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.