The Ghosts I Still Talk To

(A Halloween reflection)

Halloween has always felt like more than costumes and candy to me. It’s the season when the air grows quieter, when the veil between then and now feels thin enough for memory to slip through. Maybe that’s why October feels personal. It holds a certain stillness, like it’s carrying all the things we once tried to forget. The kind of quiet that lets you hear the faint hum of what used to be - old laughter, long pauses, the whispers of people and places that shaped you.

I’ve learned that not all ghosts rattle chains. Some simply linger in the folds of time, sitting beside you when the night feels too still. Some are kind, some are heavy, but most just want to be remembered. I still talk to mine. Not in fear, but in tenderness. Because sometimes, the only way to move on is to learn how to live with what still stays.

🕯️ The Ghost of a Past Love

He visits quietly. In the way rain sounds against glass. In the spaces between familiar songs. In the echo of a name I no longer say out loud. There was a time his memory felt like a wound, open and endless, impossible to look at without pain. But now, he’s more like a photograph in an old box, untouched, but not unloved. There’s peace in remembering him now, the kind that comes after years of trying to rewrite the ending. I’ve stopped asking what could have been. Instead, I thank him for teaching me what love could feel like, even if it did not last. Not all ghosts haunt. Some just hum in the background, reminding you that you once had a heart brave enough to love.

🌫️ The Ghost of Who I Used to Be

She still visits too, the girl who thought being strong meant being silent. The one who apologized for needing rest, who mistook endurance for worth, who carried everything alone because she thought no one else could. Sometimes she appears when life feels uncertain, or when I start to shrink myself again. I see her reflection in mirrors, in quiet mornings when I catch myself whispering old fears. But I don’t run from her anymore. I sit beside her. I tell her she did her best. I tell her she doesn’t have to be anyone’s pillar to deserve peace. She’s not a haunting. She’s a reminder that the person I was did not fail me; she built the ground I stand on.

🌘 The Ghost of Regret

Regret is the ghost that walks softly. It does not scream; it lingers in glances back, in late-night questions, in the pause before saying “I’m okay.” I still think about the choices I didn’t make, the paths I turned away from out of fear, duty, or timing. The people I couldn’t love longer. The dreams I buried because I thought survival came first. But I’ve learned that regret doesn’t have to be an enemy. It’s just a shadow of what mattered deeply. And sometimes, that’s all it is—proof that you cared enough to wonder what if. I don’t chase her away. I let her walk beside me. She’s quieter now, more lesson than loss.

🌑 The Ghost That Still Haunts

And then there’s the one that won’t let go. The ghost I can’t name without trembling. She doesn’t come often, but when she does, she brings the ache that healing can’t quite wash away, the one that still whispers “you could have done more.” I don’t know what to do with her yet. Some nights, I still cry when she visits. Other nights, I just let her sit beside me until the air softens again. Maybe she’s here to remind me that healing isn’t a straight line. That even peace has echoes. That we don’t have to bury every ache to call it healing. Some pain just becomes quieter company.

🌕 The Living and the Lingering

I still talk to my ghosts. Not out of longing, but out of love. Some are softer now. Some still hum with ache. And some simply exist like chapters I’ve stopped rereading but could never tear out. Maybe this is what it means to live beneath the mess after so many misses - to be haunted not by fear, but by the beauty of having felt deeply, even when it hurt. October always carries a quiet ending, the kind that feels like both farewell and beginning. Somewhere between the falling leaves and the cooling air, I realize how much lighter the ghosts have become.

Because the truth is, I’m not trying to forget anymore. I’m learning to live with what stays. And maybe that’s its own kind of peace. And perhaps that’s what Halloween reminds me of too, how even the carved-out parts of us can hold light. How we take what once scared us, hollow it gently, and let something warm flicker inside. - MESSY E.

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It’s Okay to Not Know Where You’re Going

There’s a quiet pressure in the world to have a roadmap, a clear line from where you are to where you’re “supposed” to be. And when that line doesn’t exist, or when it feels like everyone else has a map and you don’t, it can make you feel… lost.

But maybe that’s okay.

Not knowing doesn’t mean failing. Sitting in uncertainty doesn’t make you lazy or stagnant. It just means you’re human. You’ve spent years learning, working, and showing up, even when the path forward isn’t obvious. That’s not nothing. That’s the quietly steady work of life, the kind that doesn’t always get applauded but keeps you afloat.

Mental reframing is simple, though not easy: it’s about shifting the story you tell yourself. Instead of asking, “What’s my career aspiration? Where should I be?”, what if you asked, “What can I do today to feel competent, proud, and alive?” Instead of chasing a title or a role, you focus on your skills, your impact, and the small wins that are yours alone.

There’s freedom in letting go of the idea that you must know everything right now. You can sit with your job, your responsibilities, your present, without the pressure to leap forward. You can acknowledge your achievements quietly and hold space for yourself, even if the world around you seems to be racing ahead.

And in the quiet of your own pace, remember: it’s okay to pause. It’s okay to not have all the answers, to not have a plan, to not know what comes next. What matters is that you are still here, still learning, still breathing, still carrying yourself through the mess and the misses. That presence, that persistence, is a kind of quiet triumph. And sometimes, feeling okay in the moment is the bravest thing you can do. - MESSY E.

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Epilogue: It Was Always Him — But Mostly, It Was Me

For the ones who read between the lines. This wasn’t meant to be found by many — just by the right ones.

Maybe it sounded like there were many.
A boy I cried for at 3AM.
A love I treated like a detour.
A choice between duty and desire.
A question I kept asking:
Did I choose survival — or did I just settle?

But if you read between the pauses,
trace the ache beneath the mess,
you’d find —
it was always him.

The same story,
told in the voice of every version of me
who tried to make sense of leaving,
or being left.

The same love
I thought I had to earn,
until it broke me quiet.
Until I couldn’t be “the strong one” anymore.
Until I realized:
the bloom wasn’t in the loving —
it was in the letting go.

And maybe that’s what this whole journey was:
Not a map of many heartbreaks,
but a slow unraveling of one —
drawn across timelines,
stitched together by regret,
resilience,
and the ache of choosing myself too late
but just in time.

I kept writing about him.
But really —
I was trying to find my way back to me. - MESSY E.

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When Enough Feels Scarce

I’ve shared before how hesitation creeps in before a purchase (The Hesitation Before the Swipe) and how intentional spending can transform our relationship with money (Spending with Purpose: A Guide to Mindful Money). Yet even with awareness and practical tools, there are days when nothing feels like enough. This post explores the moments when scarcity and comparison sneak in, why emotional spending happens, and how we can reclaim a sense of enough, living fully beneath the misses and beyond the mess.

There are days when no matter what I have, it never feels like enough. A new gadget, a bigger paycheck, even something I’ve longed for, it comes, and yet the emptiness lingers. It’s not the things themselves. It’s the story I tell myself, shaped by comparison, scarcity, and the quiet pressure to always want more.

Scarcity whispers: “You don’t have enough, and you never will.” It makes me hesitate, hold back, and compare my life to others. It turns a simple wish into a sense of urgency, a fleeting need into a habit. And sometimes, it pushes me to spend, hoping a purchase will fill the void. But I’ve learned that money alone cannot fill it.

Scrolling through feeds, seeing others’ highlights, or hearing about achievements can make my own wins feel small. Yet it’s the quiet moments I often overlook - a peaceful morning, a meal with family, the steady growth of savings - that truly sustain me.

When enough feels scarce, spending can feel like a solution. The impulse buy, the “just because” treat, the thrill of new things, they are attempts to fill something deeper. Recognizing why I reach for these temporary fixes has been a turning point.

I remind myself that reclaiming “enough” isn’t settling. It’s choosing presence over pressure, reflection over reaction. I notice when scarcity creeps in, anchor myself in gratitude, and pause before every purchase. I celebrate the small wins, saving intentionally, resisting unnecessary buys, making choices that align with my values. At the end of each week, I reflect on what I truly needed versus what I chased.

Scarcity will always whisper. Comparison will always nudge. Impulse will always tempt. But when I pause, breathe, and reclaim my sense of enough, I find freedom. I live intentionally. I live fully beneath the misses, beyond the mess, and exactly as I am.

Curious how to turn awareness into action? Explore Spending with Purpose: 5 Steps to Intentional Spending - your practical guide to mindful money and living fully beneath the misses and beyond the mess. - MESSY E.

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The Encore of Joys: When Collecting Feels Like Coming Home

There are days when joy arrives quietly, not as fireworks or grand milestones, but as a small, familiar box that feels like a return. When McDonald’s announced the release of the TinyTAN Happy Meal Encore Edition, I found myself smiling, not just because of the toys inside, but because of what they represented. Something about it felt like picking up a memory I didn’t know I had left waiting.

The last time I unboxed a TinyTAN Happy Meal, it wasn’t just about collecting the figures. It was about collecting moments, small bursts of joy tucked into an otherwise ordinary day. That tiny toy sitting on my shelf reminded me that happiness doesn’t have to be loud or logical. Sometimes it just needs to be yours.

And now, with the Encore Edition, it feels like that same joy has come back to say, “I’m still here.”

There’s something grounding about that. How joy, even when fleeting, can return in new forms. Maybe the first collection spoke to the surprise of finding delight in small things. This Encore feels like revisiting that moment, but softer, wiser, more intentional. It’s not just about completing a set; it’s about remembering how it felt the first time you cared enough to.

When I held the new toy in my hands, I noticed the details, the new outfits, the familiar faces, the way they seemed to say, “You’ve been here before, but you’ve grown.” Collecting them now doesn’t feel like chasing. It feels like cherishing.

Maybe that’s what encore means beyond music or performance, a second chance to feel joy you didn’t want to end.

Because collecting is not only about what we gain. It’s also about what we keep, the versions of ourselves who once found happiness in something so small, and the reminder that it’s okay to still do so.

So yes, I’ll keep unboxing. I’ll keep finding beauty in these little returns. And if joy decides to visit again, even in the form of a TinyTAN toy from a Happy Meal, I’ll always make room for it on my shelf, and in my heart. - MESSY E.

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Loving Me, After Her

The final entry in my healing and love series — a tribute to the version of me who loved deeply, lost painfully, and is finally learning to choose herself.

I wasn’t supposed to fall in love — not at that time.

I told myself I had other things to focus on. My studies came first. My role as the eldest meant I had responsibilities that left little room for romance, much less commitment. Love wasn’t part of the plan. I reminded myself of that more times than I care to admit.

And yet love came. Even while holding all my duties in both hands, I somehow offered him my heart too.

I kept thinking I could make it work. That I just needed to balance better. That I didn’t have to choose between love and everything else — that somehow, I could manage both. It wasn’t that I didn’t care. I cared so much. More than I let on, more than I allowed myself to say out loud.

I gave what I could — and then more. I stretched myself thin to meet him halfway, even when I didn’t have the time, even when the weight of being the eldest pressed hard against the softness I was trying to protect. I tried to hold it all together — the deadlines, the expectations, the people counting on me, and him.

I thought effort would be enough. That love would understand. But love, as I learned, doesn’t always wait. Sometimes, even when your heart is all in, someone can still leave. And he did.

There was no dramatic ending. No big fight. Just a quiet letting go. A slow unraveling I didn’t see coming — or maybe I did, but I kept hoping I could pull it back together in time. But he was already slipping away, and I was still trying to keep everything else from falling apart.

When it ended, I didn’t know where to place the hurt. Because I did give my all. And still, it felt like I had failed — failed him, failed myself, failed love.

Should I have waited to love until I had less to carry? Because there was another kind of love, too — the one I had to let go of before it could even begin. The kind where the connection was there, the feeling was real, but the timing demanded silence. Not because I didn’t want it, but because I couldn’t choose it, not without letting someone else down. Not without putting everything I’d worked for, or everything I carried for others, at risk.

And that kind of letting go? It leaves a quieter scar. No promises made. No goodbyes said. Just a decision made in the name of duty — and a quiet ache that follows.

But healing isn’t about rewriting the past. It’s about forgiving the version of me who didn’t know how to choose differently.

It’s about holding space for both: the girl who gave her all to love — and the one who gave her all to survive.

Loving me after her is forgiving the girl who gave her all even when she knew it wouldn’t be enough. It means honoring the fact that she didn’t hold back not out of recklessness, but hope. Hope that maybe, love could grow even in the tight spaces between responsibility and yearning. It didn’t. But that doesn’t make her weak. That makes her brave.

And maybe the strongest thing I’ve ever done is grieve something I willingly walked into — and still choose to believe I deserved to be loved anyway.

Loving me, after her, is also loving what has remained — the steady, quiet love I have for my family. It may not be the kind that promised forever, but it’s the kind that endures — through silence, through sacrifice, through everything. It’s the most beautiful kind of love I have right now. And even if I carry the ache of someone I had to let go, I’m still grateful for this love — the kind that may not always be spoken aloud, but is felt in quiet moments, shared responsibilities, and the way we continue to show up for one another.

So here I am now not waiting for love to return but learning how to return to myself. To the girl who loved deeply, even when she shouldn't have. To the one who got left, even after giving her all. To the heart that still believes love is worth it — but not at the cost of herself.

Loving me, after her, is making the most of what I have even in the quiet corners of my life where love might never love me back.

It’s not bitterness. It’s not defeat. It’s a soft kind of acceptance. A quiet rebuilding. It’s finding wholeness in solitude. And after all the misses, all the mess, and all the ache in between — I am still someone worth loving.

Especially by me.

Missed the earlier pieces in this healing and love series?

Please visit - Beneath the Misses, Beyond the Mess: My Way Back to Me

And then the rest of the mess unfolds…

❁ ❁ ❁

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Spending with Purpose: A Guide to Mindful Money

Money is freedom but freedom comes with choices. Many of us dream of earning enough to buy what we want, yet when the money arrives, we hesitate. That pause isn’t a flaw, it’s an opportunity to make your finances work for you, instead of letting impulse rule.

Here’s how to turn hesitation into purposeful action:

1. Ask the Right Questions Before Buying

Before making any purchase, pause and ask:

Do I really need this, or do I just want it?

Will this add long-term value to my life?

Is there a way to get the same benefit without spending?

Example: Before buying a new outfit, ask: Do I already have something similar? Can this piece be mixed and matched with what I already own? Will I actually wear it this season? Thinking about mix-and-match possibilities helps prevent impulse purchases and makes your wardrobe more versatile.

2. Define Your “Enough”

Knowing what’s enough prevents clutter and financial stress:

Limit the number of items you buy in a category each month.

Set a budget for non-essential spending.

Prioritize purchases that improve comfort, convenience, or well-being.

Example: If you usually buy household gadgets or kitchen tools, check whether you already own something that serves the same purpose. For instance, you might have multiple spatulas or blenders that do the same job. Keep only the tools you actually use and need. Avoid buying duplicates, so each item adds real value, keeps your space organized, and saves money.

3. Practice Intentional Spending

Intentional spending turns each purchase into a conscious choice:

Invest in experiences or items that genuinely matter.

Avoid buying because something is on sale or trendy.

Keep a list of what you truly use and love — it helps prevent impulsive purchases.

Example: Grocery shopping — take inventory first. List items that need refills or replacement, set a budget, and use a calculator while shopping. Sticking to your list and budget is a simple, practical way to apply mindful spending in everyday life.

4. Build a Simple Savings Habit

Even small savings create security and peace of mind:

Automate a percentage of income into savings.

Treat savings like a non-negotiable expense.

Remember: saving is an act of care, not deprivation.

Example 1: Set up an automatic transfer of Php500 each month into a personal savings account. Treat it like a bill you can’t skip — it’s easier to save consistently this way.

Example 2: If your employer offers a payroll-linked automated savings plan, take advantage of it. A fixed portion of your salary can be automatically deposited into a savings account before you even see it, making saving effortless, consistent, and aligned with your financial goals.

5. Reflect and Adjust

Review your spending regularly:

Which purchases brought joy or convenience?

Which items were unused or regretted?

Adjust your habits to align more closely with your values and priorities.

Example: At the end of the month, review your spending. Did you buy items you didn’t use? Did your budget for groceries or coffee align with your plan? Use what you learn to adjust the next month.

Mindful spending isn’t about restriction. It’s about freedom, the freedom to enjoy life without financial stress, to make every purchase meaningful, and to build a life that reflects your values.

Every mindful choice you make, even in small moments like spending or saving, is a step toward reclaiming your life beneath the misses and beyond the mess — living fully, on your own terms.

Curious about the emotional side of spending? Check out my story: The Hesitation Before the Swipe. - MESSY E.

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The Hesitation Before the Swipe

When I was younger, I thought that earning money would be my ticket to freedom. I imagined a future where I could finally buy everything I wanted, no questions asked, no limits, no guilt. That was the promise I held onto: once I had my own income, I would reward myself with all the little conveniences I was once denied.

But now that I’m here, working, earning, and holding that hard-earned paycheck in my hand, I find myself hesitating before every swipe, every purchase, every add to cart.

It’s strange. I have the means, yet I pause.

I ask myself: Do I really need this? Will it matter in a year? Or is this just another thing that will lose its shine, collect dust, and remind me how easily value slips away once the novelty wears off?

Part of me feels guilty. Isn’t money meant to be spent, to make life easier, to buy joy in little forms? Yet another part of me whispers about savings, about security, about the quiet peace of knowing that I don’t have to scramble tomorrow because I was careless today.

So what kind of mindset is this?

I’ve come to see it as a shift - from a consumer mindset to an intentional one. It’s not that I don’t want things. It’s that I want the right things. I want to know that when I let go of my money, it’s not slipping through my fingers but shaping something that matters which are comfort, convenience, security, or meaning.

Maybe it’s age, or maybe it’s the mess of experiences that taught me how easily “wants” fade while responsibilities remain. But I no longer chase the thrill of buying just because I can.

Instead, I am learning to be an Intentional Spender — one who pauses, weighs, and decides not out of fear, but out of care.

And when I feel torn, I remind myself of this simple truth:

“I choose value over clutter, because enough is already here.”

And maybe this, too, is part of living fully: not in the reckless pursuit of every want, but in the quiet wisdom of knowing when enough is enough, and when enough is already here.

If you want to explore how to make intentional spending a habit in your own life, check out my guide here. - MESSY E.

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Is There Still Room for Love After All This?

The sixth entry in a healing and love series — where the ache is quieter now, but still echoing. 

There are days when I wonder if love still has space for someone like me.

Not the kind of love that rushes in like a storm — but the kind that stays. That sees the cracks and chooses to remain. The kind I used to believe was too tender for a life like mine.

Because I’ve been both the girl who got left — shattered, sobbing, wrecked at 3AM — and the girl who left first. Quietly. Deliberately. Before love could grow roots. Before it could convince me to stay.

And now that I’ve lived through both — the grief of being abandoned, and the guilt of abandoning — I carry a strange ache I can’t quite name.

I used to think love was something I could plan around. That I could feel it once, gently, then set it down like a souvenir — one I could remember fondly, but never carry again. I thought I could touch it and walk away before it got messy. Before it demanded too much. Before it asked me to choose.

But love doesn’t work like that. Not when it’s real.

And healing? Healing didn’t erase the ache. It just made it quieter. Softer. More honest.

Now, years later — after all the heartbreak, all the rebuilding, all the vows to myself — I catch myself wondering: Did I miss it?

Did I close the door too early? Did I armor up so well that now I don’t know how to let anyone in?

Is there still room in me — in my life, in my heart — for love?

It’s not that I don’t believe in it. I just don’t know if it believes in me anymore.

Because here’s the truth: Healing taught me how to protect myself.

But it didn’t teach me how to trust again.

It didn’t teach me how to stay when staying feels like risk.

It didn’t show me how to be soft and strong at the same time.

I carry all of that now — the tenderness, the distance, the quiet hope I don’t always admit out loud.

And I keep asking myself:

Do I want love again?

Or do I just miss being seen?

Am I ready for something new?

Or just tired of carrying everything alone?

Maybe it’s both.

Maybe the ache I feel now isn’t about the love I lost or left — but about the part of me that still believes I don’t deserve a love that stays.

The part that thinks I’ve used up my chances.

That I chose wrong once, and that’s all I’ll get.

But even in that doubt, there’s still a flicker. A small, steady pulse beneath the fear.

I don’t need love to fix me.

I just want to know if love could still find me — this version of me.

The one who’s healing.

The one who’s learning to forgive herself.

The one who left once because she didn’t know it was okay to want both — a future and a heart that’s held.

I don’t have all the answers.

But I do know this: If love ever comes again, I want to meet it from where I am — not who I was.

Messy. Healing. Honest.

And maybe that’s enough.

Missed the earlier pieces in this healing and love series?

Please visit - Beneath the Misses, Beyond the Mess: My Way Back to Me

And then the rest of the mess unfolds…

❁ ❁ ❁

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Scroll below and hit “Yes to the Mess” — and never miss a post.