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I know I’m not the smartest person. I don’t have a special talent, and when simple questions are thrown at me, my nervousness makes me freeze. My hands shake, my breath shortens, my fingers sweat and turn violet, and my eyes blur until I can’t even read clearly. I know I’m not beautiful, though sometimes I try to feel like I am. I don’t force people to like me, but I often pretend that I am liked.
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Maybe it’s because I can sense things. I can feel when someone likes me or doesn’t. I can easily read situations. Sometimes, I wonder why I am like this… but then I remember—maybe it’s because I grew up too early.
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My childhood wasn’t like most kids’. My father would drink after his work shifts, while my mother worked endlessly to provide for me and my younger sister. She was everything—our shield, our provider, our strength. At a young age, I stood beside her, helping wherever I could. When our wealthy neighbors needed someone to do their laundry, my mother would take the job, and I would tag along to help her. I rarely complained, though sometimes I did. Deep down, I admired her courage.
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There was also a time when my mother couldn’t watch me, and my paternal grandmother refused to care for me. It was another woman—not related by blood—who looked after me. I still remember being outside my grandmother’s house, covered in dirt, even eating sand, wondering, “Maybe they don’t like me because I’m dirty.” She didn’t even take me in to clean me. That memory stayed with me.
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I can never forget the nights when my parents argued. My sister cried as their voices grew louder and louder until even my grandmother joined in, siding with my father. I was so small, yet I stood between them, trying to stop the chaos. My father almost hit my mother. She ran outside, crying with my sister, and I followed with a glass of water, trying to comfort her. Then I turned to my father and said, “Don’t do it again.” He only replied, “Tell your mother to get inside, it’s cold outside.”
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I knew, even at that age, that my father’s side of the family didn’t like us. My mother’s side, though, was my refuge. With them, I felt loved, like breathing fresh air. I rarely cried in front of others, but when I was alone, the tears always came. Over time, my father’s family began to “accept” us, but deep down, I knew it was only because they could benefit from us. Still, I smiled, even while slowly crumbling inside. No one ever heard me scream or cry.
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Then I experienced love—something I both feared and longed for. But I guess being loved and wanting to be loved was too much to ask. Heartbreaks, dishonesty, betrayal—each one broke me a little more.
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I don’t know where else I’ll go. I have no talent, no skills, nothing that makes me feel even a little special. I’m studying Mass Communication, yet I’m terrified of communicating.
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I know none of my classmates like me. A few did, but most don’t—because I’m lacking, dumb, useless to them, someone they can’t benefit from.
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I’m not smart nor talented. Honestly, I don’t even know how I ended up in this course. But still, I want to graduate—so I can help my parents. The question that haunts me is: where? Who would want someone with no skills, no talent?
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Then came the day my body turned against me—an allergy attack. My skin burned with itching and heat. The doctor’s warning echoed in my mind: “When the itching reaches your neck, it will grip your heart.” Slowly, my world grew dark.
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And strangely, I felt peace.
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I prayed, thanking the Lord for the life I had, for the love I had known despite the struggles. I asked Him only one thing—that if I were to die, He would not let my parents suffer while finding money for my burial, and that He would guide my sister, cousins, and aunt to finish their studies.
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Darkness surrounded me, then a light appeared. I felt an urge to walk toward it. Warmth washed over me, but then I heard my mother’s voice, my sister’s cries. My family was there, calling me back.
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I woke in the ambulance, exhausted, telling my mother I wanted to sleep. She refused, begging me to keep talking. In the ER, doctors struggled to find my veins before I blacked out again. The ICU became my home for a while.
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When I woke the next morning, I felt… disappointed. I had survived. Part of me longed for the peace I had tasted. But I also felt grateful—for another chance, for the people who loved me, for the journey that was still unfolding.
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But still… I’m lacking in everything. To the point where I lose hope—hope of finding a job, hope of finally being able to help my parents.
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Here I am, pouring all of my heart into my stories. They hold all my what ifs, all the lives I wanted to live. They are my haven. The only place where I feel seen. My stories make me feel heard. They make me feel loved.
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And maybe that’s why I cling to them so much. Because out here, in the real world, I feel invisible. But in my words, I exist.
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I’ve learned that life is fragile. We carry scars, fears, and unspoken battles that shape us in ways others may never understand. I may not be the smartest, most talented, or the most beautiful, but I am someone who endured. Someone who found strength in silence, love in broken places, and hope even in the shadow of death.
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And maybe, just maybe, that’s enough.
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and then Add to home screen.