Love, as I’ve known it, has been both a force and solace. It never arrived quietly, nor did it leave without leaving me unraveled. Growing up, love wasn't something I thought I was meant to receive, I didn’t know that love could hold me and speak in soft and unspoken tones. It felt like a currency I was forever short of, something I had to give constantly, even when it drained me. It was something I thought I needed to give that perhaps if I gave enough, maybe, I would be seen, I would fit in and most of all—be loved. Love, in its many forms, came in waves—sometimes it healed, and other times it left scars. But as I grow up, I met love in different forms and shapes, each leaving me a mirror piece to see the reflection of myself and the meaning of life. 

 

As a child, I witnessed my mother fall in love with someone new after my parents separated, while my father drifted away into his own world. In that fragile split, I became a bridge. My heart learned how to stretch across that gap, to love my mother through her new happiness and my father through his quiet hurt. I became the peacekeeper, the mediator. I stitched their wounds with every fiber of my own, silencing the pain that was trying to eat my whole being. When my little sister came along, I swore I wouldn’t let her bear the brunt of that weight. I wanted her to know love as something gentle and safe, not as something that leaves bruises on your soul. I became her shield. Every time our family faltered, I bore the scars for her, cutting pieces of myself to make sure she wouldn’t bleed. But love doesn’t come without its jagged edges, and I grew to think that perhaps this was all there was: love that required sacrifice, love that demanded more of me than I could give.

 

By the time I reached high school, I thought I knew love’s shape. But high school wasn’t kinder. My personality—something I was once proud of—became a threat. I was "too much"—too loud, too opinionated, too strong, too sure of myself. So, I folded myself into a smaller version, hoping to fit into the neat boxes they had made for me. Love, I thought, required this. It required silence, being less and changing to fit in. But I soon realized that shrinking myself would never make me loveable. I lost friends during high school and for a long time, I thought it was my fault. Maybe I hadn’t given enough love, or maybe love was meant to hurt like this. The failure of the relationship felt like it was my own doing – maybe if I gave more, love would have stayed.

 

But just as love can break, it can heal, as I become an adult love evolved or perhaps, I evolved. Friendship, with its healing powers, began to show me another way. Heidi, my best friend, came into my life like a quiet sunrise—soft, pure, unwavering. She never demanded that I be anything other than myself. With her, all the masks came off, and I could breathe without feeling the weight of expectation. She reminded me that friendship, at its core, is the gentlest form of love. It’s the kind of love that doesn't abandon you on your worst days but sits beside you in silence, letting you be. With her, I found the meaning of connection—of not having to navigate life’s storms alone. For the first time, I learned that love didn’t have to shrink you; it could expand you, hold you up, make you whole again. Friendship taught me that love didn’t need to be earned through silence or smallness—it could exist in the simple act of being. 

 

Then there was Ate Rie, the older sister I never had but always needed. Growing up, I was forced to mature too soon, to carry the weight of responsibilities I wasn’t ready for. I had to be my own guide through life. She showed me that love also meant guidance, patience, and the courage to stand by someone when they are falling apart. I remember one night; we were talking about the things that weighed me down, we sat outside her dorm, sitting on the chair, she listened quietly, offering no grand solutions but something even more powerful: her presence. When it was time for me to go home, she walked me to the terminal where I will catch a ride back to my dorm, even though she was terrified of heights and darkness, she walked me across a high footbridge to make sure I got home safely. Her fear trembled beside me, but her love, her care, her presence—those held firm. From her, I learned that love doesn’t always scream from the rooftops. Sometimes, love walks beside you in the dark, even when it’s scared.

 

My grandparents, uncle Ian, and siblings offered me love in the simplest forms—the one that was rooted in warmth, in the smell of home-cooked meals, in hugs that linger just a bit longer than needed and the acceptance found in the family. We are far from perfect, but through the havoc, I found a sense of belonging. They reminded me that love doesn’t always have to be profound or poetic; sometimes, it’s found in the small, everyday gestures that make you feel seen.

 

Yet, love has another face, it came in the shape of anger, dissent, and defiance. This time, it wasn’t the soft, gentle love that had once filled me—it was the burning, unyielding love for the masses, for the ordinary Filipino, for the country. A love that compels you to fight against oppression, to champion the voices of the silenced, to rage against the incompetence of the government and the out-of-touch realities of the rich. This love roars with fury, demanding justice for the marginalized, calling out the inequities that strip away dignity. It is the love that forces you to see the world as it is and pushes you to fight for what it could be. The purpose I found here was no longer just about finding solace in love but in living for the hope of change. I realized that this love was not passive; it was a force for progress and transformation. It wasn’t enough to love quietly anymore—this love pushed me to take up space, to fight for a better tomorrow.

 

My friends—Mirai, Lyxen, Elize, Cath, Tony, and Yuan—have also shown me what it means to be surrounded by love. It’s in the laughter shared during late-night food runs, the spontaneous picnics where the sun seems warmer in their company, and the quiet moments where silence is enough. With them, love is not about being perfect; it’s about being present. I’ve learned that love isn’t just something we seek—it’s something we create together. Their love lifts me, holds me up when I can no longer stand on my own, and it teaches me that no matter how much the world tries to pull me apart, love—true, unwavering love—will always be the glue that holds me together.

 

Finally, there is the love I’ve had to find within myself—a journey that has been the hardest of all. Growing up, I hated myself; I hated my body, my mind, my existence. I was the “expensive” child, always sick, always anxious, always too much for the world around me. I anchored my self-worth in my academic achievements, in the things I could do rather than who I was. But in the end, I learned that love is not something you have to earn. It is something you give yourself, even on the days when you feel least deserving of it. I’ve had to unlearn the harshness of the world, to be gentle with myself after years of self-inflicted wounds. And in that gentleness, I found peace. 

 

Love, in all its forms, has shaped my sense of meaning and purpose. It has hurt me, healed me, broken me, and built me again. It is not something to fear. It is not something you should shrink yourself for. It comes in different shapes: the echoes of laughter, the silent taps on the shoulder, the warmth of food on the table, the tears shared, and burdens carried together—the “this reminds me of you,” and the simple act of just being there. Through it all, love has taught me this: to live is to love deeply, and to love is to be—simply, you