There are parts of my childhood that I remember very clearly. 💭
And there are parts I wish I could forget.
Not because I am ashamed of them.
But because sometimes, remembering how hard things were makes my heart tired. 💔
I often tell myself, *Past is past.*
What happened already happened.
I cannot change it.
I cannot go back and give my younger self the things she needed.
But sometimes, those memories come back anyway. 💭
Especially when I think about the little girl I used to be.
The quiet one.
The introvert.
The one my family called **“Daga”** because I was always hiding whenever visitors came. 🥺
The girl who learned very early how to help everyone else while quietly convincing herself that she didn't need help.
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🏡 When Life Was Still Comfortable 🏡
When I was in grade school, my father was doing well financially.
We weren't extremely wealthy, but we were okay.
My father had a business, and at that time, things were manageable.
I was just a child.
I went to school.
I played.
I studied.
I lived my little childhood without thinking too much about money. 🌸
I didn't know that things could change so quickly.
By the time I reached high school, our financial situation was different.
My father's business was no longer enough to make everything comfortable.
Tuition became difficult.
Daily expenses became difficult.
Even the small things that other students didn't think twice about became things I had to think about.
Sometimes, our family had to ask relatives for help just to continue our education.
And I am grateful to the relatives who helped us. 🙏🏻
I truly am.
But I also have to be honest.
Sometimes, receiving help was not easy.
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🕳️ Help That Sometimes Came Through a Narrow Hole 🕳️
There were times when asking for help felt like trying to pass through the eye of a needle.
You had to wait.
You had to explain.
Sometimes, you had to listen to a lot of things before the help finally came.
Some relatives would have many things to say before giving anything.
Sometimes, it felt like you had to prove first that you were worthy of receiving help.
Others were quieter.
They wouldn't say much.
But their eyes told you everything.
You could feel the indifference.
You could feel that they weren't happy to help.
And when you're already struggling, you notice those things.
You notice the tone.
You notice the expression.
You notice the silence.
You notice the way someone looks at you.
And even if they eventually help you, you remember how you felt while asking.
There were moments when I wanted to rebel.
I wanted to say:
*Why do I have to beg?*
*Why do I have to explain?*
*Why does asking for help have to feel so humiliating?*
*Why do I have to feel small just because we don't have enough?* 💔
But then I would think:
**Rebel for what?**
Would that put food on the table?
Would that pay my tuition?
Would that make things easier for my parents?
Would that help my siblings?
No.
So I swallowed my pride.
I stayed quiet.
And I kept going. 👣
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🏠💭We Had a Big House, But That Didn't Mean We Had Peace 🏠💭
This is another strange thing about our childhood.
People might look at our house and think:
*Wow, they have a big house.*
And yes, it was big.
But a big house doesn't always mean a peaceful home. 💔
There were relatives living with us.
And sometimes, you don't have a choice.
They're family.
They're your parents' relatives.
So even when their presence made things difficult, you couldn't simply tell them to leave.
They stayed.
And sometimes, the same people who were living under your parents' roof were the ones criticizing them.
They criticized my mother.
They criticized my father.
Sometimes, they criticized us..., their children.
And I remember thinking:
**How can you live in someone's house and still have so many things to say about the people who are giving you a place to stay?**
I didn't understand it.
Maybe I still don't.
But I learned something from it.
A house can be big and still feel emotionally small.
You can have enough rooms for everyone and still have no place where you feel completely safe from other people's words.
Sometimes I wanted to disappear.
And perhaps that's another reason I became “Daga.”
I learned how to stay in my little corner.
I learned how to make myself small.
I learned how to avoid unnecessary conversations.
I learned that sometimes the easiest way to survive a difficult environment is simply to stay quiet. 🤍
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❤️ I Wanted to Protect My Parents ❤️
What hurt me most wasn't always what people said about me.
It was hearing them criticize my parents.
My mother.
My father.
The people who were already doing their best.
I knew my parents weren't perfect.
No parent is.
But I knew they were trying.
My father was working.
My mother was taking care of the family.
They were trying to provide for all of us.
And sometimes I wanted to defend them.
I wanted to say something.
I wanted to tell people:
**“If you don't like how they live, then why are you living here?”**
But I didn't.
Because I knew that speaking up could make things worse.
So once again...
I kept quiet.
I watched.
I listened.
And I carried it. 💔
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🤫 The Girl Who Didn't Want to Be Another Problem 🤫
Maybe that's why I became so independent.
Not because I didn't want love.
Not because I didn't need my parents.
But because somewhere in my childhood, I learned:
**Don't add another problem.**
If I'm hungry, I'll manage.
If I need something, I'll find a way.
If I'm hurt, I'll keep quiet.
If someone says something about me, I'll ignore it.
If my parents are already stressed, I won't tell them what I'm going through.
If my siblings need something, I'll help.
And so I became the person who was always giving a hand. 🫶🏻
Even when I needed someone to give me one.
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👟🌧️The Shoes That Didn't Fit 👟🌧️
There was one day in high school that I still remember so clearly.
I was studying at a prestigious school at the time.
But I didn't have proper shoes.
I was wearing my older brother's old shoes.
They didn't fit.
But I had no choice.
I had to go to school.
That day, the train was cancelled.
I was going to be late.
Then the rain came.
Heavy rain. 🌧️
My uniform became completely soaked.
I didn't know the area very well.
But I walked anyway.
I followed the direction of the train route.
From 5th Avenue, I walked all the way to Doroteo Jose.
I was scared.
I was wet.
I was uncomfortable.
And I was probably already exhausted.
But I kept walking. 👣
Because I had somewhere to be.
School.
When I finally arrived, I looked like a drowned chick. 🥺
Some students laughed.
I pretended it didn't bother me.
Then I went to one of my favorite subjects, Industrial Engineering.
My teacher, Mr. Morales, noticed me.
He didn't laugh.
He saw me.
He gave me a T-shirt and told me to wear it.
I hadn't paid for it.
He simply told me I could pay later.
A wealthy classmate also lent me his P.E. shorts.
I changed.
And somehow, I made it through the day. 🤍
After class, some of the students who had laughed at me earlier came closer.
One asked:
*"Aren't you the sister of that famous heartthrob student in second-year high school?"*
I said yes.
I was his sister.
My brother was smart.
Very smart.
He was popular.
He was a little suplado.
But I loved him. ❤️
We weren't particularly close, but I knew he had a good heart.
And I never told him what happened.
I didn't want to distract him.
I didn't want him to worry.
So I kept that story to myself.
Just like I kept so many other stories to myself. 💭
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🍚Sometimes I Was Hungry 🍚
There were days when I couldn't afford food.
I would see other students buying things.
And I would just watch.
Sometimes I told myself I wasn't hungry.
Sometimes I genuinely tried to ignore it.
Then after school, I would walk home because I didn't want to spend money on transportation.
I could have gone with my brother.
But I didn't.
I didn't want him to ask questions.
I didn't want my parents to worry.
So I walked.
Again.
I was always walking somewhere.
Walking to school.
Walking home.
Walking through rain.
Walking through difficult seasons of my life. 🌧️👣
And maybe that's why, when I look back now, I realize that I was carrying much more than a school bag. 🎒💭
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🤝🏻❤️The People Who Helped Us 🤝🏻❤️
Despite all of this, I don't want my story to sound like nobody helped us.
Because that wouldn't be true.
There were people who helped.
My aunties.
My uncles.
Teachers.
Classmates.
People who gave when they could.
People who helped with our education.
People who made it possible for us to continue when our parents were financially struggling.
I will always be grateful. 🙏🏻❤️
But gratitude doesn't erase the difficult feelings.
You can be grateful for someone's help and still remember that asking for it was painful.
You can appreciate what someone gave you and still remember the humiliation you felt before receiving it.
Both things can be true. 🤍
And I think that's one of the most honest parts of growing up.
People are complicated.
Family is complicated.
Love is complicated.
Gratitude is complicated.
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🌧️💭Sometimes I Wanted to Forget Everything 🌧️💭
There are so many things that happened in my life that I sometimes want to erase from my memory.
I want to say:
*That was the past.*
*It's over.*
*Why keep thinking about it?*
And maybe that's true.
Maybe I don't need to carry every painful memory forever.
Some things are meant to stay in the past.
But I also think about that little girl sometimes.
If I completely forget everything she went through, then I might also forget how hard she worked to become who I am today.
She survived things she never talked about.
She learned lessons nobody sat down and taught her.
She learned to be independent.
She learned to help.
She learned to appreciate kindness.
She learned that not everyone who shares your blood will understand you.
She also learned that not everyone who helps you has to be family.
Sometimes kindness comes from unexpected places. ✨
A teacher.
A classmate.
An auntie.
An uncle.
A stranger.
A person who sees you struggling and decides to make your day a little easier. 🤍
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🌳🏡 About My Father's Inheritance 🌳🏡
People sometimes look at the land my father inherited and think about wealth.
But I think about everything differently now.
My father had land from my Lolo's inheritance.
He had a business.
But our childhood still had struggles.
And after my father passed away, there were even more complicated feelings around inheritance.
Some people claimed things.
Some things were divided.
Some things didn't remain with us.
And sometimes I wondered who was genuinely mourning my father and who was thinking about what they could get.
That question still hurts. 💔
But I don't want my father's story to be reduced to land.
Because my father wasn't land.
He wasn't property.
He wasn't an inheritance.
He was my father. ❤️
And whatever mistakes he made, whatever financial difficulties we experienced, whatever happened with the inheritance, he was still the person who gave us the foundation of our lives.
And my mother was there too.
Trying.
Sacrificing.
Holding the family together. 🙏🏻
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🌱💭 What I Know Now 🌱💭
Now that I'm older, I understand something I couldn't understand as a child.
My parents were human beings too.
They had worries.
They had financial problems.
They had family problems.
They had their own limitations.
And perhaps they didn't always realize how much I was carrying.
Maybe they looked at me and thought:
**“She's okay.”**
Maybe they saw my independence and mistook it for not needing them.
Maybe I made it too easy for them to believe I was fine.
Because I always said I was.
But I wasn't always fine.
I was simply strong enough to keep going.
There is a difference. 🤍
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🧒🏻🫂 If I Could Speak to That Little Girl 🧒🏻🫂
If I could go back to that little girl called Daga, I would sit beside her.
I wouldn't tell her to forget everything.
I wouldn't tell her that none of it mattered.
Because it did matter.
It shaped her.
Instead, I would tell her:
**You are allowed to need help.** 🫂
**You are allowed to be tired.**
**You are allowed to cry.** 😢
**You are allowed to say that you're hungry.**
**You are allowed to tell someone when you're hurting.**
**You don't have to protect everyone all the time.**
**You don't have to make yourself smaller so everyone else can be comfortable.**
**And you don't have to earn love by being useful.** ❤️
I would tell her that being independent is a beautiful thing.
But she doesn't have to be independent every minute of every day.
Sometimes she can lean on someone.
Sometimes she can let someone else carry the weight.
Sometimes she can simply be a child. 🌸
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🌱🎁 Maybe This Is My Real Inheritance 🌱🎁
I used to think inheritance was about land.
Money.
Property.
Things that could be divided between people.
Now I think differently.
My real inheritance is the education I received.
The lessons my parents gave me.
The sacrifices they made.
The help my aunties and uncles gave us.
The kindness of teachers like Mr. Morales.
The generosity of classmates.
The memories of my siblings.
The ability to survive difficult circumstances.
The ability to stand on my own.
And perhaps most importantly...
The ability to give someone else a hand because I know exactly what it feels like to need one. 🫶🏻
I don't want to spend the rest of my life angry about everything that happened.
There are things I still don't understand.
There are things that hurt.
There are people whose actions I may never forget.
But I also don't want the past to own me. 🤍
It happened.
It shaped me.
And now, I get to decide what I carry forward. 🌱
I can leave some things behind.
The resentment.
The humiliation.
The hunger.
The loneliness.
The feeling of being unseen.
I can acknowledge that those things happened without allowing them to define the rest of my life.
Because that little girl did her part.
She survived.
She studied.
She helped her family.
She endured.
She kept loving.
She kept giving.
She kept walking—even when her shoes didn't fit and the rain wouldn't stop. 🌧️👣
And maybe that's why I don't want to call her “Daga” anymore as a symbol of someone who hid.
I want to remember her as the little girl who knew how to survive quietly.
The little girl who carried more than anyone realized.
The little girl who learned to give even when she had very little.
The little girl who thought she was alone...
when, in fact, there were people along the way who quietly helped her keep going. 🤍
And perhaps the most important thing I've learned is this:
**You can come from a difficult past without living inside it forever.** 🌱
Some memories can stay where they belong.
In the past.
I don't have to forget who I was.
I just don't have to keep hurting her. 🥺🤍
I can finally look back at that little girl and say:
**“You did enough.”**
**“You were enough.”**
**“You don't have to carry everything anymore.”** 🫂❤️
And maybe, for the first time, the little Daga can finally try to come out of hiding little by little. 🌸✨
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