𝓣𝓱𝓮 𝓦𝓮𝓮𝓴𝓮𝓷𝓭 𝓟𝓪𝓰𝓮𝓼

Why is forgiveness treated like a moral duty, something we owe to those who have wronged us? Why does society place such heavy pressure on us to let go, to move on, to release the pain — even when the wound is still fresh, even when the apology never came? Forgiveness is often painted as the “right ” thing to do, the noble path. We’re told it’s the key to peace, to healing, to freedom. And maybe, sometimes, it is. But what if forgiveness feels impossible? What if it feels unfair? What if it feels like another burden placed on the shoulders of the one who was already hurt? There’s a quiet cruelty in the way society romanticizes forgiveness. It can make us feel guilty for holding on to anger, for protecting ourselves, for saying "no, I’m not ready" . It can silence the complexity of our emotions, reducing them to a simple binary: forgive, or remain bitter . But life isn’t that simple. Healing isn’t that linear. Forgiveness isn’t a switch we can flip just because others expect ...

Two weeks after I officially moved in to my coastal apartment, I felt bored. Bored in a sense that my life is hauntingly quiet and peaceful. I  have always prayed for this life. I begged God to give me peace and when peace came --- I didn't know how to react. I am grateful for it and I thank God for giving me peace, actually. I've resolved to find the beauty in the mundane. Yesterday, Pat and I agreed to go for a walk to the spot he recommended the day I moved in. But the plan changed and we decided to take a dip in the sea near my apartment. We talked, looked for shells (I am now collecting shells and is planning to illustrate it) , and watched the sun set. The waves were forgiving enough to console us in our woes and disappointments for this year. I’ve also started my 2026 curriculum. I curated what media to consume, what books to read, and who to be friends with. I don't have the energy and time for unnecessary silent competitions between my friends and I certainly don...

I’ve been out shell collecting almost every morning since moving near the sea. There’s something meditative about it: walking along the shoreline, listening to the waves, letting my eyes catch the small glimmers of shape and color scattered in the sand. One morning, I found a tiny shell that felt too cute to leave behind. I placed it inside my case, together with the shells I’ve collected over the past few days, thinking it was just another addition to my collection. Later that day, I discovered I wasn’t the only one who thought the shell was worth keeping—a hermit crab had been living inside it. I let the shell go after telling Pat about it, not expecting anything. It felt like the right thing to do: to return a home to its rightful owner—the crab, and nature itself. But when I came back from dinner, I found the crab had returned, leaving the shell behind for me. As if the sea had instructed it to share a little joy and beauty to me.  Hermit crabs don’t make their own shells; they...