Christmas and the Words I Didn’t Know I Needed

BGC Taguig City, Christmas Day

I usually don’t go out on Christmas Day.

Not because I don’t love Christmas, but because I know what it brings — crowds, long walks, traffic, noise. I’m the kind of person who prefers quiet on days that already feel emotionally full. Staying home feels easier. Safer.

But this year was different.

My sister is here with us, and she’s much younger than me. At her age, Christmas isn’t something you spend indoors scrolling or resting, it’s something you experience. I didn’t want her stuck inside the house on a special day, so we went out.

First, we went to church.

Then, with no real plan, we decided to go around the city.

That’s how we ended up walking through Uptown Bonifacio on Christmas night, lights everywhere, people everywhere, the city alive in a way that only happens during the holidays.

That’s when we saw them.

Peace. Love. Hope. Joy.

Big, glowing words standing in the middle of the city — lit up, golden, surrounded by noise, traffic, and people moving in every direction. At first, they felt festive. Decorative. Very Christmas.

But the longer I stood there, the more they stopped feeling like decorations and started feeling like reminders.

Peace, existing in the middle of noise

“Peace” stood there quietly, even while the city stayed loud.

Cars passed. Conversations overlapped. Life didn’t pause for it. And I thought, maybe peace was never meant to be silence. Maybe it’s something you carry while everything else keeps moving.

This year has been noisy for me.

Missed expectations. Messy emotions. Thoughts that don’t know how to rest.

Yet somehow, peace still showed up in small, almost forgettable moments. A deep breath. A slow walk. An evening where nothing demanded too much of me.

Peace didn’t fix my life.

It just reminded me I could still stand in it.

Love, unfinished but honest

Then there was “Love.”

Bright. Warm. Impossible to ignore.

Love, for me, hasn’t been a clean story this year. It’s been complicated. Sometimes distant. Sometimes quiet. Sometimes hard.

Love looked like choosing myself when it felt uncomfortable.

Like setting boundaries.

Like learning that staying doesn’t always mean holding on.

It wasn’t perfect.

But it was real.

And maybe that’s what love actually is, showing up, even when it’s messy.

Hope, stubborn and still glowing

“Hope” came next.

By then, the crowd was thicker. People were laughing, taking photos, moving on. And hope just stood there — unbothered, glowing anyway.

Hope doesn’t promise answers.

It doesn’t guarantee that things will suddenly make sense.

It simply says, “There’s still something ahead.”

And on days when I feel tired of trying, that quiet promise matters more than I admit.

Joy, easy to miss but still there

And then there was “Joy.”

The word I almost overlooked.

Joy isn’t always loud. It doesn’t always announce itself. Sometimes it hides behind exhaustion, routine, or survival mode.

This year, joy wasn’t constant for me.

It appeared in flashes, shared laughter, night walks, familiar places dressed in lights, moments where I forgot to overthink and just was.

Joy didn’t erase the mess.

It simply reminded me that even in unfinished seasons, there are still moments worth smiling about.

After that, we continued walking. We came to Central Square. We took photos here and there.

And then unexpectedly the sky lit up.

Fireworks.

For a moment, the noise turned into awe. People stopped moving. Heads tilted upward. And without realizing it, my inner child showed up, quiet, wide-eyed, smiling for no reason other than this is beautiful.

Standing there, surrounded by lights, strangers, and the echo of fireworks, I felt something settle in me.

My life isn’t neatly wrapped.

There are still misses. Still messes.

But that night reminded me that peace can exist in noise, love can be unfinished and still real, and hope doesn’t need certainty to keep going.

And sometimes, joy shows up when you least expect it right after you decide to step outside. - MESSY E.

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Christmas Colors, Life’s Layers

This Christmas, I spent some time wandering through the malls, camera in hand, capturing every decoration that caught my eye. Twinkling lights, sparkling ornaments, colorful trees, and little festive details tucked into corners. As I looked closer, I realized that Christmas is truly a season of colors — the reds of warmth and celebration, the greens of hope and renewal, and the golds of light and abundance. These colors surround us in ornaments, ribbons, and wreaths, bold and bright, creating the feeling of a perfect, festive world. Yet beneath the brightness, there are layers that these colors cannot hide, layers that reflect the reality of life itself.

Red is joyful, but it is also the shade of hurried hearts and tense nerves. It can be the color of long shopping lines, last-minute preparations, or arguments that flare up during holiday dinners. It represents love, but it also carries frustration and impatience. Green is hopeful and fresh, reminding us of growth and new beginnings. Yet it can also bring quiet reminders of envy, missed opportunities, or the longing for something we do not have. Gold shines with abundance and celebration, yet it can highlight our losses, the things we wish were different, or the moments when life does not feel as golden as the lights on the tree.

Life, much like Christmas, is layered. The cheerful surface is only one part of the picture. Underneath, there are unwrapped moments of worry, regret, hope, and resilience. These are the colors that do not make it to the glossy wrapping paper, but they are the ones that give depth to our lives and meaning to our experiences. Each layer matters. Each layer tells a story.

I hang ornaments not just for decoration, but as small reminders that life is not meant to be perfect. Some ornaments are shiny, some are chipped, some are handmade from scraps. Together, they tell a story of living fully, even when life is messy. Some layers are difficult to see, but they are still part of the whole. They make the bright moments brighter and the quiet moments richer.

This Christmas, I embrace all the layers of my life. I notice the reds that burn with love, joy, and sometimes frustration. I see the greens that stretch toward dreams and reflect both growth and longing. I feel the golds that glimmer through small victories, moments of gratitude, and unexpected kindness. In every layer, there is a quiet celebration: the celebration that I am still here, still trying, still living beneath the misses and beyond the mess.

I do not claim to be a color expert or a professional in any way. These are simply my reflections, inspired by the colors I see around me and the feelings they stir within me. Colors may mean different things to different people, and life itself is even more complex than I can describe. But even without expertise, I have learned that there is beauty in noticing the layers, in acknowledging the imperfect, and in finding meaning in both the bright and hidden colors of our lives.

Christmas colors are more than just festive decoration. They can serve as gentle reminders that life is layered, that every experience matters, and that even in the mess, there is still something to celebrate. While the reds, greens, and golds bring warmth and joy, they also point us toward the deeper meaning of the season. The true essence of Christmas is not found in perfection, presents, or glittering lights — it is in the birth of our Savior, a moment of hope and love that changed the world. These colors, in their own way, can help us pause and reflect on that light, the love that redeems, and the reason we celebrate, even when life feels complicated or messy.

From my heart to yours, may your Christmas be filled with warmth, peace, and love. May you find joy in the bright colors, comfort in the quiet moments, and hope in every layer of your life. Merry Christmas and may the spirit of the season bless you and your loved ones always. - MESSY E.

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A Gentle Rebellion on a Dessert Plate

I used to think rebellion had to be loud. I believed it needed raised voices, dramatic exits, or choices so big they announced themselves the moment they were made. Courage, I thought, only counted if it looked impressive from the outside.

That day proved me wrong.

I was standing in front of a glass display filled with desserts when my eyes paused on a slice of carrot cake. It caught my attention in a way the others did not. The slice seemed to linger in my line of sight, quietly inviting, as if asking me to consider it. I hesitated, doubt rising almost immediately. What if I did not like it? What if I regretted choosing it? And then another thought followed, softer but steadier. Why not try?

I had always been the kind of person who chose what I already knew would not disappoint me. Not because I lacked curiosity, but because disappointment had taught me caution. After missing the mark enough times, you learn to narrow your choices. After enough mess, you learn how to protect yourself.

Carrot cake had never been my first choice. Choosing it felt unnecessary, almost impractical. Why risk liking something unfamiliar when comfort was already proven and waiting? But something in me was tired of choosing comfort that felt more like avoidance. Tired of letting fear dress itself up as wisdom.

So I ordered the carrot cake.

It was a small decision, almost laughably small. No one around me noticed. There was no applause, no pause in the world. Yet something shifted quietly inside me. For once, I had not asked myself what was safest. I had asked what felt honest in that moment.

When the fork sank into the cake, the bite was soft and spiced, imperfect in a way that felt human. The sweetness did not overwhelm. The texture was uneven. It did not try too hard to be liked. It simply existed as it was, and somehow, in that moment, so did I.

As I ate, I realized how much I had been shrinking my choices beneath all my misses and messes. I had called it maturity. I had called it wisdom. I had called it self-protection. But it was also fear. Fear of choosing wrong again. Fear of disappointment. Fear of confirming the quiet voice that says I do not always get things right.

That slice of carrot cake was not really about dessert. It was about allowing myself to choose differently without needing to explain it. It was about letting a small want matter. It was about trusting myself with something low stakes, simply because I could.

Maybe healing does not begin with fixing the mess. Maybe it begins beneath it, in the small, almost invisible rebellions. In choosing what we usually ignore. In saying yes to something unfamiliar without needing it to make sense to anyone else.

After so many misses, it is easy to forget that we are still allowed to choose again. After so much mess, it is easy to forget that gentleness can also be brave.

That day, my rebellion was quiet. It did not change my life or solve anything. But it reminded me that I am still capable of choosing for myself, even in small ways, even when no one is watching.

That day, I ordered carrot cake.

And it tasted like freedom, sweet, spiced, and just the slightest bit terrifying. - MESSY E.

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The Comfort in Predictable Plots: My Way of Making Peace with Anxiety

Sometimes, I get angry at myself for wasting time, or at least, that’s what I call it, when I end up watching the same drama all over again. I already know every twist, every heartbreak, and every line that once made me cry. I even know when to look away because I’ve memorized the parts that ache too much. Still, I go back. Maybe out of habit. Maybe out of need.

There’s this guilt that creeps in afterward, the whisper that says, You could’ve done something else. You’ve seen this story before. You know how it ends. It’s the same voice that measures worth by productivity, as if comfort could only be earned through exhaustion. But sometimes, I think rewatching is my quiet rebellion against that. Maybe it’s not about escaping. Maybe it’s about surviving softly.

When I rewatch my favorite dramas, I feel safe. I already know who will hurt, who will heal, and that no matter how bad the storm gets, there’s peace waiting at the end. There’s no surprise heartbreak, no sudden loss, nothing I can’t prepare my heart for. Maybe that’s what I crave the most, a world where I already know what’s coming and I can choose to stay anyway.

I joke that I probably have anxiety (self-diagnosed, of course 😂😭). But honestly, I think I just don’t like surprises, at least not the kind that come with panic or uncertainty. Life already hands out enough of those without warning. One day everything’s fine, the next you’re trying to hold your chest together because something shifted, a plan, a person, a feeling. And so, in my small acts of comfort, I choose what’s predictable. I choose peace I can count on.

There’s comfort in predictable plots.

In recognizing a line before it’s spoken.

In knowing that no matter how messy it gets, it will still end in warmth.

In watching the same story and finding new parts of myself in it each time.

When I think about it, maybe that’s what healing looks like for me, returning to familiar stories until I feel ready to write new ones. Life, unlike fiction, doesn’t come with guaranteed closure. There’s no writer promising that everything will make sense in the end. So I go back to the dramas that remind me that even in chaos, peace can still exist, and that even in repetition, I can still find meaning.

Maybe it’s not about being afraid of the unknown but about making peace with it slowly. Maybe watching the same story over and over helps me practice that peace in a place where nothing can go wrong. 

🎬 My Comfort Dramas

These are the stories I always return to, the ones that calm the noise in my head and remind me that softness still exists in this loud world:

Descendants of the Sun (Korean) — for its intense yet tender love story that still feels safe, even with all the chaos around it, and for the kind of loyalty that makes you believe love can survive anything. I’ve watched this almost 20 times already, as far as I can remember, and somehow it still never gets old. 😂💛

Hospital Playlist (Korean) — for its quiet friendship and the reminder that ordinary days can still be beautiful.

Reply 1988 (Korean) — for its warmth, its nostalgia, and its gentle lesson that love often looks like showing up.

Crash Landing on You (Korean) — for its fairytale kind of safety, where love crosses borders and still finds home.

Because This Is My First Life (Korean) — for its slow honesty about loneliness, choice, and building a life that fits.

Our Beloved Summer (Korean) — for its soft melancholy and the beauty of growing apart and finding each other again.

Another Miss Oh (Korean) — for its mix of fate, misunderstanding, and longing that somehow feels like real life, messy, surprising, but still tender.

Search: WWW (Korean) — for its portrayal of strong women choosing themselves while still believing in love, even in a world that constantly measures them.

The Beauty Inside (Korean) — for its quiet lesson that what’s within truly lasts, and that love can recognize a soul beyond its changing form.

Alchemy of Souls (Korean) — for its bittersweet magic and the way Jang Uk’s story reminds me that transformation often begins with pain. Also, Jang Uk is sooo good-looking, that kind of innocently bad, good guy I can’t help but root for. 😂😭

Do Do Sol Sol La La Sol (Korean) — for its warmth that peeks through heartbreak, and how it gently teaches that new beginnings can still bloom from loss.

1% of Something (Korean) — for its steady warmth and the way it shows that love doesn’t always start with sparks, sometimes it grows in quiet understanding, one small act at a time.

Meet Yourself (Chinese) — for its peaceful pace and how it teaches the beauty of slowing down.

Hidden Love (Chinese) — for its tender innocence and the way it captures quiet affection.

A Romance of the Little Forest (Chinese) — for its lighthearted simplicity and scenes that feel like sunlight.

Ski Into Love (Chinese) — for its playful warmth and the gentle push to keep moving forward.

Here We Meet Again (Chinese) — for its second chances and the sweetness of rediscovering love.

Sweet and Cold (Chinese) — for its quiet strength and the way it shows that even guarded hearts can soften when met with patience and warmth.

When I Fly Towards You (Chinese) — for its youthful sincerity and the way it captures that pure kind of affection that asks for nothing but to stay close, a reminder that even the simplest moments can feel like home. Also, hoping I can have Zhang Lurang in the next lifetime. 😂💛

Put Your Head on My Shoulder (Chinese) — for its soft, everyday kind of love and how it turns awkward beginnings into gentle familiarity, proof that comfort can grow quietly.

Go Go Squid! (Chinese) — for its sweetness wrapped in determination, and how it reminds me that even love can feel like teamwork when two people believe in each other.

Love O2O (Chinese) — for its calm sweetness and how it proves that love doesn’t always need chaos to be real, sometimes it’s just two people quietly choosing each other, both online and in life.

Each of these dramas feels like a familiar song I hum when my mind gets too loud. They remind me that healing doesn’t always mean chasing something new. Sometimes it’s about sitting quietly with what already comforts you.

So yes, I have pressed play too many times, but each time I do, I remind myself that finding calm in repetition isn’t weakness. It’s care. It’s how I make peace with a mind that fears the unpredictable. It’s how I breathe beneath the mess.

Maybe my rewatching habit isn’t a waste of time after all. Maybe it’s a kind of self-soothing, a soft ritual that tells my mind, “You’re safe here.” These predictable plots, these familiar faces, they’re not just stories. They’re pauses in the noise. They’re peace disguised as reruns.

And in a world that often feels unpredictable, sometimes the greatest act of self-care is simply letting yourself return to what feels like home. - MESSY E.

❁ ❁ ❁

💭 Reflection Corner:

What’s your comfort drama — the one you return to when life feels too loud? Maybe peace begins right there, in the stories that let you rest.

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Dreams Do Not Have to Be Grand

I used to believe that dreams should look like skyscrapers, tall, loud, impossible to ignore. Something you could show the world and say, “Look. I made it.” For a long time, I thought that was the only kind of dream that mattered, the kind that justified all the effort and exhaustion.

But as the years passed, I began to notice that not all dreams arrive in that shape. Some don’t reach upward. Some stay close to the ground, quiet and unassuming, yet deeply meaningful in their own way.

I have this dream that others might find ridiculous. It isn’t about achieving something remarkable or becoming someone extraordinary. It’s about sitting in a café, ordering a drink, and talking about life. No rushing, no checking the time, no pressure to be anywhere else. Just being present, breathing, and allowing the moment to stay.

Just recently, I found myself living that dream.

My sister, who has just moved to the city and is now living with us, and I went to Krispy Kreme together after we did our grocery shopping. We sat at a rectangular table by the wall, a quiet corner where we could linger without feeling rushed. We ordered our drinks, shared donuts, and talked about life in a way that felt easy and familiar. We took photos, not to capture perfection, but to hold on to the memory of being there together.

What stayed with me wasn’t the place or the food, but how it felt. Somewhere between the sips and the conversation, a calm kind of happiness settled in. It didn’t need to be loud or impressive. It simply existed, and that was enough to stay with me.

That moment reminded me that dreams don’t always push us forward toward something bigger or brighter. Sometimes they gently pull us back. Back to ourselves. Back to the people we love. Back to moments we once thought were too ordinary to matter.

Beneath the mess of expectations and beyond the misses we keep replaying, there is still life waiting quietly for us. And in that quiet corner of my life, I found something precious. A reminder that the simplest dreams can be the ones that bring us back to ourselves. - MESSY E.

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The Brazen Desire: Wanting Without Enduring

The rain had been falling since morning, soft and persistent, as if the sky itself knew the weight I carried. It reminded me why I began keeping a pantry of hope, a place of words I could return to when life felt too heavy to bear. In my first entry, I wrote about how I collect words the way others store food or supplies. Lines that once held me steady. Thoughts that kept me from unraveling. Truths that carried me through the messier chapters of my life.

My pantry is still made entirely of words, nothing physical, nothing you can hold, just phrases I tucked away for the days when the world presses too hard. Today felt like one of those days. So I returned to that inner shelf and found the words that had once reminded me about desire and endurance.

Inside was a truth I had leaned on before:

“It is brazen to desire something without being willing to endure the pain.

A pain that does not kill me will eventually set me free.”

— Jin Buyun, Alchemy of Souls: Light and Shadow

There is something piercingly honest about this line. It carries a weight that lingers long after you hear it, because it speaks to a truth we often avoid. We all want things in life. We desire love that stays, work that fulfills us, healing that makes us whole again, or dreams that finally come true. Yet we rarely think of the pain that comes with wanting them.

It is easy to dream when everything feels light. But when reality starts pressing against those dreams, when life asks for patience, humility, or even heartbreak in exchange, we start to waver. We begin to question if what we want is still worth it. Jin Buyun’s words remind us that it is not wrong to want, but it is bold to truly endure.

I have often found myself caught between wanting and giving up. Sometimes, I have desired peace but refused to face the discomfort of letting go. I have wished for growth but resisted the pruning it required. I have prayed for strength but cried at the first sign of struggle. And yet, when I look back, it was never the comfort that changed me. It was the pain that did.

Pain has a strange way of revealing who we are beneath the surface. It strips away illusions and pretenses. It shows us what we truly value and what we are willing to lose. It doesn’t always destroy. Sometimes it rebuilds us, quietly and slowly, in ways we don’t even notice until much later.

When Jin Buyun said that a pain that does not kill will eventually set us free, I think she meant that pain, when faced and lived through, breaks our chains. It frees us from fear, pride, and even self-doubt. We learn that we can survive after the things we thought would end us. And in that survival, there is freedom.

The truth is, we cannot choose a life without pain, but we can choose what kind of pain we are willing to endure. The pain of discipline or the pain of regret. The pain of letting go or the pain of holding on too long. The pain of waiting or the pain of walking away. Either way, pain will come, but one kind leads to growth while the other keeps us stuck.

Maybe that is what this life beneath the mess is really about. To keep desiring even when we know pain is part of the journey. To keep choosing to live fully, not because it is easy, but because it is real.

If a pain that does not kill me will eventually set me free, then perhaps freedom begins the moment I stop running from it. Maybe it starts when I learn to see pain not as an end, but as a beginning, the quiet transformation beneath the chaos.

And so, I will still desire. I will still dream. I will still believe that there is something beautiful waiting on the other side of endurance. 

Somewhere in this pantry made of words, beneath the ache and the uncertainty, hope still glows softly, whispering that the rain will stop and I will bloom again. - MESSY E.

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Bingsu Diary: The Sweet That Tried to Stay

I didn’t try them all at once. That would have been too much sweetness for a single day. These bowls found me in different moments, on different days, when I needed a small kind of comfort. Maybe that’s what my Bingsu Diary really is, a collection of soft, melting pauses between the chaos.

I’ve always expected something from sweetness. Maybe that’s why I kept coming back for more, not just for the cold, creamy layers, but for the feeling they promised. Like a reset button for days that felt too heavy, or a quiet reward for simply getting through another week. And maybe that’s why I crave them, not only for the taste, but for the kind of calm that comes after the chaos, when the cold rushes in, startling my senses, numbing what’s loud inside me, until everything finally softens and settles.

🍓 Strawberry — The Beginning of the Craving

The first one I tried was Strawberry, soft, bright, and a little sentimental. There’s something about strawberries that feels honest, no pretenses, no surprises, just a familiar kind of sweetness that lingers. I love how the cold seeps into me with the strawberry’s delicate flavor, the way it awakens and soothes at the same time.

Maybe that’s why it felt a little nostalgic, like a reminder of lighter days when joy came easier, when I didn’t overthink what made me happy. There was warmth beneath its chill, the kind that doesn’t ask to be noticed but still leaves something gentle behind.

And if I’m being honest, I love strawberry. It feels like me at my softest, hopeful yet unsure, sweet in ways I don’t always show. I craved that gentleness afterward, the kind that doesn’t demand attention but still makes you feel seen.

🍋 Mango Cheesecake — The One That Felt Like Hope

Mango Cheesecake looked like a little bowl of sunshine, bright, cheerful, certain of its sweetness. I remember the first spoonful, the mix of cold cream and tangy mango, the bits of cheesecake hiding underneath like small surprises. It made me smile, and I think that was the point.

It was the kind of sweetness that didn’t ask questions, it just offered comfort. And I took it, gladly. Maybe because at that time, I needed proof that something could still taste good even when I was tired of everything else. I found myself craving that same feeling again later on, not just the flavor, but the little spark of light it brought to an ordinary day.

🍈 Honeydew Melon — The Familiar That Woke Me Up

Honeydew Melon was something I actually expected a lot from. The flavor felt familiar yet new, like a song I’d heard before but couldn’t quite remember where. As I ate, I remembered it was pretty similar to Melona, that creamy, refreshing kind of sweetness that wakes you up without trying too hard.

It didn’t feel calm at all. It was bright and almost playful, bursting with flavor the moment it touched my tongue. There was something about it that felt alive, familiar enough to comfort me, yet new enough to surprise me. It reminded me that even gentle things can still stir something within you, that awakening doesn’t always have to be loud or sudden.

I craved that feeling afterward, that mix of recognition and renewal. Maybe that’s what I’ve been missing lately, moments that wake me up softly, reminding me that even in the ordinary, something fresh can still bloom.

🍫 Oreo Chocolate — The Familiar I Didn’t Choose

I didn’t actually choose Oreo Chocolate; it was my sister’s order. I only meant to take a small spoonful, just to taste. The flavor was already familiar, rich, sweet, and predictably comforting, yet somehow it still felt new again. Maybe it’s because nothing really beats chocolate, no matter how many other flavors you try in between.

It reminded me that even the things we don’t choose can still bring a kind of comfort we didn’t know we needed. Maybe next time, I’ll try it properly, the whole bowl this time, to see if it still tastes like home or if it has something more to say when I let it stay a little longer.

Each bowl carried a different version of me, the hopeful one, the gentle one, the awakened one, the comfort-seeking one, and the one who craves. Not just for sweetness, but for something that feels kind, certain, and enough. Maybe this is what life beneath the mess looks like sometimes, learning to find sweetness in small, temporary things without needing them to last forever.

And maybe that’s another thing about bingsu. It’s meant to be eaten with company, where everyone learns to withstand the cold together, the kind that comes from both the air conditioning and the melting ice in front of them. The second time we went, we even brought a jacket, half-laughing, half-shivering.

The cold always felt like chaos at first, a sudden rush that startled me, as if it were trying to chase away everything heavy inside. But somewhere in that chaos, calm begins to bloom. It seeps in quietly, numbing the noise, softening the worries, until all that’s left is stillness. I love how it cools me from the inside out, reaching even the parts I rarely tend to. Maybe it’s not just cold, maybe it’s the kind of calm that comes after finally letting go.

None of these bingsu moments lasted long; they all melted faster than I hoped. But maybe that’s the quiet beauty of them. They never promised to stay, only to be there for a little while.

And somehow, that was enough.

Because maybe not everything good has to stay.

Some are meant to melt, to remind us that even fleeting joys can leave something warm behind. - MESSY E.

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The Leaks We Live With

It started with a surprise, not the kind anyone wants.

When the water bill came, my heart dropped. The number was too high to make sense. I thought maybe it was a system glitch, or a wrong reading. But then my landlady and I checked the water meter together, and there it was, spinning slowly even when every faucet inside was off.

That quiet, steady movement said it all: somewhere, water was escaping.

We looked around, under the sink, behind the bathroom, along the pipes, but found nothing. The leak stayed hidden, invisible but costly. So now we wait for the plumber, hoping the drip finds its way to the surface soon. In the meantime, that little dial outside keeps moving, counting every drop we didn’t use.

And somehow, that’s what frustrates me the most, not just the higher bill, but the helplessness of watching something valuable slip away for no good reason.

But as I stood there, staring at that spinning meter, I realized something quietly painful but true: life leaks too.

Sometimes, it’s not water but energy that drains out of us. Or time. Or love.

We try so hard to hold things together, our routines, our patience, our hope, but somehow, something always finds a crack. It might be a broken appliance, a misunderstanding, or just exhaustion. There’s always something to repair.

And I wonder sometimes: is this what life is about?

A series of fixes, of pipes, plans, and people?

Because it seems like just when one thing stops dripping, another starts. And we move from one repair to the next, wishing for stillness but always finding another leak that demands attention.

Yet maybe that’s exactly what living is, learning to find calm between the repairs. Learning that fixing isn’t failure; it’s faith. Faith that what’s broken is still worth our time, that what leaks can still be saved, and that there’s beauty in trying again no matter how tired we get.

The leaks we live with remind us that nothing, not pipes, not plans, not even hearts, stays perfect forever. But they also remind us that we can endure imperfection, that we can survive small losses and still find peace after the dripping stops.

So yes, I’m frustrated. I hate that something’s wasting what I worked hard for. But maybe this too is part of it, the messy, leaky truth of living. We don’t always know where the water is going or why. We just keep fixing, waiting, and believing that someday soon, everything will hold steady again.

And if you’re reading this, staring at your own kind of leak, whether it’s a bill you didn’t expect, a plan that fell apart, or a heart that feels tired, I hope you know this: you’re not alone.

You’re doing your best. You’ll find the source, and you’ll fix it in time.

And when you do, you’ll breathe again, lighter, calmer, stronger.

Life after the misses and messes, we’re still living, fully.

Even with the leaks we live with. - MESSY E.

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