the-mockinggay

[the-mockinggay]

XLI: What It Sounds Like

This might be the most well-thought-out entry I’ve written, because I’ve been drafting it since last week. My birthweek has been filled with reflections—on progress, failure, pretending, and the kind of honesty I’m still learning to give myself.

Over the last few years, celebrating my birthday has felt less like marking another year, and more like healing my inner child. I’ve thrown parties with newfound friends, taken adventures outside the Metro, gotten drunk with the people who know me best. Each year feels like unlocking something new.

This time, I thought I’d keep it simple. Maybe head to a museum alone. But deep down, I knew I was craving something outside my usual routine. So when a few lovely friends invited me to pack my stuff and do something different, I didn’t hesitate. I said yes; not just to the trip, to a photoshoot I've always been dreaming of, but to the version of me that’s been quietly asking for more.

And in all that quiet, I started hearing things I hadn’t made time to hear. About where I am, how far I’ve come, and what I’m still avoiding.

What surprised me most wasn’t the shoot itself—it was being chosen. It was about the people who believe in me. I’ve been so used to making do, to pretending I don’t want more because I couldn’t afford to ask or pay for it. That museum plan? It wasn’t about being cultured. It was because it was all I could afford at this time. And yet there I was, being seen—being asked, not because I begged for attention, but because someone believed I was worth capturing. And that meant everything. Because I don’t have much. But I’ve always promised myself that whatever I do have, I’ll give it fully, honestly, and with heart.

And maybe that’s the real gift this year: being reminded that the right people will always find ways to bring the best out of you—even when you’re running low. They don’t ask you to show up richer, louder, or shinier. They just ask you to show up. And in doing so, they remind you that you’re already enough, as you are.

Because underneath all the overthinking, the guilt about not doing “more,” the quiet shame of having less—what I really wanted was to feel seen. Not for what I could give, or what I’ve accomplished, or how put-together I can seem. But for being here. Flawed and all.

So here I am. Still figuring things out, still growing in small ways. And if this is what it sounds like to be seen, to be chosen, to just be—then I think I’d like to stay a little longer.

Oh, and by the way—

Happy birthday, you.

Sincerely,

Me

[the-mockinggay]

XL: Sundays Coming and So Are the Pagans

Over the past two weeks, I’ve somehow spiraled deep into thinking about philosophy, ethics, and the ever-blurry idea of a moral compass. It started with binge-watching The Good Place and a few TED Talks. Then last Friday night, I watched Sunshine. And while I’ve already written a reflection about it, I still can’t move on.

It’s Sunday—and somehow, everything I felt while watching that film just got louder today. Maybe because this day is supposed to be sacred. Clean. But what if you’re someone who doesn’t feel safe in that space? What if Sundays aren’t peaceful for everyone?

We’re used to it. We live in a place where morality is measured mostly by religion. And not even personal faith, but the kind that’s been turned into rules. Traditions. Fear. You’re told that being “good” means following the system. And if you don’t, then you’re the problem. The sinner. The shameful one. Even if all you’re doing is trying to take care of yourself.

Watching and reading a lot of mind-boggling stuff made me think about how often we’re taught to be silent, to follow, to never ask questions. And we call that faith. But I wonder… is it still faith if it doesn’t allow people to be free? If it doesn’t leave room for love, for mistakes, for hard decisions?

Everything’s hitting me hard lately. And even harder because of how complicated it is just to be human.

We cling to this image of the blessed Sunday. But outside, people are hurting. Struggling. Being judged for things they didn’t choose. They’re punished for wanting a choice at all.

And this 40th entry, with its title, might sound like a joke to some. But it means something more to me.

It means more and more people are waking up. Realizing they don’t have to keep following rules that were never made with their dignity in mind. That choosing what’s right for you, even if others say it’s wrong, isn’t selfish. It’s brave.

In old stories, pagans were just people who didn’t follow the dominant religion. But we twisted the word, thrown at anyone who lives differently. Loves beyond the binary. Thinks beyond the “righteous path.” But maybe that’s what this world needs—more people who question. Who push back. Who choose compassion over tradition, and honesty over performance.

So yes, Sundays are still coming. But so are the people who refuse to shrink themselves just to be called “good.” So are the people who choose peace over shame, even if that means unlearning what they were raised to believe.

Maybe that’s me too. I still get confused. Still feel angry. Still don’t have it all figured out. But I’m slowly learning that I don’t need to earn my worth by performing someone else’s idea of purity. I can be good—maybe even better—by choosing to be real. By choosing love. By choosing freedom.

Call us pagans for that, for all I care.

We’re still here. And we’re not leaving.

Sincerely,

Me

[the-mockinggay]

XXXIX: Super Graphic Ultra Modern Girl

On paper (blog in this case), or maybe online, I probably look like I have things figured out—Independent. Opinionated. Someone who lines up their spoons and forks, keeps a tidy apartment, juggles commitments on one hand and holds an iced coffee in the other, all while wearing a smile.

And I guess, in many ways, that’s true. I have built a life I can be proud of. One where I pay my own rent, choose my own family, and stand on my own feet even when they ache. One where I show up for others with advice, presence, and humor, as if I don’t have nights where I just sit on the coach and stare at the wall in front of me, wondering if it's all just a very well-curated illusion.

Because writing the part is easy, but playing it is harder.

I’ve learned how to look composed when my insides feel chaotic. How to offer wisdom when my own doubts are loud. How to hold space for others while quietly wishing someone would do the same for me. And sometimes, the image I’ve carefully built—of being capable, adaptable, modern—feels like it leaves no room to just… be soft. Or scared. Or even a little messy.

I’ve noticed how people assume I always have a plan, just because I carry myself like I do. That I’m always okay, just because I don’t break in front of them. Because even a super graphic ultra modern girl has her limits. I do break. Privately. In silence

There are moments when someone jokingly says I must be “so strong” living on my own, when they don’t see the nights I sit at the toilet for 10 minutes and wonder if anyone would even notice if I didn’t show up for a month. It’s funny how people only see the surface and assume it’s all there is.

But I’ve also learned that the surface doesn’t have to tell the whole story. You can be soft under all that polish. You can want connection even when you seem like you don’t need anyone. You can feel lonely even when you’re surrounded by people who admire you.

And that’s what I’m thankful for my friends, who remind me in quiet ways that I’m not alone. In the short but warm conversations we share online. In the little heart or haha reactions they leave on the stories I post. In the streaks we’ve somehow kept alive for months now. All these small gestures feel like soft threads that keep me stitched to something bigger, something steadier, even on the days I feel like I’m unraveling.

It may also be about choosing yourself every day, even when no one’s watching. About sitting quietly with your own thoughts when it gets too heavy. About saying yes when you mean it, and no when you need to. About remembering that you can still be the main character of your story even if you don’t feel like you fit the role all the time.

So here's a little loud, a little quiet. A little brave, a little scared. A little closer every day to feeling like I don’t have to choose which version of myself deserves to be seen.

Because at the end of the day, being a super graphic ultra modern girl isn’t about being perfect. It’s about being real.

Sincerely,

Me

[the-mockinggay]

XXXVIII: The History of Wrong Guys

Some patterns are easier to notice when you’ve lived through them enough times. Like how I still catch myself staring at my phone, thumb hovering over this familiar place, wondering why I even bother opening it. And yet here I am, hoping (maybe this time) someone sees me.

You know the type—the kind who can make you feel seen and invisible in the same breath. The ones who say just enough to keep you hoping, then vanish when it starts to matter. Different names, same plot.

And more often than not, I’m left feeling empty instead of fulfilled. And the cycle continues; like some twisted little kink I haven’t unlearned yet. Because somehow, even emptiness feels more tolerable than nothing at all. Like I keep coming back to this same pattern, knowing how it ends, calling it a day, and say "okay na 'to."

I’ve started to notice something about myself: it feels like I’m too much and too little at the same time. So I downplay myself—soften my edges, tuck away the parts that feel too much—all just to feel wanted, even if just for a fleeting moment.

And yet… I'm still here; in this hellhole. Because for me, the idea of being chosen (temporarily) still feels easier than sitting with my own silence.

But lately, I’ve also started asking myself: is it really worth it? Is shrinking myself just to fit into someone else’s box really what I want?

So tonight, I’m choosing to learn this:

If I’m not meant to have it, I hope to learn how to remove the desire from my heart to want it; and to find peace in its absence.

Because not everything I think I want is meant for me. Not everyone I try to reach is meant to hold me.

Until then, I’ll keep reminding myself: No edits. No shrinking. No more sad history with the same cycle—the same kink—I keep getting lost in.

Sincerely,

Me

[the-mockinggay]

XXXVII: Running Up That Hill

Lately, life honestly feels like an endless uphill climb. Not the kind of cute, manageable incline but more llike a steep, unforgiving kind that burns every part of your body, makes you lose your breath, and leaves you questioning all your life choices through and through.

Every day seems to come with a little more weight to carry. Priorities that pile up faster than they’re crossed out. Bills that multiply. Expectations, from everywhere, that just keep stacking higher and higher. There are days that feel heavier, nights felt longer, and somewhere in between it’s even harder to notice any progress if there are any.

And yet somehow, we keep going. Even on days when it feels like nothing is changing, even when the steps feel so small they’re almost invisible, there’s something inside that refuses to stop. Sometimes it’s just knowing that standing still won’t get you anywhere closer to where you want to be.

That’s the thing about this climb; it asks more of you than you think you have, and then some. But the strange part is, the more you keep at it, the stronger you become. The hill doesn’t necessarily get easier, but you do.

It’s easy to look around and feel like everyone else is somehow gliding effortlessly up their own hills while you’re barely holding it together. And that’s why it’s so important to stop comparing, to stop assuming you’re falling behind just because your journey looks different.

Some days will feel like a sprint; some days a crawl. And it’s okay to pause, catch your breath, sit down, and gather yourself. Slowing down isn’t failing.

Because the climb itself is proof that you haven’t given up. That you’re still here. That no matter how steep it gets, you’re still finding a way forward. And that alone is something to be proud of.

If nothing else, remember this: you’ve made it through every hard day you thought you couldn’t. Remember the first half of this year? You’ve climbed countless hills you once thought were impossible. And yet you’re still here, moving forward.

One day, this hill will just be another camp about how far you’ve come. And when you look back, you’ll see more progress, more strength than you ever gave yourself credit for.

Keep climbing. Keep running.

Sincerely,

Me

[the-mockinggay]

XXXVI: 1 step forward, 3 steps back

The past few days have felt heavier than usual. I can’t even point to one specific thing, but it’s there. This quiet weight that seems to grow with every headline, every comment, every opinion I scroll past.

Goes to show that the internet sometimes can be so fucking cruel. It’s like every time I go online, there’s a new reason to feel disheartened—bad news, distasteful takes, people saying things just to hurt or to feel superior.

And I’ll admit, I feel it more deeply than I’d like to. Even when I try to tell myself not to, I still care about the injustices I see, the unkindness I read, the way some people treat others like they’re less than human just because it’s easy to hide behind a screen. And that has a way of piling up in my chest, leaving me feeling heavier than I was the day before.

It almost feels like every time I try to center myself, the world (wide web) pushes me off balance again. I want to believe in progress, but some days it feels like everyone loves to tear each other down. You tell yourself to stay strong, to keep your head high, but it wears on you. You feel it in your shoulders, in your heart, in the way you struggle to even open socmeds again, knowing what’s waiting.

But lately, I’ve also been trying to catch myself. To take a breath and remind myself that I don’t have to engage with everything I see. That not every fight is mine to fight, and not every cruel word deserves to take up space in my mind.

Because that’s the thing about being online, it can make you feel like you have to react to everything, when in truth, you don’t.

I’ve been practicing choosing my own battles. Sitting with myself and asking: does this truly matter to me? Will arguing with a stranger change anything? Should I let their bitterness poison me too? More often than not, the answer is no. So I lock the screen, put my phone down, and choose quiet over chaos.

I remember this one scene from ATLA (203), when King Bumi explained the three types of jing—options in fighting—of how you direct your energy: positive (when you take the offensive), negative (when you retreat or defend), and neutral—when you do nothing; listening and waiting for the right moment to strike.

And believe me, that doesn’t mean I stop caring, or that I turn a blind eye to what’s wrong. It just means not everything needs to be met head-on and I’m learning that my energy, my peace, is worth protecting too. That sometimes, it’s okay to do nothing for now, to stay still, to choose the neutral jing until it’s the right time to act.

At the end of the day, I know that kindness still matters, and it should start with how I treat myself when the world feels cruel. So I keep showing up on my own terms. Speaking up when I can, walking away when I need to, and holding on to the kind of compassion that I wish more people carried.

Because not every battle is worth fighting for.

But I’ll never stop standing for the ones that truly matter.

Sincerely,

Me

[the-mockinggay]

XXXV: Invisible

For years, I told myself I didn’t mind fading into the background. I even joked about it sometimes labelling myself a "Leo with less main character syndrome,” as if that made me special in its own way. I wore it with pride, convincing myself I didn’t need attention, that I was fine being overlooked as long as I knew who I was.

But lately I’ve started to realize something I’ve been too scared to admit. Maybe I’ve been lying to myself because as much as I tried to believe I was okay being unseen, I’ve started to notice how much it hurts to feel invisible.

These past few weeks have brought quiet moments of clarity. Staring at the monitor, scrolling through my feed, seeing people celebrated for simply existing as themselves; and I catch myself wishing someone would look at me the same way. Not because I need the spotlight or constant validation, but because deep down, I want to feel like I matter. Like I’m really here. Like someone notices, and not just in passing.

I think back to all the times I made myself smaller to fit into spaces that never really fit me back. Times I downplayed what I wanted so I wouldn’t make waves. Times I stayed quiet instead of asking to be heard. At the time, I thought it was easier. That blending in meant no one could judge me too harshly, no one could reject me for who I really was.

But the truth is, hiding doesn’t save you from hurt. It just leaves you alone with it.

And now, I’m starting to wonder how much of myself I’ve kept hidden all these years. How many chances to connect, to truly be understood, I let slip away because I was too afraid of what someone might see if I stopped pretending.

Maybe it’s not really about wanting to shine brighter than anyone else. Maybe it’s just about allowing myself to take up space. To exist in rooms, in relationships, in this life without apologizing for being here. Because at the end of the day, that’s what we all want. To be seen. Not just noticed, but understood. Not just looked at, but truly known.

And maybe the first step to that is letting myself see me.

So here’s to holding the space I deserve. To speaking when I have something to say. To showing up as I am, even if it scares me.

Because I was never meant to live invisible. And I don’t want to spend the rest of my life acting like I am.

Sincerely,

Me

[the-mockinggay]

XXXIV: New Rules

For a little over three years, I lived alone. The kind of alone that felt freeing, quiet, and safe. I knew exactly where everything was, how everything worked, and more importantly, I knew how to breathe in my own space. Every stuff had a system. Every spoon and fork had a place. Even silence became a kind of comfort I looked forward to.

But that changed last week.

A family member moved in and just like that, a space that was once entirely mine became something shared.

It was a strange feeling, at first. I found myself watching everything shift—routines, noise levels, even the little habits I never realized were so specific until someone else was there to disrupt them. I didn’t know I’d become this… particular. The way I line up utensils, the way where things are placed, the way I clean while I cook. Suddenly, I was seeing myself from outside; who’s maybe a little too organized, a little too structured which I started asking, “Am I too much?”

But this isn’t a story of annoyance or discomfort. This is a story of adjustment and discovery.

Because what I’ve realized is that living with someone again isn’t just about compromise. It’s about understanding. About patience. About learning where someone is coming from and showing them where you are too. It’s about rewriting the “rules” I had quietly built over the years and figuring out which ones still serve me… and which ones don’t matter as much as I thought.

I’ve also come to see this as an unexpected gift. Sharing space made me see parts of myself I would’ve never noticed if I remained alone. I learned that I can be both caring and controlling, giving and guarded. And that’s okay. Growth doesn’t always look graceful. Sometimes it looks like mismatched tupperware, spilled rice on the counter, or a conversation that reminds you it’s not just your world anymore.

What’s surprising is how this has brought us closer. Not just through shared meals or split chores, but through quiet moments of understanding. I’m learning her rhythms. She’s learning mine; we’re slowly building something new, not just as cohabitants, but as cousins who are still figuring things out.

And maybe that’s what in(ter)dependence is about. Not just keeping a space tidy, but keeping it open. For change. For people. For growth.

Because at the end of the day, the home I built three years ago is still (and should always be) a space that opens its doors to my chosen family. It’s warm, it’s cozy, it’s inviting, and most importantly, it’s safe. And I want it to stay that way. Not just for me, but for the ones I choose to share it with.

It’s not the life I had three weeks ago. But it’s still mine. Just with new rules.

Sincerely,

Me

[the-mockinggay]

XXXIII: Revolting Children

Someone I know recently packed their things and left. And while to some, that might seem like a normal part of growing up, I know it meant something deeper. Something heavier. Something braver.

Because when you grow up in a family that worships tradition over the truth, leaving isn’t just a milestone. It’s a rebellion. It’s choosing peace over performance. It’s finally saying “enough” to the cycle everyone else pretends is normal.

And watching it happen, I couldn’t help but reflect on my own story. How so many of us, especially those who grew up in families that confuse control for care, know what it means to leave not out of hate, but out of necessity. How sometimes, the only way to grow is to get out.

Because there’s this unspoken rule in a typical Filipino family: that love should be tolerated, even when it hurts. That respect means staying silent. That being related is reason enough to accept things you’d never allow from anyone else. And if you speak up, you’re an enemy. If you draw a boundary, you’re selfish. If you walk away, you’re ungrateful.

But I’ve learned that blood isn’t thick enough to keep me in spaces that make me question my worth. I’ve learned that real love, shouldn’t bruise—emotionally, mentally, nor spiritually. I’ve had to teach myself that I don’t owe anyone my silence, especially not the people who made me feel like I was too loud just for existing.

It takes a while to unlearn the guild and wonders. To unhook your self-worth from the people who never saw you as whole to begin with. But each day away, each step further, I started to feel more like myself. Not the version they tolerated, but the one I’m finally learning to love.

And maybe that’s what freedom looks like; to able to breathe without bracing for impact. Being able to wake up and not feel like you’re already doing something wrong. Being able to look at yourself and say, “You’re allowed to choose peace.”

We’re also often told, “They’re still your family.” But what people forget is that sometimes, it’s the people closest to you who do the deepest harm. And that walking away doesn’t mean you don’t love them. It means you finally started learning to love yourself.

And sure, we still carry the scars. Some wounds don’t vanish just because you’ve left the battlefield. But leaving is how healing starts. Leaving is how the cycle ends.

We may not have had the softest beginning, but we can choose what comes next. We can break patterns. Rewrite definitions. Find family in people who make us feel seen, not silenced.

And maybe that’s what this season is about. It's not just about growing up, but growing out. Out of what hurt us. Out of who they told us we can and cannot be.

I used to think being the black sheep was a burden. Like I was always the problem. Now I know it just means I saw the problem for what it was, and chose not to stay quiet about it.

We are revolting children, living in revolting times. And maybe that’s exactly how the cycle finally ends.

Sincerely,

Me

[the-mockinggay]

XXXII: The Winner Takes It All

Lately, I’ve been thinking about the kind of freedom that doesn’t need to be loud to be real. The kind that grows in silence, in small choices, in the space between who I was and who I’m becoming. I didn’t rush into it. I simply found myself stepping into it, one careful, intentional moment at a time.

There’s something about being more aware of your choices: of how you move, who you share space with, and what it means to be present and careful. It’s not fear. Not shame. Just… awareness. Responsibility. And a kind of love that’s grounded in care—for myself and for the people I allow close.

Sometimes I wonder how others would see me if they knew every chapter, every scar, and every shift in my story. But I’m writing for the part of me that has learned to hold myself without apology, even when I’m navigating things I never thought I’d face.

The truth is, I’ve never felt more in tune with myself. With what it means to be safe, to be strong, to be honest, even if that honesty is quiet, even if it’s something I only whisper to myself at night. I’ve been walking this path with care. Not because I have to, but because I want to. Because I finally understand what it means to carry a kind of power that doesn’t need to shout to be real.

I’ve come to understand myself better by learning to choose what feels right. From knowing what boundaries feel like, not as walls, but as gentle spaces. I’ve realized that real connection doesn’t need to be rushed. It’s chosen. And it unfolds slowly, with care. And when it does, it feels like safety, not survival.

And lately, that sense of safety has extended beyond myself. A few days ago, someone needed space. Peace. A break from the noise of a toxic cycle that we both know too well. Letting her in wasn’t just about offering a room. It was about choosing healing together. Quietly. Deliberately. In the way only those who’ve had to start over can understand.

It’s still hard sometimes. Still confusing. But there’s a deep peace in knowing I’m doing what I can. That I’m walking with intention. That I can care deeply and still protect myself. That love (of any kind) should never ask you to forget what you’ve learned to survive.

Maybe this is what a quiet win looks like. Not the kind that demands attention, but the kind you feel when you’ve come through something and you’re still standing. And I know I wouldn’t have made it here alone.

This peace, this steadiness, wouldn’t be possible without those who feel more like home than any blood relation ever did. They’ve shown up in ways that made all the difference.

And in that love, I’ve found something unshakable. Something worth calling a win.

Sincerely,

Me

[the-mockinggay]

XXXI: Same Ground

There’s been something sitting heavy with me this past week. It started as a quiet thought during a jog, then grew louder with every post, every comment, every self-righteous take I’ve come across online. It’s this idea of holding the so-called moral high ground and how often, instead of being a compass, people use it like a lethal weapon.

Recently, I read a comment about a public figure who reacted emotionally during a reality show moment. Her friend did something that hurt her, even if it was technically how the show works. The comment said, “She has no right to be mad. That’s part of the game. She should’ve known better.” And it wasn’t just disagreement. It was dismissal.

As if being hurt made her wrong.

As if emotions must be logical to be valid.

That mindset stuck with me because it reflects a mindset I’ve seen far too often in real life. People who act like empathy has to be earned. Like they’re always in the right just because they kept their cool, or followed the rules, or avoided getting emotional. They look at others who speak up or break down and instantly call them immature, dramatic, or weak. And they feel justified in saying so, as if their lack of emotion makes them superior.

But there’s a difference between offering perspective and being cold. You can help someone reflect without shutting them down. You can correct someone without making them feel small.

I think that’s what makes me saddest. People started confusing emotional detachment with wisdom. As if the only way to be right is to be unaffected. As if someone’s pain can be dismissed just because it doesn’t look “composed.”

And while writing this, I realized I’ve done that same thing to someone dear to me. I remembered telling them something I shouldn’t have; it was never my intention to call them OA and that I should’ve chosen better words so we could’ve met in the middle. Thankfully, I feel we’re good now and still getting along. We’ve known and loved each other for a long time, and that means a lot to me.

Some of us have spent years being told we’re too much. Too emotional. Too dramatic. Too sensitive. Some of us grew up learning to tone ourselves down so others wouldn’t feel uncomfortable. And now, when we try to speak up or show what we feel, we’re told it’s still wrong.

No wonder people stay silent. No wonder it’s easier to retreat.

But I don’t want to live in a world where composure matters more than compassion. I don’t want to live in a world where your pain has to be palatable to be taken seriously.

I don’t need to stand on higher ground just to feel seen. I’d rather stand beside someone, listen to them, and try to understand. That’s what I hope we all learn—what I want to keep learning to do—Not just to speak with conviction, but to listen with grace.

Because being right means nothing if you forget how to be kind.

Sincerely,

Me

[the-mockinggay]

XXX: Here's To Never Growing Up

There are nights that stay with you longer than expected. Not because they were loud or wild or picture-perfect, but because they simply felt right. Last night was one of those.

I was invited to a friend’s despedida. A simple gathering, really. No grand themes or gimmicks. Just laughter, music, drinks, and a whole lot of queer joy. But somewhere between the chika, chaotic photo ops, lap dances, and that signature laugh we all share, something quietly shifted in me.

It was one of the gayest nights I’ve ever had, and also one of the most heartfelt.

Maybe I’ve been needing moments like that more than I realized. A space where I could show up fully. Where being loud and honest didn’t mean being too much. Where love was passed around through alcohol, warm hugs, and spontaneous dances. Where vulnerability didn’t need an explanation.

I’ve known two of these people for years, and last night reminded me just how deeply grateful I am to have crossed paths with them. To grow alongside them. To be chosen and kept, not by chance, but by connection built over time. Even better, I met new people too. Ones who sparked something in me again. A fire I thought I was too tired to carry.

That one night made me look at the future a little differently. Less dread. More wonder.

I don’t know how long these moments will last. But I know for sure that I want to keep living for the warmth of chosen families. For stories shared in between drinks. For the quiet kind of safety that reminds me I don’t have to carry everything alone.

Maybe that’s what “never growing up” really means. Not refusing to age, but holding on to the joy. To connection. To the softness we’ve fought hard to keep. Maybe that’s how we survive. Maybe that’s how we shine.

And as the night faded into stories we’ll laugh about for years, I realized something: I don’t want to grow up without them. These people, these moments; they’ve become part of the version of myself I actually want to keep becoming.

If growing up means forgetting the kind of joy, love, and belonging I felt last night, then maybe I’d rather not grow up at all.

Sincerely,

Me

[the-mockinggay]

XXIX: Red

In recent news, The Philippines has recently ranked among the countries with the fastest-growing numbers of HIV cases.

Alarming, yes, but not for the reasons many people assume. What should be a public health wake-up call has instead become fuel for careless opinions, wrapped in judgment, disguised as “concern.”

I came across a post recently in our local online community group. It started with: “I’m a proud ally, I love my gay friends… but…” And from there, it was all downhill. A rant followed about how (and I quote) they said “95% of HIV cases are from the gay community,” how public healthcare is being “exploited,” and how queer people are “choosing” to be irresponsible and “entitled” just because testing and treatments are free.

What hit me wasn’t just the ignorance—it was the entitlement. That someone could claim to be an “ally” and, in the same breath, treat PLHIV lives like an inconvenience. That someone could twist regular testing into recklessness, or paint access to treatment as abuse. That someone could preach about a “moral compass” while completely lacking compassion.

It reflects what so many still believe. Beliefs that hurt. Beliefs that literally kill lives without them knowing. So I responded for anyone who’s ever felt the sting of shame they didn’t deserve.

Let’s get something straight: HIV doesn’t spread because someone is gay.

It spreads because of behaviors, not identities. If more cases are being recorded in the LGBTQIA+ community, it’s not because we’re the problem. It’s because we’re the ones showing up. We’re getting tested. We’re not hiding anymore. And that visibility? That’s not a flaw in the system. THAT IS PROGRESS.

Healthcare isn’t being “abused” just because it’s finally working. Organizations like LoveYourself, The Red Whistle, SAIL, HASH and other community-led groups aren’t enabling people, they’re empowering them. To live. To be informed. To be safe. To survive.

And honestly? I’m tired. Tired of turning pain into teachable moments to these kind of people; of softening the truth so it doesn’t make them uncomfortable; tired of justifying why these kinds of public discourse still deserve respect, empathy, care, love, or even just life.

But I still try. Every day, I try.

To stay here. To speak up.

To live with pride, even when the world insists it’s something to be ashamed of.

Because this is not just about numbers. This is about people. This is about being humane.

And if there’s one thing I owe the queer community, the very one that taught me how to love louder, live fuller, and fight harder—it’s to show up. To give back not just with words, but with courage. And not only because we're once again celebrating the Pride month.

To use whatever voice I have to protect the ones who are still finding theirs. To fight for each and every right under our shared roof, because no one else will do it for us.

We keep each other alive.

We’ve always had to.

Sincerely,

Me

[the-mockinggay]

XXVIII: Requiem (a debriefing)

It’s been two days since our office event concluded, and I still haven’t fully processed everything. While I’ve managed to get some rest, my mind remains active, replaying scenes, lines, moments, and even awkward stumbles like an unsolicited highlight reel. Instead of resting like a normal person, I find myself reliving every moment, as if it’s the final episode of a show I wasn’t ready to end.

Over the past two months, I experienced a whirlwind of script drafts, late-night rehearsals, music edits, internal meltdowns, and sleep deprivation. Amidst these challenges were golden moments of realization: “Oh wow, this is actually working.” What began as reading a few lines ended up becoming a full-blown theater actor and playwright. Not exactly the arc I imagined, but apparently, life loves a dramatic twist.

Playwriting taught me that storytelling is as much about collaboration as it is about creativity. It’s about making space for others, adjusting, compromising, and rewriting until the narrative resonates with everyone involved. This journey became more than a creative process; it was an immersive lesson in communication, collaboration, and resilience. A learning curve I did not expect at Q2.

Unexpectedly, I found connection. I made new friends, reconnected with old ones, and stepped out of my work-from-home bubble. Being recognized for something personal and creative was profoundly meaningful. That meant the world.

Though this was a competition, winning wasn’t also my primary goal. I aimed for our story to be heard, for the jokes to land, and for the audience to feel seen. If “S.Y. 2000” achieved that, then it served its purpose.

So I will sing no Requiem for the missed cues, the forgotten lines, or the imperfect moments. They weren’t failures; they were proof that we showed up, gave our all, and kept going. The stumbles made it more real. More alive. More human.

It’s strange how something that lasted only a few weeks can leave such a lasting impact. But that’s the power of storytelling: it ends, yet its echoes remain.

And if just for one night, our story was seen, heard, and felt; then that was more than enough.

Sincerely,

Me

[the-mockinggay]

XXVII: Speak Now

There’s something about late nights, sleep deprivation, and preoccupation that makes thoughts clearer. When the world slows down and the noise fades, my mind tends to wander to all the moments during the day when I felt… almost invisible. Not because I’m unseen, but because my words didn’t quite make it all the way out.

Lately, I’ve realized how much easier it is for me to express myself when I’m writing. When I type or write stuff down, I don’t have to fight to get my point across. Nobody interrupts; words stay whole. People can take their time reading, and I don’t have to scramble to find a gap in the conversation.

I guess that’s why I’m more of a writer than a talker. In conversation, it’s messy. Everyone’s trying to talk at once, and it feels like I’m always trying to find a crack just to squeeze in my thoughts. Talking feels chaotic, and I often get lost in it. Writing, on the other hand, gives me control.

It’s uncomfortable to admit, but it’s true. I want to get better at joining in and making sure my voice is heard in the most mindful way possible—with intention, clarity, and respect for both myself and others. It’s a “skill issue” I need to work on.

Maybe it starts with accepting where I am now and being patient with the process. Perhaps this journey isn’t just about enhancing my skill as a storyteller but also about learning how to communicate better with others; not just through words on a page, but in the middle of all the noise too.

Being heard shouldn’t mean losing myself in the process.

Sincerely,

Me

[the-mockinggay]

XXVI: Con Te Partirò

Some goodbyes don’t come with closure. Some connections don’t come with warning signs. And sometimes, letting go isn’t just about people. It’s also about some habits and distractions we used to survive.

Lately, I’ve been going through something again. A familiar ache that creeps in when a connection suddenly disappears. One moment, you think the door is open. The next, you realize it never really was. And they’re gone before you even figure out what just happened.

It hurts to know it was really short yet significant. They made it feel like the door was open, and maybe a part of me believed I could stay a while. That maybe, just maybe, I could be wanted in return. But in the end, I was left standing in that doorway, only to realize it was never really meant to be open for me in the first place and I hate that each time it happens. I go through the entire self-blame checklist, even when deep down I know someone’s decision to leave says more about them than it does about me.

Still, I question myself. I’ve felt the emptiness. And I’ve missed someone who didn’t even promise to stay. But there’s something different this time as the heaviness doesn’t last as long anymore.

I know better now. I know that sometimes, people walk away because they were never planning to stay. They leave you hanging because giving a proper goodbye requires courage they don’t have. And while I still feel the sting, I also see the progress.

But saying goodbye isn’t just about people. I’ve also had to let go of other things that used to bring comfort, even if they weren’t really good for me. Like random stuff that gave me a temporary high but left my budget gasping for air. The cheap thrills, the distractions; they filled the void, but they also kept me from facing the real work: healing, growing, saving, and being honest with myself.

And maybe that’s what Q2 is teaching me. That saying goodbye isn’t always tragic. Sometimes, it’s just necessary. There are things I outgrow, and I need to be okay with letting them go.

Because I can’t keep chasing people who don’t see my worth. I can’t keep spending for the sake of feeling better for five minutes. I can’t keep clinging to things that leave me more broken than whole.

I may not have full control over who stays or what I can afford all the time, but I can control how I move forward from here. And that’s what I plan to do.

Sincerely,

Me

[the-mockinggay]

XXV: Byahe

In all my years of working, both of my jobs have allowed me to work from home. It’s a privilege I never took lightly, especially in this country where commuting feels like a punishment for simply trying to make a living.

But lately, I’ve had to go to the office more often. And with that, I’ve been thrown back into the not-so-mundane chaos of being a commuter; you start the day fighting for space in a jeep or a train that’s packed like sardines, wondering how many more people they think can physically fit. You pray that the next ride comes quick, that it isn’t full, that it isn’t broken, that it isn’t stuck in traffic for hours. It’s a daily gamble that costs time, energy, and dignity. Not to mention the system that never seem to care.

And what’s worse is how normal it’s all become. We’ve learned to laugh it off, to call yourself a “Mandirigma,” to adjust and adjust and adjust until we forget that we’re being failed. That it shouldn’t be this hard to move through Metro Manila. That people shouldn’t have to wake up at 4 AM just to make it to work by 9. That you shouldn’t need luck and survival instincts just to ride a bus.

But the government doesn’t seem to care. Because, apparently, mobility is only important when it’s about cars, not the people taking three rides just to earn minimum wage. And while they build roads and (PAYMENT-REQUIRED) skyways for the privileged few, the rest of us are left on the side of the road, sweating, waiting, enduring.

They’ll give us free rides on Labor Day and call it public service, as if a four-day band-aid can fix a bleeding system. But the lines are still long. The trains are still packed. The traffic is still unbearable. What happens after the photo ops and press releases? We go back to suffering, and they go back to ignoring.

But I don’t want to end this angry, even if part of me is. I want to end this with the truth that commuting in the Philippines is not just inconvenient. IT IS UNJUST. It is a daily reminder that we deserve better. And that saying so doesn’t make us ungrateful. It makes us aware.

I’m lucky that most days, I don’t have to endure it. But that doesn’t mean I should ignore it. Because as long as people are left to suffer in silence on the sidewalks, on the stations, on the streets, then we’re all still stuck.

And with the senatorial elections just weeks away, I hope this serves as a small wake-up call to those who read my words. Transportation shapes our everyday lives more than most policies do. And we need to vote for those who care enough to fix what has long been broken.

Sincerely,

Me