The Journey: A Life Written by Experience

Time moves so fast… It feels like it was only yesterday when we first met—when we became friends, when life somehow placed us under the same roof, and we started facing everything together: problems, happiness, laughter, and pain. For one year and nine months (June 2013 to March 2015), everything felt suspended, as if time itself refused to move forward. I didn’t notice the days passing. It felt like I had only just met her… and yet now, she was already gone. That was the period when I first learned what it meant to live a “normal” life. Normal happiness. Normal sadness. Normal heartbreak. Before her, I was simply existing—moving from one place to another, surviving each day without truly understanding what life was trying to teach me. Then she came. And with her, I learned how deeply life could be felt. I am grateful for that person. She changed me. She taught me the language of love—even if from the very beginning, I was never really chosen to be loved in return. It all started in a group of friends in San Miguel—a place that quietly built the foundation of everything that came after. We were all fresh graduates then, all trying to find work, all trying to figure out where life would take us. Before I ended up there, I had already moved from place to place. I came from Rizal Avenue, staying with my aunt while doing my OJT. I lived with them for a while, and over time I became close to my Aunt Nang—my mother’s sister. She came from a big family of seven siblings, but only two of them were girls, which made their bond naturally strong. She had two children, a girl and a boi, both already college graduates. Ate Ant finished Business Administration major in Marketing, while Kuya El finished Nursing. Ate Ant worked at ACDI, a private company connected to a cooperative for soldiers. Kuya El, at that time, was temporarily working at Natasha—the same place where my aunt also worked. The Natasha branch on Rizal Avenue was owned by Tito Boi, my aunt’s husband’s brother, and when he wasn’t around, my aunt was trusted to manage the store. I never really saw it as something big, but looking back, I was probably the closest among my cousins to my aunt. Maybe because I naturally helped at home without being asked most of the time. So when I started looking for work, staying with them felt like the easiest option. At first, everything was fine. Normal. Manageable. But slowly, something shifted. It wasn’t anger. It was exhaustion that built up quietly. I was the one cooking when my aunt came home tired from work. I washed their clothes when there was no time left. I cleaned the house after spending the day searching for jobs. Even small things—like feeding Tito Boi’s chickens—ended up with me when he couldn’t come home early because he preferred drinking after work. He was a man with vices. And I won’t lie—I disliked it. But at the same time, I also felt sorry for my aunt who had to live with it. Even meals were often left untouched or forgotten, as if no one really noticed the effort behind them. And somewhere in those quiet moments, I started questioning myself. How long can I stay like this? How long before I stop moving forward? They helped me, yes. I will never deny that. But I also knew I was slowly losing space to think about my own life. So I made a decision. Not in anger. Not in conflict. But in silence. I left properly, with respect, carrying only what I could, and letting go of the rest. I moved to San Manuel, staying with my father, who was also staying with my cousin at that time. But the place wasn’t peaceful. It was mostly men around, and the house often turned into a drinking spot for my cousin’s friends. The environment felt loud, unstable—like there was always something happening, even when nothing important was actually being done. My cousin had also changed. After their land was sold, he began living without direction. He built a house, but spent most of his days drinking, smoking, and surrounding himself with friends, despite having no stable job. There was also a business attempt my father supported. Using his money, they bought second-hand and broken motorcycles, hoping to fix and sell them. My brother Ivan took charge of putting everything together. But like most things built without strong foundations, it didn’t last. It failed. After a few weeks, I started feeling restless again. That familiar feeling returned—the one that tells me I don’t belong where I am. So I moved once more. This time to BM Road, staying with a classmate and friend. I was lucky. They accepted me without hesitation, mostly because of our friendship. Jov and I were batchmates in high school, although we were in different sections and never really got close back then. It was only in college, at Palawan State University, that our paths started to cross more often. On the first day of class, everything still felt new—exciting, unfamiliar, uncertain. It took weeks before groups of friends naturally formed. And that was when she became part of mine. I wasn’t alone there. Two other classmates also stayed with us—Loids and Aton. Loids was from Ilocos Norte. She came to Palawan because life in their province was difficult, and her studies were supported by her aunt. Rod Aton—whom we simply called Aton—was the type of person who could blend into any group. Always laughing, always joking, never staying serious for too long. One of the seven boys in our class. Jov was different in her own way. She was lucky in terms of work—she got absorbed at KIA Motors after her OJT, so she didn’t experience the same struggles we had in job hunting. And because of her personality—easy to be with, kind, naturally warm—she eventually met someone there too. Ivien, also known as Ibyong. They connected easily, probably because they shared the same Bisaya background. Before long, they became part of our circle. And then there was Dan. He eventually became my boyfriend. He worked as a supervisor at KIA Motors, but our relationship didn’t really last. It was never stable—on and off, unclear, always in between something and nothing—until it slowly faded. He wasn’t expressive. Not the sweet type. More focused on work than emotions. And in the end, what we had didn’t end loudly. It simply… disappeared. To be continued..