"Worrying is like worshipping the problem"

Every moment you dwell on it; you give it more authority over your mind and heart. You feed it with your attention until it feels bigger than it really is. But the truth is, problems shrink when placed beside God’s power.

“Can any one of you by worrying add a single hour to your life?” (Matthew 6:27). Shift your focus from the weight of the obstacle to the strength of the One who can move it, for “with God all things are possible” (Matthew 19:26). What you magnify is what will dominate your life — so magnify hope, not fear. And when anxiety rises, remember: “Cast all your anxiety on Him because He cares for you” (1 Peter 5:7).

Shift your focus from the weight of the obstacle to the strength of the One who can move it. What you magnify is what will dominate your life — so magnify hope, not fear.

"Never share your triumphs with those who never respected your trials. Some only appear for the applause, but never for the preparation."

_Ayna Denisse Mestio Moncenilla, LPT (2025)

That quote somehow rings in my mind.
They’ll show up when the confetti falls.
They’ll post the pictures, tag you with words like “so proud,”
as if they were part of every sleepless night, every bruised knuckle,
every moment you wanted to give up but didn’t.
They’ll stand there smiling in the light,
yet they were nowhere to be found in the dark.

They didn’t hear the silence after every rejection.
They didn’t feel the ache in your bones from grinding day after day with nothing to show for it.
They didn’t watch you pour every ounce of yourself into something that the world kept telling you was impossible.

People love the victory lap,
but they won’t walk with you on the uphill climb.
They’ll sip champagne at your celebration,
but they weren’t there when you drank bitterness and swallowed your pride.
They’ll cheer when you’re crowned,
but they never stood beside you when you were crawling.

And that’s the thing — they can’t respect your triumph if they never respected your trials.
They can’t value the crown if they never carried the weight of it. The truth is, some people aren’t in your life to support you — they’re just waiting for the moment they can be associated with your success.

But my victories are not party favors to hand out to the undeserving.
My success is not a photo opportunity for those who never showed up when it counted.
If you didn’t sweat with me, cry with me, or sacrifice with me — you don’t get to stand next to me when I win.

So no, I won’t water down the meaning of what I’ve earned by sharing it with those who only appeared for the applause.
My story belongs to those who stayed through every chapter — not just the happy ending.

Another memory that still clings to me is the day I told my father I wanted to join the AFP.
I expected encouragement, maybe even just a small sign of belief. Instead, I was met with criticism.
He looked at me and said I could never make it — because I was poor in math.

That moment taught me something: not everyone you expect to believe in you will actually believe in you.
And sometimes, the people closest to you are the quickest to plant doubt in your heart.

So now, I’ve learned to keep my plans close to my chest. I don’t announce my dreams.
I don’t give people the opportunity to dissect them before they even begin.
I will disappear for a while if I have to. Work in silence.
Return when I’m ready.
Not for validation, not for approval — but simply because I choose to.

And yes, I will forgive them for what they said, for what they did during my toughest times.
But I will never forget.
Forgetting means erasing the lesson,
and I owe it to myself to remember.
Not to hold a grudge, but to hold on to the strength it gave me.

I learned that silence is power.
That not everyone deserves a front-row seat to my journey.
That the fewer people who know my plans, the fewer opinions I have to fight against.
I learned that it’s better to surprise them with results than to give them the chance to **** my motivation before I’ve even begun.

I learned that some people would measure you by your weaknesses, not your potential — and that’s fine.
Let them.
Their disbelief is not my burden.
Their doubt is not my truth.

I learned that disappearing is not running away.
It’s regrouping, refocusing, and rebuilding without the noise.
And when I come back, it will be on my terms, at my own pace, with proof in my hands and pride in my chest.

I learned that forgiveness is for my peace,
but memory is for my growth.
I can release the bitterness without erasing the lesson.
I can move forward without giving them the privilege of forgetting what they once said.

And most of all, I learned that I don’t need their applause to keep going.
My drive has nothing to do with their approval — it’s built on the fire they once tried to put out.

I learned that my own family could take advantage of my wins — proudly telling other people about my achievements in public,
as if they were always behind me,
yet criticizing me in private when no one else could hear.
I learned that some people are more concerned with how your success reflects on them than how it truly feels for you to earn it.

I learned that a license, no matter how hard you worked for it, is not a golden guarantee of a job.
No. For me, it’s not a finish line — it’s only a ticket.
A ticket to knock on the next door,
to apply for another career, to open another path.

I learned that life doesn’t reward you just for passing. It rewards you for persevering.
And sometimes, the very people who celebrate you in front of others will be the same ones who try to chip away at your confidence when the crowd is gone.

That’s why I’ve stopped telling everyone my plans.
I don’t need their premature opinions or their silent sabotage.
I’ll speak when I’m ready.
I’ll show them when it’s done.
And they can tell the world about me again — but this time, they’ll have nothing to do with the victory they’re bragging about.

This experience somehow humbles me.
It reminds me that no matter how much doubt or criticism comes my way,
I am still standing — and that’s enough reason to be grateful.
I’m grateful for the lesson I learned along the way,
even if it came wrapped in pain.

On this bumpy road, I have met all kinds of people.
Some quietly waiting for me to fail,
others hoping I’ll make a mistake just so they can say they were right.
I’ve met the insecure ones — the ones who try to dim someone else’s light because they’re afraid to ignite their own.

But I’ve also learned this: it’s not my job to fight them, prove them wrong, or carry the weight of their insecurities.
Let God deal with them.
He sees their hearts and mine.
And I am secured, safe, and unshaken in my Creator’s presence.

I move forward not with bitterness, but with peace.
Not with vengeance, but with the quiet confidence that no matter who’s watching,
I walk this path with God beside me — and that is more than enough.

You wanted attention—
so I gave you a front-row seat to your own downfall.

You slithered into stories that were never yours,
clawed your way into rooms where your name was never whispered,
and poisoned wells you were never invited to drink from.

You thought if you smeared enough dirt on me,
you’d shine brighter.
But baby, even rats look clean in the dark—
until the lights hit.

You wrote me off like I was disposable.
But here's the plot twist:
It was never my name in the notebook.
It was yours.

I didn't have to lift a hand.
I didn’t need revenge.
The universe keeps receipts.
And you?
You're just another stain it decided to wipe clean.

Curiosity killed the cat, they say.
But you?
You died verminously—squirming in your own filth,
desperate for applause that never came.
Dead not by my hand,
but by your own hunger to be relevant.

So here it is. Your obituary.
Signed not in blood,
but in silence.
You lost the war you started.
You wrote the script for your own erasure.

Death note: verminously dead.
The end.

Stop bringing my name to the table I no longer sit at.
Especially when all you do is talk bad about me behind my back.
The past stays in the past.
Hate me all you want. Ruin my name. Allude and throw shade as much as you like.
I won’t defend myself just to feed your bitterness and satisfy your anger.
I'm not stooping low—but tell me, are you?

Go ahead—keep whispering my name like it’s your lifeline.
You don’t realize it, but every time you mention me, you’re only proving how stuck you are.
I’ve moved on, gracefully. You? You’re still choking on stories that have long expired.

I don’t need to scream or justify anything to people who already chose their side.
You want to act like the victim and villain at the same time? Fine—play the role.
But remember, the real ones know the truth. I don’t wear masks.
You talk about "class" while parading your desperation like it’s designer.

Trying to expose my flaws just to make yourself look cleaner? To make your conscience feel whiter?
Wow, impressive. But maybe try a little harder next time.
Your audience hasn’t even clapped yet—and you’re already fading. Outdated. Forgotten.

What’s the matter? Running out of things to say?
It’s always the same broken record with you.
Keep digging into my past, keep trying to get under my skin—go on, really give it your best shot.
Because I’m done playing your game, but karma?
Karma will take care of you just fine.

You like to stick your nose in everyone’s business, huh?
Just like what you did to us.
“Curiosity kills the cat,” they said.
But do you know what really kills that cat?
It’s not me—it’s God’s vengeance.
And honey, that tea?
That tea is not mine to spill.

Toodles~ ☕💋

I hope my name left a bad taste in your mouth.
I already take up space inside your twisted mind.
I am that toxic—and the greenest of green flags—you ever met, right?
That **** you tolerated, but later on? You deserved every bit of it.

Keep it coming.
Keep aiming.
You missed your shot.

Now?
It’s my turn.

I won’t raise my voice.
I’ll raise the silence that follows your downfall.
You see, I don’t bark—I vanish. And when I reappear,
I come with receipts, rebirth, and a smirk you can’t erase.

You thought you had power when you twisted my name.
But you forgot—I built the room you're screaming in.
I let you sit at the table.
Now? I’m flipping it.

You ran your mouth, now run your fate.
You painted me as poison, but forgot I was the cure to your chaos.
You fumbled grace when it stood right in front of you.

You want to label me?
Make sure you can wear your own mask first.
Because this time, I’m not the one bleeding.
This time, I’m the one watching.

Watching karma trace every lie back to its source.
Watching your fake light flicker under real fire.

So, go ahead—
tell your version.
I’ll write the truth in thunder.

Off to the next page...

A troop of testosterone-fueled jarheads are always pathetic
But so are the swarm of estrogen-filled imbeciles
They are dressed up in fake virtue and venomous grace,
Both sides wear masks in this toxic parade.
You cheered when I bled — now watch me rise,
Your whispers can’t touch me; I feast on your lies.

Vipers — they sting.
Black one-eyed crows are on the watch.
Black-cloaked woman is on the run.
Pigtails are always up for mystery.

"You’re fat. You got fat."

As if I didn’t already know.
You're just saying it—but I’ve already seen myself in the mirror.
Every. Single. Day.
I live in this body. I carry its weight. I carry its strength.
You only glance at me. I endure this body every hour of my life.

My arms? They’re not flabby—they’ve held my fears, my triumphs, my truth.
My thighs? They’re not too big—they’re powerful, grounded, unshakable.

My waist might be bigger than a donut—but I love it.
My cheeks might be fluffy—at least I feel like a donut.
My tummy might be bloated—but hey, at least I’ve got volume!

And these marks? These changes?
My body got ocean waves from the transformation—from thin to fat.
These stretch marks? These lines? They’re not flaws.
They are my waves. My tides.
Proof that I am still unique in my own way, even if I gained weight.

You think you’re revealing something I haven’t noticed?
Please.
I’ve been here, watching my body shift through heartbreak, survival, stress, and healing.
And still—I rise in it. I breathe in it. I wear it with resilience.

You want me to feel shame.
But I feel power. Because I’m still here.
You want me to shrink. But I am done making myself smaller to fit into someone else’s shallow standard.

I am not made for your comfort.
I am not here for your approval.
If my body offends you?

Look away.

Because I’ve got waves, I’ve got history, I’ve got presence—
And no comment of yours can ever wash that away.

You try to throw shame like it’s a gift, like I’m supposed to take it and thank you.
But honey, I’ve outgrown the need for your approval.
I’ve got enough power in my softness. Enough light in my curves.

Honey, you do you! What makes you comfortable. Flaunt it.
Be it thin or fat or fit or chubby—love yourself!
Because this world doesn’t get to dictate your worth based on your waistline.

So if my body makes you uncomfortable?

That sounds like a you problem.

I’m not shrinking for anyone.
Not anymore.

How deep was the well?
Deep enough to echo my name back with indifference.
Deep enough to hold every scream I never let out.
It didn’t swallow my body —
It swallowed the parts of me I didn’t know could drown.
My soul choked first.
And no one saw me sinking.

How deep was the well?
Deep enough for silence to grow teeth.
To gnaw at the corners of my sanity
While I smiled in public and bled in secret.
Where light couldn't reach me,
And hope knocked once, then left.

I threw prayers like pennies,
Wishing someone would hear the splash—
But even God seemed to whisper,
"Not now."

I built a home in the ache,
Hung memories like picture frames on stone walls,
Learned to breathe through grief,
To sing lullabies to my panic
And call it healing.

How deep was the well?
Deep enough that time didn’t pass — it dripped.
One moment. Then another.
Each echo louder than the last.
And all the while,
I was vanishing behind a voice that said,
"You're fine."

But if you listened closely,
If you stood at the edge,
You’d hear a faint voice rising from the dark —
Not begging to be saved,
Just asking to be seen.

Because sometimes,
The worst kind of drowning
Is when you look dry on the outside
And no one knows you’re dying beneath.

How deep was the well?
So deep, it felt like those days I was mistreated,
When I had no one in life but God alone.
When every prayer was a whisper against the walls,
And the silence felt like abandonment.
I screamed inwardly, quietly—
Hoping mercy would find me before despair did.

It was deep enough to forget who I used to be.
Deep enough to blur the surface above me.
And in that darkness,
Only faith kept my heart from breaking completely.

But I’m still here.
And if you’re listening,
Maybe you are too.