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.