Somewhere in all of the chaos and even the quiet this year, I caught myself realizing something I hadn’t noticed all year: I stopped saying “I used to write.”

For a long time, that sentence followed me around like a disclaimer. Something I would mention almost apologetically, as if creativity was a former version of myself I had outgrown or misplaced. Life happened in ways that demanded practicality, structure, and resilience, and somewhere along the way, my creative side didn’t disappear; it just went untouched. Unexpressed. Put on hold. I kept telling myself I’d return to it when things felt lighter, when time felt kinder, when I felt more like myself again.

This year, I did return. Not in a dramatic, cinematic way, but slowly and honestly. I wrote again because I missed the way writing made me feel anchored. Because it reminded me of how I process the world, how I make sense of things that don’t always come with clear answers. Writing became less about output and more about coming home to myself, and without realizing it, I stopped talking about it in the past tense.

And if there’s one thing I know for sure, it’s that I didn’t find my way back alone. 

I’m deeply grateful for the readers who stayed, the ones who read closely, who sit with the words, who reach out just to say that something resonated or felt familiar. Every message, every thoughtful reaction, every small moment of recognition reminded me that writing doesn’t have to be loud to matter. That being understood, even by one person, is already a kind of connection worth holding onto.

I’m also thankful for the people who pushed me, who challenged how I think and how I write, who offered constructive criticism instead of easy praise. The ones who saw potential where I sometimes only saw hesitation, and who reminded me that growth often comes from being uncomfortable, from being willing to refine, rethink, and try again. You treated my writing like it was worth taking seriously, and that mattered more than you probably know.

This year didn’t just give me back the habit of writing; it gave me back permission. Permission to take up space with my thoughts, to be curious out loud, to create without constantly editing myself down. It reminded me that creativity isn’t something you outgrow; it’s something you return to when you’re finally ready to listen again.

So this is my holiday, thank you. Not polished, not perfect, but honest. Thank you for reading, for supporting, for pushing, for staying. Thank you for meeting me where I was, and for walking with me as I found my way back to something I thought I had lost.

Here’s to no longer speaking about the things we love in past tense and to carrying this voice with us into whatever comes next.

A luxurious lipstick, a perfume bottle resting on fabric, a café table mid-conversation, a picnic laid out just enough to feel intentional. They read as a lifestyle. As indulgence. As calm. However, when I examined them collectively, I realized they were saying something entirely different.

They might actually be recession indicators. 

This year, I’ve come across multiple videos and posts with the same observation: during periods of economic uncertainty, women tend to spend more on small luxuries: beauty products, accessories, fragrance, not because spending increases, but because spending narrows. Big purchases disappear. Long-term commitments feel heavier. What remains are items that still feel attainable, justifiable, and emotionally rewarding. 

And it doesn’t stop at economics. Social habits, cultural trends, and even moments of emotional need filter into what we photograph. A flatlay isn’t just about objects; it’s about mood, control, and comfort. It’s about what we hold close when the world feels uncertain, what we choose to show, and what we keep private. That tiny ritual (it can be a ritual for me, haha!), arranging a few things for a photo, can reveal how we negotiate the tension between desire, limitation, and expression.

Of course, someone might say, “It’s just a photo.” And yes, technically, it is. But that’s the thing: so much of life works this way. The small gestures, the little curated choices, the aesthetic decisions we make, they reflect bigger truths. When we start noticing patterns, when we start connecting the dots, even a simple flatlay can speak volumes about culture, society, and economy.

That’s why there are times I’ve started looking at my own photos differently. It's possible that they’re not just creative expression. They can be micro-essays on life in a particular time and place. They can evidence that even the seemingly trivial can carry meaning beyond the frame. It just takes attention to see it.

I’ve caught myself nodding at my phone more times than I’d like to admit this year.

It usually happens mid-scroll. An article headline flashes by: smartly written, confidently framed, published by a name I recognize. I pause. I read. It makes sense. I nod. Maybe I save it. Maybe I repost it. Then I keep scrolling.

The next day, I stumble onto another piece. Same topic. Same authority. Completely opposite conclusion. And somehow, I nod again.

That’s when it started to bother me, not because the opinions conflicted, but because I didn’t. I hadn’t stopped to ask why both felt equally convincing. I hadn’t noticed how quickly agreement had become muscle memory.

We like to say we’re overwhelmed by information, but I think the real problem is subtler than that. It’s not that there’s too much to read, it’s that reading has quietly turned into consuming. Scroll. Absorb. Agree. Move on.

At some point, we stopped reading to understand and started reading to validate whatever mood or belief we happened to be in that day.

I notice this most with articles that begin with “Study says…”

Those three words carry so much weight. They signal credibility. They tell us, You don’t need to think too hard about this, someone else already did. And we fall for it every time. Coffee is good for you. No, wait—it’s bad. Eight hours of sleep is ideal. Actually, seven. Or maybe six if you’re productive enough. Every week, a new conclusion replaces the old one, and I obediently adjust my nod accordingly.

The uncomfortable truth? I rarely remember these articles the next day. What I remember is the feeling of having read something smart. For a while, I mistook that feeling for learning.

But learning, I realized, is heavier. It lingers. It forces you to sit with discomfort, to wrestle with contradictions, to ask annoying follow-up questions like why does this matter to me? or what assumptions are baked into this claim? I wasn’t doing that. I was collecting scraps of information and mistaking them for understanding.

The gap wasn’t intelligence. It was curiosity.

This isn’t a narrative to reject media or distrust everything we read. It’s a reminder to resist passivity. To remember that truth isn’t something we inherit just because it was written well or published loudly. Thinking takes effort. Curiosity takes time. Forming your own conclusion, one you can stand behind, takes courage.

So this is a quiet note to myself as much as anyone else: pause before you nod. Let an idea sit longer than a scroll. Ask one more question than feels necessary. Tug at the thread instead of accepting the weave.

And since this space is where I put my own thoughts into the world, I want to say this plainly: I don’t want blind agreement here either. Don’t just nod at what I write. Challenge it. Build on it. Push it further than I did. If it sharpens, let it cut. If it stretches, let it grow.

That’s how we stay awake in a world that constantly invites us to switch our brains to autopilot, not by agreeing faster, but by thinking deeper.

It’s strange how we’ve reached a point where having a boyfriend is now considered embarrassing, not because women have suddenly decided they hate men, but because the value system around relationships has changed.

For decades, women were rewarded for their ability to find and keep a man. It was proof of worth: you were desirable, stable, and complete. Then social media turned relationships into entertainment. Love became a feed of curated moments: soft launches, hard launches, anniversary montages. 

Now, that badge feels cheap. Because somewhere along the way, women realized the very thing they were told to aspire to, male validation, was also what held them back.

But here’s what’s rarely asked: why don’t we ever say being a man is embarrassing? Why is the shame always redirected toward women? We never look at men collectively and ask them to feel ashamed of their patterns, their species, their contributions (or lack thereof) to emotional maturity, gender safety, or respect. Yet somehow, women can’t catch a break. It’s embarrassing to be single, and now it’s also embarrassing to have a boyfriend.

Even worse, women have begun turning on each other. There are girls mocking others for being in relationships, calling them needy or “dependent,” while quietly tolerating men who treat them poorly behind closed doors. It’s not empowerment; it’s projection.

Meanwhile, men remain unbothered. They don’t have to dissect their choices or explain their attachments. They watch this cultural tug-of-war from the sidelines while women debate how not to look pathetic for wanting connection. 

Maybe the problem isn’t that “having a boyfriend is embarrassing.” Maybe it’s that being associated with men feels embarrassing when so many refuse to evolve, yet women are the ones made to absorb the cultural shame.

If men were held under the same scrutiny, if we said being a man is embarrassing, perhaps the weight of accountability would finally shift. Until then, women will keep balancing between vulnerability and self-preservation, learning how to love without losing dignity in a world determined to make them feel foolish for both.

It’s a phrase that shows up everywhere; on TikTok captions, in Instagram affirmations, whispered as a kind of shield against life’s chaos. I’ve said versions of it, too. 

But whenever I hear it now, I pause. Who exactly is this “divine energy” we’re talking about? Is it a God, the universe, something nameless? And if it truly is watching over us, shouldn’t we think about what it means to protect it back?

The question hit me harder one day when I stumbled across a TikTok. The creator was talking about divine protection while splicing together clips of mountains, forests, rivers, and sunsets. And that’s when something clicked. Out of all the places people say the divine lives, it makes the most sense to me that it lives in nature. The trees that outlast us. The rivers that move on, no matter what we’re carrying. The sky that stretches endlessly, asking nothing but still giving light, air, and warmth.

That realization shifted the phrase for me. Because if I really believe the divine shows up in the natural world, then “being protected” stops feeling like a passive prayer and starts looking like a responsibility. I can’t keep asking nature, the universe, or the "divine being" to shield me while I do nothing in return. It feels hollow.

And yet, we do it all the time. When something goes wrong, we blame the universe. When something goes right, we thank the universe. It’s convenient. It keeps us from looking too closely at our own choices, our own accountability.

But maybe the cycle was never meant to work that way. Maybe protection is mutual. Maybe we are being asked, quietly, to protect the very thing we’re asking protection from. In my case, to start caring more for the earth. To some, to respect the balance of what we’ve been given, to stop waiting passively for blessings to fall into our laps.

If the divine really is everywhere in the water, the air, the soil beneath our feet, then every careless act against it is also a dismissal of its protection. And every small act of care becomes an act of reverence.

So I wonder now: what if “protected by the divine” isn’t a promise we simply receive? What if it’s a responsibility we choose to carry?

When it comes to money, I know the drill. I have my brother, who shares my reality with me. I have Gerrel, who understands and supports me. I know the paths, the formulas, the strategies I would take. Earning more is within reach. I don’t say that lightly; I know it is a privilege.

But when it comes to creativity, it feels like another world entirely. Money is linear and measurable. Creativity is messy, unpredictable, and sometimes even buried. I know there are still talents, hobbies, and corners of myself that I haven’t revisited or even discovered. That’s what I need right now.

So I’ve been leaning into spaces where creativity lives. Talking to people who create not because they have to, but because they can’t help it. Surrounding myself with that energy, hoping it wakes up something inside me, too.

Lemon Peel is where the little thoughts live. The ones too personal for a full blog, too sharp to keep to myself. Short, raw, and sometimes messy—just like the peel, they add bite to the whole.

Lately, I came across a TikTok video that hit me: Consumerism is the perfection of capitalism. We’re trained to work endlessly so we can spend endlessly, and the system celebrates us when we keep wanting more.

I have talked about this with friends, how good shopping feels, how it gives that instant rush, yet when you think about it, we are just feeding into a cycle where we end up as the perfect victims. I am guilty too. The “I deserve this” marketing works on me every time. I have splurged more than I needed, and sometimes it feels impossible to pull back.

Psychologists say the thrill comes less from owning and more from anticipating. A Harvard Business Review piece explained that dopamine spikes in our brain just from imagining a purchase, long before we click “buy.” No wonder it is addictive. And to make it worse, researchers have found that when ads tell us we have “earned it,” we are even more likely to give in. Guilty again.

The dilemma is real: buying less is not easy when affordable, long-term quality items barely exist anymore. So we are left choosing between overconsumption and compromise.

Still, I am learning to take small steps. I tried the two-week challenge: if I did not feel empty after two weeks, I would not buy the item. It felt awkward at first, but it showed me I could stretch this into my own Project Pan, which means no new skincare, makeup, or perfume until I finish what I already own. I did slip once, buying perfume in South Korea before my brother’s wedding, but having told my friends about my plan, they help me walk my talk.

This shift even inspired me to curate something I call The Repeat Club. It is a small gathering I will share more about soon, built around the idea of rewearing, reusing, and reminding ourselves that new is not always better. A space with my peers to celebrate clothes and objects that have lived with us, and to resist the pressure to constantly “refresh” our lives with purchases.

I have also started thrifting, enjoying the hunt for pieces with history. And an added filter for myself: if the product is not cruelty-free, I do not buy it. Small steps, yes, but conscious ones.

And then there is the bigger picture. I cannot stop thinking about Earth Overshoot Day. This year, it fell on August 2, the date humanity used up all the resources the planet can regenerate in a year. Every day after that, we are living on borrowed time. To me, it felt like staring straight at the bill of our overconsumption, one we cannot keep ignoring.

These are not perfect solutions, but they make me more mindful. And maybe that is the point, not to be flawless, but to be aware. To value what is already here. To pause before we swipe the card.

Because the quiet rebellion in all this might just be choosing to live outside the script of endless wanting and daring to live with enough.

And silence has never saved anyone.

My brother has a pamamanhikan today at his fiancée’s place. That’s where I need to be.  I wish I could be out there in the protests. But I’m not. 

All I could do today is write. And for now, I’m choosing to believe that counts for something.

Because protest takes many forms.

It’s not always about being on the front lines. Sometimes, it’s about refusing to go quiet, even when you’re somewhere else entirely. It’s choosing not to move on like nothing’s happening. It’s choosing to say something even when it’s late, or soft, or unsure.

I don’t always know what to say. I’m afraid of sounding inauthentic, or self-centered, or misinformed. I second-guess myself. I write, delete, rewrite. And sometimes I go quiet, not out of apathy, but out of fear that I’m not doing it right.

But I’ve learned that silence might protect my comfort, but it doesn’t protect anyone else.

We don’t have to be experts to care. We don’t need credentials to feel rage. We don’t need to have the perfect language to convey what we mean.

Grief is not a contest. Neither is protest.
You’re allowed to feel helpless and still speak up.
You’re allowed to hold heartbreak and still resist.
You’re allowed to not be physically present and still refuse to look away.

Rabbi Tarfon once said, “It is not your job to fix the world entirely, but neither are you free to abandon it.”

This is what I could do today.
I couldn’t march, but I could write.
I couldn’t shout, but I could still refuse to stay silent.

The internet has a pattern. Someone gets exposed, receipts pile up, TikTok stitches roll in, and suddenly we all have a new villain of the week. Right now, one of the M2M is Claudine Co, a nepo baby flaunting a lifestyle that, on closer look, is tied to something much bigger: flood control projects under the DPWH, contracts worth billions, and a system of plunder so ordinary it barely shocks us anymore.

And that’s the trap.

We get distracted by the character. In this case, a filthy rich kid who became a symbol of excess instead of the machinery running in the background. Netizens loves a face, a storyline, someone to meme. But what about the paper trails? The officials signing off? The infrastructure that’s supposed to keep us dry but leaves us knee-deep in floodwater every year?

This is how corruption hides in plain sight. It banks on our short attention span. Personalities make headlines, systems do not. It’s easier to laugh at Claudine’s cringe posts than to parse through government procurement contracts. And by the time the noise fades, nothing changes.

We expose. We trend. We forget. And the floodwaters rise again.

But we don’t have to. The cycle can break if we keep the pressure alive. If we keep the story moving even when the algorithm has moved on. If we call out the rot not just in the characters but in the system that creates them.

So, let’s not wait for the next exposé. Let’s not let this die down. Because corruption thrives in silence, and silence is the one thing we can’t afford.

Sometimes, the best way I know how to show affection is to immortalize it in words. This one's for Mina, my life’s great muse.

She asked me to write something that read like an editorial spread. Something she could hang on her wall as she redesigned her home. So I did just that. Because when someone means that much to you, their story deserves to be art. 

MINA SYU: A Study in Style, Control, & Presence

I was guilty too. I cared about my LinkedIn more than a normal person probably should.

Three thousand followers on LinkedIn? That’s not bad at all. I’ve updated my portfolio religiously after every career milestone. I even had my job proudly sitting in my Instagram bio like it was my entire personality. (That's still staying though until I think of a new bio) During hangouts with friends, I secretly hoped someone would ask, “So what do you do now?” so I could give them my elevator pitch like a badge of honor.

And then one day, I woke up and realized I might be suffering from what I now call Career Stockholm Syndrome (I made this up)—that strange psychological state where your identity feels tied up, locked in, and held hostage by your job. (I still made this up)

I didn't even notice how consumed I was by it. But little things added up. I felt anxious when I had “nothing to share” about work. I attached my self-worth to job titles. I used productivity as a way to validate my place in the world. If my career wasn’t peaking, I wasn’t peaking.

Until I wasn’t doing that anymore.

I don’t know what exactly liberated me. Maybe it was burnout. Maybe it was the quiet joy of weekends that didn’t feel like pit stops between workweeks. Maybe it was realizing no one really cared what was on my LinkedIn bio. But suddenly, I began to remember who I was outside of a résumé.

And let me tell you, she’s kind of cool.

I’m a daughter who really loves her mother. A sister. A best friend. An acquaintance who tries to remember birthdays. I’m a woman who found her spark back in writing, a woman who loves staycations. & Firing too! I finished four novels last month after being in a decade-long reading slump. I curate mood playlists for fun. I light incense and candles, not for the scent but because it calms me down. I love fashion, and I also call out fashion. I contact people in random afternoons—not to network, but just to laugh and share memes and talk about life.

I am so many things that cannot be measured by a job description or a KPI.

And here’s the thing: I still care about my career. I still work hard. (I'm still great at it; you can ask my manager. Hello, Mr. Enzo Benzoni.) I still get excited about creative campaigns and getting that “Great job!” feedback from a client. But I no longer center my entire identity around it. 

Because if your job disappeared tomorrow… would you still know who you are?

We live in a world that romanticizes the hustle and fetishizes career milestones. And sure, ambition is beautiful. Purpose is powerful. But you are more than the titles you carry or the salaries you chase.

Take a breath.
Go do something unproductive.
Something soft.
Something pointless but meaningful.

And if anyone asks what you do, you can still tell them.
But make sure you know who you are without it, too.

A Special Thought: When Work Isn’t the Dream Anymore

Recently, I had a conversation with a friend who told me she doesn’t want to work anymore. Not like, “I need a break”—but really, “I think I’m done. I don’t want a career. I don’t want to hustle. I’m not built for it.”

At first, I admired it. There’s something freeing about that level of detachment, especially in a world that glorifies busyness and burnout like medals. If she’s truly happy, secure, and fulfilled—then that’s a kind of freedom I genuinely respect.

But I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t a little… uneasy.

Not because she made a different choice, but because I care. And because this world is not kind to people who opt out without a totally secured, bill gates daughter kind of back up plan. I want her to be safe. To be supported. To have a life that’s not just temporarily peaceful, but sustainably so. The kind of stillness that’s not secretly funded by anxiety.

I don't think I will be in touch with her much anymore. Maybe we see things too differently now. Maybe we both outgrew the version of each other who needed to be understood.

And that’s okay.

To each their own.

But I guess this is my way of saying:
Choosing to disengage from hustle culture is valid. But survival is still real.
Opting out is powerful, but make sure you’re not just opting out of work.
Make sure you’re opting into something else that supports you, whatever that looks like.

Whether you work a 9–5, freelance, rest, raise a child, run a business, write in the dark, or just breathe slowly, I hope you feel secure doing it. Not just spiritually, but economically too.

Because it’s hard to romanticize detachment when bills are due.

Let’s be real — everyone’s performative.

The moment you signed up for social media and chose a profile picture, you were performing. The minute you posted a quote, a gym mirror selfie, or a carefully composed photo dump captioned “randoms,” you were performing. And honestly? That’s not inherently bad.

I don’t mind the performance — I mind the denial.

Why are we suddenly pretending that performativity is a crime when, not too long ago, we swore by “fake it ‘til you make it”? Wasn’t that the whole appeal? You dress the part until it becomes your reality. You act confident until you are. You show up, even when you feel like crumbling, and post something cute about healing. That’s performance — and sometimes, that’s survival.

The problem isn’t being performative. It’s the moral high ground people take while pretending they’re above it.

You curated your soft girl aesthetic. You chose those blurry night shots to match the mood of your feed. You waited for golden hour. That’s performance. But when someone else does it with a little more flair or intention, suddenly it’s “too much” or “fake”?

Being performative is not the same as being dishonest.
Stealing someone else’s content, catfishing people, or building a persona off lies? That’s not performance — that’s deception. But choosing a certain aesthetic, expressing a mood, editing your work, or putting your best self forward? That’s curation. That’s vision.

No one is completely authentic 24/7. We’re all just choosing what version of ourselves gets airtime. The issue isn’t the performance — it’s when people pretend theirs is the only one that’s “real.”

So yes, you’re performative. I am too. But that doesn’t mean we’re fake. It means we’re aware. And sometimes, awareness is the most honest thing we can offer.

I hate elitists. But I despise middle-class elitists the most.

And I say this as someone who’s not struggling (at least every day). Someone who enjoys the occasional overpriced drinks, who books the weekend stays, who has, by most standards, a pretty comfortable life. I’m not rich-rich. It's been an almost comfortable life for me. So, I know what it looks like when people forget the rest of the world exists. 

What frustrates me isn’t just the ultra-wealthy (though let’s be real—billionaires shouldn’t even exist). It’s the people who are like me. Those who live decent, stable lives but weaponize their little bit of comfort like it makes them better than everyone else. The ones who sneer at anything too loud, too messy, too real. As if owning a Dyson and drinking overpriced matcha means they’ve transcended the rest of us.

I’m not above it either. I check myself all the time. Because I’ve also had those moments where I judged before I reflected. Where I thought something was “icky” just because it didn’t fit my curated taste. But I’m trying. I want to try. Because the alternative is becoming the kind of person who builds their identity on exclusion.

And that’s not who I want to be.

There are bigger villains out there. Like, maybe direct your hate to the billionaires? The ones hoarding wealth while the rest of us debate if having earphones on in public is “tacky”? We are too busy punching sideways when the real problem is always up. 

But also, fashion has some explaining to do.

Let’s get this out of the way: not everyone who likes to dress up loves fashion. And not everyone who loves fashion even wants to participate in the industry. There’s a difference. And that difference is worth talking about.

You like clothes, but maybe not fashion.

Maybe you love Zara hauls. Maybe you live for the thrill of a good sale. You could screenshot OOTDs from Pinterest and recreate them on a budget. That’s taste. That’s style. That’s visual language.

But fashion? Fashion is something else.

It’s not just what you wear. It’s the system behind why you wear it, who made it, and what it says.

Fashion is history, politics, and economics.

Fashion reflects revolutions. The mini skirt wasn’t just a cute hemline, it was a protest. Punk fashion wasn’t just DIY, it was anti-establishment. Streetwear wasn’t just hype; it was born out of exclusion, creativity, and a need for survival.

Liking fashion means you’re curious about these contexts—not just the outfits, but the origin stories behind them.

But here's where I get honest: I personally hate fashion, too. Not the craft. Not the expression. But the industry.

Because for all its creative potential, fashion still mostly caters to the rich.

You can't talk about “timeless minimalism” and then price it at $1,200. You can’t praise fashion for being inclusive when the runway still worships thinness, whiteness, and Eurocentric beauty.

And let’s be real: most people don’t “buy into” fashion, they just try to afford it.

I love what fashion could be. But I hate what it has become: a playground for the wealthy, a cycle of exclusivity wrapped in performative trend-chasing, a space where creativity is often paywalled.

Fashion isn’t elitist by nature, but the system surrounding it often is. And that's a hard truth to ignore.

Trend ≠ Taste ≠ Fashion

Wearing what’s “in” doesn’t mean you understand fashion. It just means you know how to scroll. Trends are easy to follow, but not always easy to question. Who profits from this trend? Who gets erased? Why is this back again now?

Fashion has layers. If you're only participating in the surface of it, that’s okay, but it helps to know that’s where you are.

The point is: You don’t have to love fashion to love clothes.

There’s no shame in just wanting to look good. But if you claim to love fashion, I’d argue that means loving its ugly parts, too. Critiquing them. Understanding them.

Because fashion isn’t just “what’s new.” It’s what’s powerful, political, and often problematic.

Final squeeze:

So wear what makes you feel amazing. Do your hauls. Follow the trends. But don’t confuse fashion with just... consumption. And don’t be afraid to admit:

“Actually, I like clothes. Fashion? I’m still figuring out how I feel about that.”

Why do you forgive your boyfriend more than your girl friend? 

If you are guilty, then you are part of the problem— that men can get away with anything.

While “cutting off” people is often praised as self-care, I’ve noticed that it mostly happens in female friendships. Not their toxic relationships with men. Not their red-flag boyfriends. But the women in our lives—those we call our soulmates—are the first ones we exile.

Why do we set so many negotiables and non-negotiables with friends, but with our romantic relationships, we let a lot of things slide?

We let men stay the same—rationalizing their silence, their temper, their laziness, their cheatings—because “boys will be boys.” But our female friends? We hold them to impossible standards. We punish them for slipping. We criticize them for not always being perfect. 

I’m not saying we shouldn’t walk away. I’m just wondering why it’s always from the ones who look like us.

Before anything else. Before the tangy takes and chaotic honesty: This blog is a love letter to the people who helped shape the voice behind it.

Because no matter how loud or quiet my voice gets, I know exactly who helped me find it.

To Hannah Sotto,
Thank you for being my first mirror of womanhood. You inspired me to express, create, and curate — whether it was in fashion, writing, or the way I carry myself. You’ve shaped so much of my taste, but more than that, you’ve shaped my values. I dedicate the good parts of my womanhood to you.

To Louise Bedana,
One of the sharpest minds I know — thank you for taking the time to proofread my first ever intro post, I knew I could count on you when I spiral, and you'll surely help me make my thoughts sound a little smarter than they are. Really, your brain should be studied.

To Sarah and Iven,
For being the best kind of fans — the ones who reflect the realness back. Thank you for always being so honest, so inspiring, and so wonderfully you around me. Your love and support never go unnoticed.

To Gianna Brielle,
My favorite AU author. Your words reignited something in me. Thank you for reminding me of the power of writing and how good it feels to return to it.

To Ysh,
For your hot takes and wildly interesting insights — the ones that also sound unpopular at first, but end up being more real than I expect. You do see things from another eye, and I am excited to see how it will sharpen my view of the world, too.

To Jenny Yu,
Thank you for seeing my ability. For giving me opportunities to express, explore, and evolve (career-wise) — I wouldn’t be here without that trust.

To Maeganne,
You are sunshine on legs. But more than being my happy pill, thank you for being someone I can count on. You have this quiet strength that I admire endlessly.

To Leya,
You see me, steady me, and remind me that chosen sisters are just as real.

To Kris Kenn,
You’re not just the best sister-in-law— you’re one of the kindest, safest places I’ve ever had.

To Hydee,
You may be my complete opposite, but you’ve never made me feel like I had to change. Thank you for always accepting me as I am.

To my QC Girls (Andy, Mariell, Jheska),
Even from afar, you always show up — in laughter, in memory, in quiet solidarity. Some friendships don’t need constant presence to remain present. Thank you for being my always.

To Berna Vitero,
You reminded me that the right people won’t just tolerate our passions — they’ll fan the flames. Thank you for helping me find that fire again, B. You are my twin flame.

To Mina Syu,
You are the first and final push. The trigger of this blog. My favorite muse. I love writing about you. I probably always will. Greatest blessing in my life. Hardest soul tie. Through and through.

To Nathalie Jamili,
Since 1999. A lifetime of shared lives. Thank you for being my rock, for staying, for existing, even quietly, beside me all these years.

To Gerrel Bedana,
Thank you for loving every version of me — the messy, the mouthy, the introspective, the chaotic. Your quiet cheering means more than I can ever write down. My lifeline.

To my Mom,
Need I say more? I am who I am because of you. The softness, the fight, the grit — it’s all you.

I love you all.

—

So if anything you read here ever resonates, blame them.
They’re the pulp behind this lemon squeeze. 🍋

I’ve been sitting on this for a while. 

Not a blog, per se. But the need for one. 

A place that doesn’t rely on algorithms to decide if my thoughts are “engaging” enough. A space that doesn’t vanish after 24 hours. Somewhere I can park my opinions without worrying if they’re too long for a caption or too heavy for the group chat.

Because truthfully? I have a lot to say.

About culture. About fashion and trends—how they shape us more than we like to admit. About the bizarre ways we measure success. About how wellness has somehow become a performance. About how “just vibes” isn’t as harmless as it sounds, because whether we realize it or not, life is political.

And if that last line made you squirm, then hey... maybe we’re off to a good start.

I started this space because I’m tired of pretending I don’t care about things that I very much care about. From social media trends to soft power in K-dramas to why some people still think liking pineapple on pizza is a personality—if it’s floating in my head, it’s probably going to land here.

This won’t be the most polished space. I’m not aiming for perfect structure or SEO rankings (I lowkey wish for it though). Just real thoughts, written as they come.

Some posts feel like rants. Others, like letters I forgot to send. Some might make sense only to me. A few will probably read like subtweets in long form.

But they’ll be mine. And if you ever find yourself offended, curious, or seen? Then the squeeze is working. 🍋

Thanks for being here—whether you’re nosy, like-minded, or just lost. I hope you stay a while.

if nami speaks… you’re definitely going to hear it.