Today, I turn 31.
Emotionally? Probably 67.
Physically? Somewhere between “still got it” and “needs salon-quality liniment.”
Spiritually? Let’s just say—God’s not done with me, but He’s been squinting a lot lately.
I’m not aging like fine wine. I’m aging like open vinegar in a tropical kitchen—strong, useful, and not exactly something you'd pour at a romantic dinner unless your date's into pickling.
But I’m proud of it. This life I live? It’s not filtered, curated, or glossy. It’s raw. It’s real. It’s fertilized by chicken poop and shaped by divine mercy. I wasn’t raised on fairy tales—I was raised by my grandmother, surrounded by pigs, chickens, rice fields, fruit trees, and the kind of silence that teaches you how to endure.
I used to love eating ampalaya—not because it wasn’t bitter, but because it wasn’t as bitter as life. These days, I chew fresh serpentina leaves in the morning to manage tension pain. Bitter plants. Bitter days. But I keep growing.
People often see the tough exterior—commanding, driven, sarcastic. But few notice the girl who carries community kids on her back. The one who teaches them to raise animals—and raise themselves. The one who buys them phones, not to spoil them, but to give them a fighting chance in a world that often ignores them. I’m the lioness who doesn’t need praise. I just build my pride and protect them.
And yes, I laugh at love songs. Not because I don’t believe in love—but because I’ve seen how messy, confusing, and, honestly, idiotic it can get. Why cry in the rain when you can slaughter a chicken and move on? My love isn’t soft and poetic. It’s practical. It pays bills. It cooks. It heals. It makes sure no one sleeps hungry.
My faith has evolved, too. Less performance, more intimacy. Less noise, more truth. I no longer expect Christians to act like saints, or myself to pretend I’ve got it all figured out. I listen to preaching that speaks to me, not what fits the mold. I show up for people—not for show. God found me in my fury and brokenness, and He’s still walking with me—through the noise, through the quiet, through every back alley and every sunrise.
So today, I celebrate the miracle of being 31.
I celebrate the wars I didn’t start, but survived.
The dreams I outgrew—and the ones I’m finally bold enough to chase.
The way I no longer beg to be understood—I just live out loud.
I’m not asking anymore if I’m enough. I’m living like I am.
Because I am.
I’m confidently beautiful with a farm—dirt under my nails, wisdom in my spine, fire in my eyes, and love in actions, not words.
And while I should be settling down with farm life by now, the reality is—I’ve got debts to pay. My youngest brother is still in college, and I can’t afford to break my body with hard labor. That’s why I’m here in the city, taking care of my cousin, and earning wages through my aunt’s support. It’s not the dream, but it’s the strategy.
The plan? Let my feeds be cared for. Stop getting loans with interest. Dig myself out of the debt pit I’ve been trapped in. And eventually—return to the life I built.
I’m grateful to my parents, to my older male cousin, and to my brothers who are working in my dream farm while I’m away. Sooner or later, I’ll be free. And when that day comes, I’ll return not to a broken dream—but to a well-utilized, thriving farm. One that looks like something out of a Studio Ghibli film—quiet, magical, meaningful.
Here’s to 31.
Let it be raw.
Let it be real.
Let it be mine.
My sister and me, we went to enjoy Superman during my first day in the city.
My mother back in the province, she's my field manager.
Photos are mine.
Thanks for reading this far.
