The day I quit my job, no one clapped.
There was no slow-motion scene.
No standing ovation.
No inspirational playlist swelling in the background like in a movie.
Just me.
Alone at my desk.
Clicking "Send" on a resignation email.
And then staring at the screen like I'd just jumped off a cliff.
I didn't cry. I didn't celebrate. I just sat there, watching the cursor blink back at me like it knew something I didn't.
I had built my whole identity around being excellent.
At work. In relationships. In pain.
Especially in pain.
I wore burnout like a badge of honor.
Turned overwork into a personality trait.
Romanticized resilience even when it was slowly hollowing me out.
Told myself that purpose would come after proving myself. That if I just kept pushing, kept excelling, someone—maybe God, maybe my father, maybe a faceless future version of me—would finally say, "You did enough. You can rest now."
But purpose doesn't bloom in boardrooms where your soul is collateral.
And healing doesn't happen between client calls and crisis control.
So I walked away.
From the title.
From the team.
From the fancy email signature that looked more impressive than it ever felt.
From being the dependable one, the productive one, the "Wow, she's doing big things" woman people referenced at reunions.
I took a job at a local nonprofit.
Less money.
Less status.
Less prestige at family dinners where titas asked, "So what do you do now?" and paused a little too long after my answer.
But I also got something else.
More breath.
More quiet.
More me.
For the first time in years, I started waking up without an alarm.
Not to optimize.
Not to tackle a to-do list.
Not to get a head start on the day.
Just to stretch.
To sip tea slowly, with both hands around the mug.
To exist before the world started asking for pieces of me again.
My mornings became sacred.
Windows open.
The sound of jeepneys passing.
Electric fan humming in the background.
Music low—Ebe Dancel, Cynthia Alexander, Up Dharma Down on vinyl.
No screens for the first hour. Not even to check the weather.
I watered my plants.
Lit candles.
Wiped the table with lemon-scented liniment my Lola used to keep in the cabinet.
Made the bed slowly, like a prayer. Like a promise: You deserve calm today.
I no longer needed to win the morning.
I just wanted to meet myself in it.
I bought clothes that felt like softness, not strategy.
Cotton dresses. Linen pants. Tsinelas instead of heels.
I wore what made me feel human, not hired.
I said no to social plans without guilt.
No to brunches that felt like competitions.
No to "catch-ups" that were more about comparison than connection.
I took long walks through old neighborhoods.
Let my feet decide the route.
Paused at sari-sari stores to buy Choc Nut.
Sat at a park bench and watched kids play habulan like nothing else existed.
I unfollowed accounts that made me feel behind.
Turned off notifications.
Let texts sit unread until I had the energy to reply with presence, not performance.
But the doubts still came.
Did I give up too soon?
Will I regret choosing peace over prestige?
Is this selfish? Lazy? Small?
But then I'd return to myself.
Not the curated version.
Not the woman who aced interviews and memorized her worth in bullet points.
Not the girl on the panel or the date or the performance review.
Just the woman in a worn t-shirt, smiling at her reflection.
Not because she looked good.
But because she looked home.
I didn't need to be admired anymore.
I needed to be held.
By me.
Loving me first wasn't a mantra.
It wasn't a Pinterest quote or a caption for a carefully staged selfie.
It was a series of tiny, daily revolutions:
Eating when I was hungry—not when it was convenient.
Resting when I was tired—even if the laundry wasn't folded.
Crying when I was hurting—even if I didn't have a solution.
Laughing without asking, "Was that attractive?"
Lighting a candle even when no one else was home.
Washing my hair not because it was dirty, but because I wanted to feel cared for.
Taking breaks without "earning" them.
Loving me first meant I no longer needed a reason to be kind to myself.
No achievement required. No deadline passed. No heartbreak endured.
I started spending weekends with my family again.
Listened to my Lola retell the same stories over merienda—stories about her first love, about raising five kids with more faith than money.
I helped my mom cook kare-kare on Sundays and washed dishes while she sang Basil Valdez in the background.
I called my best friend just to say, "I miss your laugh."
Not to vent. Not to ask for advice.
Just to share space.
I bought a secondhand guitar.
Played badly.
Sang off-key.
Felt more whole than I ever did at a conference table.
I no longer needed to build a life that looked good.
I was building one that felt like mine.
One where I wasn't performing femininity or excellence or emotional fluency.
One where I didn't disappear into someone else's expectations.
One where softness wasn't a liability—but a homecoming.
This wasn't about glow-ups.
Or reinvention.
Or becoming "That Girl."
It was about reclamation.
I stopped hustling to prove I was worth loving.
Stopped shrinking to fit into places that were never made for someone like me.
Stopped waiting for permission to rest.
Now, when I light a candle, I don't think of romance.
I think of presence.
Of warmth.
Of how good it feels to be enough even when no one is watching.
Now, I wake up not with dread, but with gentleness.
I stretch.
I breathe.
I thank the version of me who finally chose peace over performance.
Because this—this quiet, intentional, imperfect life—is what I had been searching for all along.
And this time, I didn't have to lose myself to find it.
I just had to stop leaving her behind.