u/raaawringc

I don’t remember exactly when it started, just that when I was a kid, I loved books.

Not in a casual way. I was drawn to them—completely captivated, like they were small doors I could open anytime I wanted to leave where I was. I didn’t even question why. I just knew I liked how it felt to read, to imagine, to disappear into something bigger than my own world.

But loving books and having access to them are two very different things.

When I was in elementary, there was always that time of the year when someone would come to our classroom to sell books.

I don’t even remember exactly who they were—maybe vendors, maybe from some organization—but to me, it felt like they were bringing something special every time.

They would lay everything out—small storybooks, coloring books, dictionaries, even recipe books. And I would just sit there, staring, quietly choosing in my head which one I wanted the most.

The problem was, the books cost around 20 to 50 pesos.

And for some kids, that was nothing. But for me, that was already too much.

So I learned to adjust.

I didn’t ask. I didn’t expect. I borrowed.

And when I finally got my hands on a book, I treated it like borrowed time… because it was.

I would finish the whole thing in one sitting. No breaks. No distractions. Parang mission ko talaga siya.

Because I knew I had to give it back.

And I didn’t want to miss a single word.

But if you saw me back then, you probably wouldn’t think I was that kind of kid.

Because I wasn’t quiet.

I was that happy kid. Yung laging bida. Always laughing, always talking, always full of energy. The kind of kid people would describe as “masayahin.”

And maybe that was also my way of coping, if I stayed bright enough, no one would notice what I didn’t have.

Because deep down, I already knew.

As a kid who understood early on that no one was going to support me the way others were supported, I just… accepted it.

Most of the time.

But not always.

There were moments when everything I kept inside would come out all at once.

Like that one time in class.

I was always madaldal, always noisy. And back then, there was a rule—if your name got listed as “noisy,” you had to pay.

And I remember thinking, how am I supposed to pay for that when I barely even have baon?

One day, a classmate listed my name.

And something in me snapped.

I got really mad. I threw all the money I had at her.

She cried. Her mother came. There was a scene.

People showed up for her.

And for me?

No one.

I went home like nothing happened.

No one asked what happened.
No one explained anything.
No one was there.

It was just me again.

Figuring things out on my own.

And I carried that same quiet understanding into moments that were supposed to feel proud.

I was always one of those kids who received awards. Every year, every quarter—certificates, medals, recognition.

I did well.

I showed up.

I achieved.

But every awarding ceremony looked the same for me.

While other kids stood beside their parents—smiling, taking pictures, being celebrated—

I stood there alone.

No one beside me.
No one waiting after.

Just me, holding my certificate.

Walking back to my seat like it was just another normal day.

No celebration.

No “I’m proud of you.”

Just quiet achievement.

And then there was that one school event—our science fair.

I still remember our project—ampalaya extract as a mosquito repellent. Even now, it makes me smile a little.

But what stayed with me wasn’t the project.

It was lunchtime.

I wasn’t even hungry. I was just laughing with my classmates, joking about food like everything was normal.

But I already knew something they didn’t.

I didn’t have parents preparing my lunch.

That morning, I woke up early and cooked for myself—hotdogs.

Simple. Enough.

Until it wasn’t.

My teacher made a joke—something like, “yun lang ulam mo?”

Maybe it was nothing to others.

But to me, it stayed.

I didn’t open my baon.

I just sat there and pretended I wasn’t hungry.

Around me, my classmates were eating with their parents—laughing, talking, sharing food.

And I was still that same kid on the outside—

smiling, joking, being “bida.”

But inside, I was just sitting there…

quietly watching.

And maybe that’s also something I’m still learning now.

Back then, I had a lot of friends.

But growing up changes things.

Now, I don’t really have the same kind of friendships anymore.

And for a long time, I wondered why.

But when I look back, I think I understand it.

I learned how to be on my own too early.

I got used to figuring things out by myself.
To not expecting too much.
To not depending on anyone.

And when that becomes your normal, it follows you into adulthood.

Until one day, you realize—you’ve built a life where you’re strong…

but also alone.

But I don’t see that as something broken anymore.

I see it as something I’m still learning to grow out of.

Because just like I’m choosing to show up for my child—

I can also choose to open up, to connect, and to let people in.

Slowly.

In my own way.

And now, I understand why that younger version of me still makes me emotional.

Because she had to be strong before she even knew what strength meant.

But I’m not that child anymore.

I’m a mother now.

And if there’s one thing I know for sure—

I will not let my child feel what I felt.

I will show up.

I will be there.

Kahit languyin ko pa ang dagat, makasama ko lang ang anak ko.

Because the one thing I didn’t have back then—

is exactly what I’m choosing to give now.

Hiring Tiktok VA