It started in the middle of a conversation I wasn't even having.
I was folding laundry in my room, half-listening to a podcast. Some therapist was talking about how high-functioning people often mistake coping mechanisms for personality traits. And then she said it—so casually, so clearly:
"Performing strength is not the same as being strong."
I froze. Socks in one hand, my other hand on my chest like I'd been caught stealing.
The room didn't move, but something in me did.
I paused the audio. Sat on the edge of my bed. Let the silence ring in my ears, a silence that felt less peaceful and more like exposure.
Because that was me, wasn't it?
The "independent" woman. The one who took solo trips and handled heartbreak with grace and clever captions. The "intimidating" woman. The "chill" girl who never got jealous, never asked for too much. The emotionally literate, ambition-dripping, perfectly calibrated woman who always had a witty reply and an inspiring quote.
But under all that?
I was tired.
Tired of being impressive. Tired of being wise. Tired of being chosen only for how well I could hold someone else while ignoring my own collapse.
I was hungry—for softness, for rest, for someone to look at me and say, You don't have to earn being held.
And it hit me—so hard I could barely breathe: I wasn't the victim of a string of red-flag men.
I was the unlabeled red flag.
Not because I was toxic.
Not because I was manipulative.
But because I was unavailable.
Because I had turned myself into a fortress. Beautiful. Imposing. Admired from a distance. But empty inside. Uninhabitable. Cold.
And I realized—every time someone tried to get close, I made sure there was always just enough distance. Enough jokes. Enough philosophy. Enough insight to sound deep while keeping myself untouched.
I thought I was being "healed." But really, I was being hidden.
I started looking back. Really looking.
Daniel, the charmer—I knew he was lying, but I clung to the fantasy. I let him in because the attention filled a gap I didn't know how to soothe. I told myself I was "choosing fun," but I was really just choosing distraction.
Liam, the good one. Gentle, steady, kind. I resented him for giving me the softness I refused to give myself. I sabotaged peace because peace felt unfamiliar. Because I didn't know how to be loved without having to earn it.
Julian, the mystery. I chased him not because he was deep, but because he was distant. I mistook longing for connection. I thought the ache was proof of depth.
Andre, the mirror. So similar. So aware. But our awareness became a weapon. We used emotional fluency to avoid actual feeling. We diagnosed instead of connected. I intellectualized my fear of abandonment, and he rationalized his emotional absence.
And then Matteo—oh, Matteo. I didn't fall in love. I floated. I escaped. I used him like a break from myself. He didn't rescue me; he distracted me. And I let him.
The common thread wasn't them.
It was me.
Not in the way I used to think—blaming myself, punishing myself for not being "enough."
But in a gentler, more terrifying way: I wasn't asking for love. I was asking for worship. For safety. For someone to look at the ruins and say, "This is still beautiful," without ever expecting me to rebuild.
That's not love.
That's a performance.
And I was done performing.
Later that night, I went for a walk. The streets were wet from an early evening rain, the kind that makes everything look shinier than it really is. Tricycles zipped past, headlights scattering reflections across the pavement. The air smelled like wet leaves and old cement—home.
I passed the sari-sari store where I used to buy Chippy as a kid. I waved to Aling Nena, who still sat outside fanning herself, radio playing old OPM songs that made my chest ache in a way I couldn't explain.
I kept walking.
Each step felt like shedding.
At the park, I sat on a worn concrete bench and watched a young couple tease each other over ice cream. He wiped her nose gently, and she swatted him with a laugh that was pure, unfiltered delight.
It wasn't a grand love. It wasn't curated. It wasn't performative.
But it was real.
I pulled out my journal. The same one I had been filling since Andre. I wrote:
"Maybe I kept falling for men I didn't have to be real with because I hadn't yet made peace with the real me."
I underlined it.
Twice.
The next day, I cleaned my apartment—not for visitors, but for myself. I played Apo Hiking Society in the background, chopped tomatoes for tinola, let the ginger steam warm my face.
I sent my mom a photo of the simmering pot. She replied, "Mas masarap 'yan pag may kasama ka."
I smiled.
Maybe. But maybe not today.
I took a long bath, lit a candle, wore a cotton dress with no occasion in mind. I stared at my reflection—not to fix anything. Just to see.
I whispered, "You're not a performance."
And that, I think, is where healing truly begins.
Because healing isn't about becoming the most self-aware version of yourself.
It's about letting people see the parts of you that aren't wise yet. The parts that cry for no reason. That overthink. That still want someone to hold their hand at the end of a hard day.
It's about being known—not admired.
And now, I want to be known.
Not perfect. Not poised. Not powerful.
Just me.
Messy. Hopeful. Whole.
For the first time, I don't want to be a chapter in someone else's story.
I want to be the author of my own.