Spring came slow this year.
Not in the flowers or the weather.
But in me.
The trees bloomed before I did.
The sun warmed my skin before it warmed my spirit.
But eventually, it happened.
One morning, while sipping barako coffee from my favorite chipped mug, I realized I no longer winced when I passed couples holding hands on the sidewalk.
No sharp pang. No quiet ache tucked behind my ribs.
Just breath.
Just presence.
When I saw wedding invitations on my feed, I didn't feel like I was being left behind.
I double-tapped. Smiled. Kept scrolling.
I didn't need to be next.
I just needed to be here.
That was the difference.
I started flirting again—not to collect validation like points in a game I'd learned to play too well.
Not to prove I could still be chosen.
But because it was fun.
Because it was light.
It felt good to make eye contact with a stranger in a bookstore, standing between the poetry and self-help shelves.
To linger a beat longer when he smiled.
To laugh a little too loud at coffee shops where the conversations didn't carry the weight of forever.
I didn't need to size someone up as a potential partner.
Didn't need to imagine what our Christmas would look like.
Didn't picture what his name would look like beside mine on an RSVP card.
For the first time in a long time, I met someone—and it didn't become a project.
He asked if I wanted to see him again.
And I said yes.
Not because I was desperate for a new beginning.
But because I wasn't afraid if it didn't turn into anything.
That was peace: the willingness to enjoy a moment, untethered from outcome.
That was growth: choosing joy, not as a detour from healing, but as evidence of it.
Love wasn't a mountain to climb anymore.
It wasn't a finish line or a prize.
It wasn't a mirror I needed to reflect my worth.
It was a language.
And I had finally learned how to speak it—to myself.
I danced alone in my apartment on Saturday nights, cooking sinigang while Donna Cruz played in the background.
I slow-danced with no one but the scent of calamansi and garlic swirling through the room.
I lit candles not for romance, but for ritual.
I wore my favorite pajama shorts and red lipstick, just because it made me feel radiant.
I poured myself a glass of wine and sat on the balcony as jeepneys passed below and kids yelled "Taya ka na!" in the street.
I didn't reach for my phone.
I didn't post about it.
I didn't need to prove peace—I just lived it.
I forgave myself again.
And again.
And again.
For the choices I made when I didn't know better.
For the men I stayed with too long.
For the men I ran from too fast.
For the ways I silenced my softness to seem unbreakable.
I forgave the version of me who begged love to stay.
Who thought losing someone meant losing herself.
That girl now sits with me in quiet joy and says,
"You can come in if you like. But I'm full either way."
Sometimes I still feel her—a little afraid, a little unsure.
But I no longer hush her.
I hold her hand and say, "We're okay now. You don't have to perform anymore."
I used to think green lights meant go—chase something, win someone, run faster.
Now, they mean something else entirely.
Green lights mean:
Welcome forward.
Welcome softness.
Welcome quiet.
Welcome mess.
Welcome me.
One Sunday morning, I took a jeepney to a small beach town outside the city. No itinerary. No expectations. Just me and my woven bag filled with sunscreen, a pen, and a blank journal.
I sat under a tree with my toes in the sand, writing slowly.
Each word felt like a breath I hadn't allowed myself in years.
Each sentence, a homecoming.
Nearby, a little boy was building a sandcastle.
It kept falling apart, but he rebuilt it over and over.
No frustration. Just play. Just curiosity.
That's what this chapter of my life feels like.
Not perfection.
But permission.
To build. To rest. To feel. To begin again.
Now, I light incense in the morning not to cleanse something bad, but to welcome something sacred.
I start my days with taho and a whisper to the universe: "Sige lang, I'm ready now."
Ready not for love to save me.
But to see myself clearly.
And that's when the final line wrote itself.
Not on paper. Not for an audience. Not for closure.
But for truth.
Quiet.
Steady.
Whole.
"I no longer needed saving. I just needed to see myself."
And now I do.
Every day, in the smallest ways.
In the way I stretch before I rise.
In the way I tell myself "You're allowed" without a reason.
In the way I'm no longer waiting for the next green light to validate me.
I've become my own permission.
My own softness.
My own return.
Because loving me first wasn't the end of the story.
It was the first honest beginning.