about

I lost my mom a couple of years ago. I was never the same since; her absence left a void that feels impossible to fill. I decided to write because I know if I don’t, I might drown in my own sorrow and memories. The act of putting pen to paper has become my refuge, a way to navigate through the overwhelming emotions that threaten to consume me. Don’t get me wrong, I considered going to therapy, but I never got the chance; life continually threw obstacles in my path. Not when I was in college, barely making it through each day, juggling coursework and a part-time job just to survive. Nor when I graduated years later and was trying to establish a somewhat stable job amidst an unpredictable economy. I thought that when I could finally afford it, I would go, but I’m not sure anymore. Each passing day seems to blur the line between wanting help and feeling too lost to ask for it; the thought of seeking guidance now feels both urgent and distant, like a dream that slips through my fingers.

So I thought, I should just write if I won’t go to therapy. And that’s not the only reason, though. When I asked myself, “What happy memories do I still remember with my mom?” sadly, I couldn’t think of many. It leaves a hollow ache in my heart, making me wonder if it’s my body’s way of coping with the pain. You know, it forgets painful memories and unknowingly includes the good ones, like a safety mechanism shielding me from the storm of grief. So I guess this is my way of surrender, emotional purging, and healing. I don’t want to reach a point in my life where I’m left wondering why I don’t remember a single damn thing in my life. I once read something profound about someone saying that she’s not afraid of forgetting the important things; she’s afraid of forgetting the little things that matter the most—like the sound of laughter, the warmth of a hug, and the simple joy of shared moments. So, yes, that’s what all this is about. To expose the most intimate, shameful, even, and uncomfortable truths that transpired in the entirety of my life. To face it, so that one day, I might be able to let go and move on, free from the chains of forgotten memories. I built this place thinking that this is my ocean; it represents a vast expanse, deep and wide enough to swallow my heaviest confessions. With each word I pen down, I feel like I’m casting stones into those depths, hoping they sink away with my burdens, leaving space for light, love, and the possibility of new memories to emerge.