The Woman That You Are

You will never be the woman you envy. 

As you read that line, her face comes to mind. Her expressive eyes, her lips when they curve into a smile. You remember the vigor she has or that gentleness in her when she walks. You remember her bright ideas. You remember her quietness. You remember her enthusiasm at life. You remember the way she is hopeful and light, or that reserved spirit that makes her a mystery. Why does she have to be this feminine? Why does she have to walk on the career path you want for yourself? All these features you remember with ache, all images quiet insults against your confidence. 

She could be anyone to you— the top student from gradeschool, that woman on a famous TV series, your best friend, your love’s past flame, or the woman he loves. She may be someone you know closely or someone who is unaware of you. 

But she’s always there. 

When you shop and look at yourself in the mirror, “do I get to look a little more like her?” or when you run downstairs in a hurry, making sure you project a completely different person, a person who could be more than her or could be from a completely different pole... she’s there. You do your best to take her out of your system, you try your best to find her in you.

But within you is you.

As you remember her, the soul within you hopes for the day you would recognize you. Oh, that you’d see that you have a sweet way in you, that you gasp when you see something you find lovely, or that you’d know that that gentle smile in your eyes is enough of an expression. The woman in you waits for you to express your unique artistry, or that you’d know that your dark eyes which are too deep or too small beholds a million stories. You like dancing but your feet won’t coordinate with the beat of the music, but still, you are your own fun person. Do you recall your best childhood memories running around hiding behind trees under the moonlight? 

You may try to be her, the woman you envy. But within you is an irreplaceable being only you can embody. And you are enough. That soul doesn’t limit you from admiring and crowning other women with words that they deserve, no, you don’t. Your soul even hopes that you could be inspired by her, but your soul hopes that as you recognize all these other women’s feats, you’d recognize yours as well. I hope you see that your cage locks you away from your own light. I hope you see that the woman in you is worth fighting for, worth believing, worth living up to. 

You are your own season. You are your own form. You are your own story. And you, you are enough to be free, to be celebrated, to be loved. 

Just as when you were created, He already knew your inward parts, knew your substance even when you were yet unformed (Psalm 139). You have been created with wisdom. You have been created with love. That makes you enough. 

So, no, you will not be her, but someone better for the life you own. You have always been designed to be you. 

I miss writing

I have been visiting my account for the last few weeks, trying to work on something to write, but just every single time, something pulls me out of it until I wouldn't be able to get back to it anymore. My Blogger drafts and the one-line first statements on them have grown in number, crowding my list of posts. And this morning that I'm in this, I have been trying to think of what I would really want to write and I have been on it for a few minutes now, until I realized that there's only one thing I have in mind as I seek to write something: I miss writing. So badly. 

Recently, I have been remembering much of my childhood and the struggles I've had in it. Among the things that I would say have helped me survive through all those crises was the freedom I've had to express myself on paper. If there's a place I have been most rebellious, weak, in love, confused, creative and all the other faces of mine that I have barely shown, it would be found among the pages my fingers have stained. It used to be the next impulse, it used to be the go-to companion. Back in the time when internet was a luxury and when all I've had where these organic materials I could find around our home, my papers from old notebooks I could unearth from the corners of our house were the most attractive hideouts. In fact, writing is my first love, it's the activity that makes me feel most heeded to my design as I'm in it. There was a time when there was no end to the ideas that I could summon from daydreaming until the time I'm trying to doze off. It could be ideas for stories or stories themselves, short ones or those which could have been long. It could be poems, essays, and just random statements. It used to be the sole comfort of my lonesome childhood and teenage years. My dreams used to be all about it. 

I remember imagining myself walking the aisle of a literary awards ceremony to receive my recognition on something I have written. Or someone approaching me, telling me I've made an impact in her life because I took the courage to show the world what I've written, not being afraid to be lashed out and criticized for it. Back then, I was so afraid and insecure about everything I produce (which were a lot, and I think that my best ones are among them). I never got any chance to get feedback from people on how I'm doing with my crafts, it was very personal. But eventually, the inevitability to let them out has worked its way through. 

 It was in my freshman year in high school when a significant recognition happened. I didn't have an assignment for my class at that time (yes, I was a semi-lazy student), and I borrowed my guy classmate's notebook to copy from his. After having done so, I decided to pull a "prank" on him by writing a short letter with a poem at the back pages of his notebook, signing it off with his (unattainable) crush's name. I completely forgot about it until I saw my classmates gathering around the notebook, gushing over it (now, don't call me conceited because it was exactly how it was: we were kids). I thought they were teasing him for having a letter from his crush on his notebook, and so, I feigned ignorance of the letter saying I didn't write any of it. Little did I know that they were admiring the writing, and so, I had to tell them the truth because they have been pointing it to different people who kept on denying it. And then, the career was launched. All of a sudden, it felt like almost everyone wants a poem of their own, offering me "job opportunities" I gladly accepted. I sold some of my poems for 40php (I remember that that was my average rate). Some guys were even asking me to write something for their crushes, I was happy to do it. I mean, my introversion has been of use to the society. 

I don't know if any of my classmates back then would remember any of those things, but I remember all those clearly: the start of the recognition. 

I have to put my post to an end here, because I have to go somewhere. But I'm gonna be posting this up, afraid that I might queue it again left among the drafts pile. I guess if given the chance, I'm gonna be continuing writing about writing.