I’ve never been the type to excel in sports—no trophies from basketball courts, no bruises from wrestling mats, no medals swinging from my neck. But give me a pen, or even just a moment of thought, and words begin to flow like water finding its way through stone. Grammar may stagger, structure may slip, but writing—writing has always been freedom. A place where form bends, where free verse breathes, where the heart is allowed to speak in raw syllables.
Last night, I shared a cup of cold frap with friends—simple, unhurried. The kind of night where laughter fogs the air but silence also feels safe. I could feel it then, the subtle shift of the wind, as though December itself had exhaled. There’s something about this season—especially when you’re far from home—that softens even the hardest parts of you. The season of thankfulness is coming. A season when love is not merely felt, but recognized. Hugged. Warmed. Remembered.
The breeze tonight reminds me of home.
Of street lamps brightening narrow streets.
Of children's rowdiness along alleys where moonshine tucks the flaws of raw unpaved walkways but nature still breathes.
Of families preparing handaan even if the budget says otherwise.
We call it Amihan—that cool northern wind that brushes the cheeks like memory.
Soft but piercing.
Nostalgic, but gentle.
It brings joy, yes, but it also carries that quiet ache Filipinos know too well—the kind that says December breeze is on - with the holidays coming up, and yet many of us will be celebrating oceans away from the ones we miss.
Maybe that’s why my heart feels a little unsettled.
Somewhere in me, a problem hums like a distant note I am trying not to hear.
I know it’s there, swelling, asking to be acknowledged.
But I’m afraid.
Afraid to confront the things I’ve chosen to set aside.
Afraid that in some decisions, I have been unfair—not just to others, but to myself.
A selfishness I didn’t intend, but perhaps still committed.
Some days, feelings arrive like tangled threads—difficult to name, too heavy to ignore.
I worry that I sound incoherent, dramatic even.
But emotions have their own language, one that grammar cannot cage.
And maybe this—this confusion, this longing, this push beyond comfort—is simply proof that something in me is still alive, still capable of love, still brave enough to care.
Because even when we are far—working in foreign cities,
surviving distance and homesickness,
building futures in currencies not our own—our hearts never quite learn to detach.
We carry family in our breath.
We carry memories in our skin.
We carry December like a lantern in the chest—glowing, fragile, unbroken.
And perhaps, despite the uncertainty I face, this is what matters:
That my heart still beats with softness.
That I can still feel the wind of my homeland, even from afar.
That I can write—messy, sincere, unfiltered—
and somehow find clarity inside the chaos.
Maybe this isn’t a conclusion.
Maybe it’s just a beginning.
A quiet step toward understanding myself,
toward forgiving myself,
toward becoming more than the sum of my fears.
Because this season, whether I’m home or oceans away,
I want to believe that I am still allowed to hope,
to grow, to falter, to return,
and to love—with both fragility and strength.
Just like every Filipino who whispers "nakakamiss sa Pinas....",
no matter where in the world they are.
