, like the life you built together is slipping away. But as time passes, you start to see it for what it is: not a loss, but a chance to rediscover yourself and take back your heart. You learn to put your own needs, dreams, and happiness first. That’s where I am now, standing in that new, unfamiliar freedom.

No, I don’t want you back. Not in the way I once thought I would. We’ve grown older, and, more importantly, we’ve grown apart. The connection that once kept us close has faded, and with it, my need for you. I’ve taken that step many fear – the step towards reclaiming my own life, apart from the one we shared.

In the process of moving forward, I found myself rediscovering who I am. When you're with someone for so long, it's easy to lose yourself. You start compromising, blending your personality to fit theirs, and sometimes you forget the things that made you... you. But now, after letting go, I’ve started to rebuild. I’ve taken back my heart, my sense of self, and with that came the courage to start fresh.

I packed my bags and moved to a new city – the place where I was supposed to restart, to thrive, and find my footing. But instead, I’ve found myself feeling… nothing. It’s not that I expected things to immediately fall into place, but there’s an emptiness I can’t shake. It’s like I’m in the right spot for a new beginning, but my heart and mind just aren’t ready to bloom yet.

It’s strange. I’ve planted myself in fertile soil – a new city, new surroundings, new opportunities – but I refuse to let anything take root. I know there’s the potential for something beautiful to grow, whether it’s new friendships, a new love, or simply a new sense of belonging. Yet, for now, I’ve been keeping everything at a distance.

Maybe it’s fear. Fear of letting anything new take hold, knowing that it could uproot me once again. Or maybe it’s just that I need more time to heal, more time to understand who I am in this new chapter of my life. It’s hard to open up when you’ve just closed a door that was such a big part of your identity.

But even if I feel nothing at the moment, I know it’s temporary. I know that, eventually, something will take root – whether I let it or not. Life has a way of moving forward, even when we resist it. So, while I might not be ready right now, I’m learning to be patient with myself. I’m learning that it’s okay to not feel like I’m flourishing just yet. The seeds of growth are there; they’re just waiting for the right time to sprout.

For now, I’ll keep rediscovering myself, taking back more pieces of my heart and soul. And when the time comes, I’ll be ready to let something beautiful grow.

"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.

I broke my own heart that day.

He was kind. Nice. And I’m sure he’s a great friend. I saw him for the first time today, and I never thought it would be the last time I’d ever see him.

There was something about the way he smiled, the way his voice carried warmth like a quiet melody. It wasn’t a grand moment—no fireworks or fated encounters—just a fleeting interaction that somehow left its mark on me. Maybe that’s why it hurt so much.

I knew from the beginning that I couldn’t have him, that we were just two strangers passing each other on the street of life. But the heart has a strange way of getting attached to possibilities that never were. It was my own mind weaving stories where none existed, my own emotions building a bridge to nowhere.

And that’s where the heartbreak came. Not from anything he did or said, but from my own actions, my silent hopes. In the end, it was him who chose to walk away, and I, knowing there was no path forward.

But it still stung, that quiet realization: I had broken my own heart, in a moment that no one else would ever know existed.

It Has Been Quiet for a While

It has been silent in my life a bit lately. Between work, family, and the usual routine, things seemed to have slowed down in the personal connection department. So, I did something I hadn’t done in a while—I went back to dating apps. It felt like dipping my toes back into an ocean I hadn't swum in for a while, with no expectations, just curiosity.

I started chatting with random people. Some conversations were fleeting, like waves crashing quickly and disappearing into the shore, while others lingered a little longer. Then, there was one guy in particular who stood out from the rest. We had so much in common—our interests, hobbies, and even some random quirks. What surprised me the most, though, was how comfortable I felt expressing myself with him.

There was no pressure to impress or act a certain way. I could just be me, flaws and all, and he seemed to embrace that. In a world that often feels loud and demanding, this simple connection brought some warmth into the silence. It's early days, and who knows what the future holds, but for now, it feels nice to share a moment with someone who genuinely seems to get me.

Maybe the silence wasn’t so bad after all—it gave me space to appreciate this connection when it came.

I just have to pull some strings here and plan ahead. I should have a better plan for 2022. Two plans. Just in case the first one fails.

“It was not witches who burned. It was women. Women who were seen as Too beautiful, Too outspoken, Had too much water in the well (yes, seriously), Who had a birthmark, Women who were too skilled with herbal medicine, Too loud, Too quiet, Too much red in her hair, Women who had a strong nature connection, Women who danced, Women who sung, or anything else, really. ANY WOMAN WAS AT RISK BURNING IN THE SIXTEEN HUNDREDS Sisters testified and turned on each other when their babies were held under ice. Children were tortured to confess their experiences with “witches” by being fake executed in ovens. Women were held under water and if they float, they were guilty and executed. If they sunk and drowned they were innocent. Women were thrown off cliffs. Women were put in deep holes in the ground. The start of this madness was years of famine, war between religions and lots of fear. The churches said that witches, demons and the devil did exist and women were nothing but trouble. As we see even today, there is often a scapegoat created, and the chaos escalated in Sweden when the Bible became law and everything that did not line up with what the church said became lethal. The Bible fanaticism killed thousands of women. Everything connected to a women became feared, especially her sexuality. It became labeled as dark and dangerous and was the core of the witch trials through out the world. Why do I write this? Because I think the usage of words are important, especially when we are doing the work to pull these murky, repressed and forgotten about stories to the surface. Because knowing our history is important when we are building the new world. When we are doing the healing work of our lineages and as women. To give the women who were slaughtered a voice, to give them redress and a chance of peace. It was not witches who burned. It was women." ~ Fia Forsström, author

April 6, 2024

Day 3:

Grief is a relentless companion, haunting every corner of my existence. It lurks in the shadows, waiting to pounce when I least expect it. Today, I found myself reaching for the phone to share a funny anecdote, only to remember that the one I wanted to call is no longer here.

It's in these moments of solitude that grief truly rears its ugly head. The silence is deafening, echoing with memories of happier times. How do you fill the void left behind by someone you loved so deeply?

April 3, 2024

Day 1:

How do you define grief? It's like trying to capture the essence of a storm in a single drop of rain. A tempest that rages within, tearing apart the very fabric of your being. Today, I find myself grappling with this question as I navigate through the murky waters of loss.

Breaking the news to loved ones is an ordeal in itself. Each word feels like a boulder weighing down on my chest, each breath ragged and heavy with sorrow. How do you convey the enormity of loss without drowning in your own tears?

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.