When the Oil Pops: The Little Fears That Still Make Us Flinch

It started as just another ordinary day in the kitchen, the smell of fish, the familiar hum of the induction cooker, the pan heating up. Nothing special, really. Until, of course, the oil decided to go to war.

You know that exact moment when the oil starts popping like it has a personal vendetta against you? You stand there, spatula in hand, doing little side-steps and leaning away like you’re in an action movie. Somewhere between bravery and panic, you whisper a tiny prayer: “Please, not the face.”

And that’s when it hit me. Not the oil, thankfully, but the thought: maybe it’s not just the oil that makes me flinch. Maybe it’s the feeling of not being in control.

Because in life, those are the scariest moments, aren’t they? The ones where we can’t quite control what’s coming next. You think you’ve got things handled and then pop! Life splatters something unexpected your way. A sudden spike in bill, a bad day, a misunderstanding, a missed opportunity. It doesn’t have to be huge to sting.

Sometimes, the “oil” is just that awkward conversation you’ve been putting off. Or the decision you’ve been afraid to make. Or even the quiet fear of trying again after failing, because the last time you did, you got burned.

But still, you show up in the kitchen of life, turn on the fire, and start again.

That’s what makes it beautiful, isn’t it? The courage to keep cooking even when you know the oil might pop again.

The funny thing is, I use this little mesh cover whenever I fry. A splatter screen, they call it. It doesn’t stop everything, but it helps. It lets the steam out while keeping most of the pain away. And somehow, I think that’s what healthy boundaries are like too. You don’t shut the world out, you just protect yourself enough to keep living without losing the flavor of life.

We all have our own splatter screens: faith, humor, family, maybe even quiet solitude. The things that keep us from getting burned completely, while still letting us experience the sizzle of being alive.

And maybe that’s what courage really looks like, not a perfect calm face in the middle of chaos, but a slightly scared person standing near a hot pan, armed with a spatula and hope.

So yes, the oil will still pop, the mess will still happen, and sometimes it’ll hurt a little. But we’ll keep going. Because beneath every flinch is a tiny act of faith, the kind that says, “I’ve been burned before, but I’m still here.”

And I think that’s the bravest thing of all.

Disclaimer: I’m not a psychologist or philosopher, just someone who’s had her fair share of burns (both from oil and from life). Everything here comes from my own reflections and small kitchen epiphanies. Take what resonates, leave what doesn’t, and remember: sometimes the messiest moments make the best stories. - MESSY E.

💌 Subscribe to Miss and Mess
A journal of reflections, resilience, and the quiet power of living through life’s misses and messes.
Scroll below and hit “Yes to the Mess” — and never miss a post.

Truths and Myths of Growing Through Life

I’ve been thinking lately... maybe growing through life isn’t just about surviving or getting things right. Maybe it’s about questioning the stories we’ve been told about what life “should” be.

Because somewhere between what’s true and what’s just a myth, that’s where we actually live.

Disclaimer: I’m not an expert in life, psychology, or philosophy. I'm just someone still figuring things out, sharing what I’ve learned (and unlearned) along the way. Take what resonates and leave what doesn’t.

❁ ❁ ❁

So here are a few things life has been teaching me or at least, trying to.

1. Life takes as much as we gain. — Truth or Myth?

Some days, it feels painfully true. You finally get the job, the house, the peace you prayed for and suddenly, you’re too busy, too tired, or too stretched to enjoy it. Life feels like a constant trade: one good thing for another that quietly fades away.

And maybe that’s where the myth hides, in thinking that life is keeping a strict balance sheet, taking something every time it gives. Because sometimes, it’s not about loss at all. It’s about making room.

We can’t hold everything, all the time. As we grow, we naturally outgrow some things: people, routines, even parts of ourselves. Life doesn’t always take; sometimes it just asks us to release. And what it gives in return is often something deeper: peace, clarity, purpose.

So maybe this one’s partly true, but not as cruel as it sounds. Life takes, yes — but only what no longer fits who we’re becoming.

2. Life humbles us as we age. — Truth or Myth?

Mostly true and a little bittersweet.

When we’re young, we think we’ve got everything mapped out: where we’ll be, who we’ll love, how things will go. But as the years unfold, life shows us that plans are fragile and people change including us.

Life humbles us through missed chances, through “almosts,” and through lessons we never asked for but needed anyway. It teaches us that control is temporary, and that grace is stronger than pride.

But here’s the myth: that humility comes automatically with age. It doesn’t. Some people get older but stay closed off, still fighting to be right instead of learning to be kind. True humility isn’t about how long you’ve lived; it’s about how deeply you’ve paid attention.

So yes, true — but earned. Life humbles you not by breaking you, but by showing you that you don’t always need to win to be at peace.

3. Life heals with time. — Truth or Myth?

Oh, this one’s tricky and maybe the most comforting myth we hold on to. People say, “Time heals all wounds,” as if waiting is enough to stop the ache. But healing doesn’t happen just by counting days.

Time gives space, yes. It softens the edges of pain. But real healing? The kind that frees you asks for more. It asks for honesty, for facing what hurts, for forgiving what you can’t change.

Life heals us not through time alone, but through moments within that time: small joys, unexpected laughter, a sunrise that reminds you the world keeps turning. Healing isn’t a straight road; it’s a slow walk where you learn to carry the memory differently.

So, this one’s a myth with truth hiding underneath. Time helps, but healing is something we live, not wait for.

4. Life makes us grow through what we go through. — Truth or Myth?

This one sounds beautiful and it can be true. Every pain, every mess, every moment of “I don’t know if I can do this” can lead to growth. But not automatically.

That’s where the myth sneaks in. Just going through something doesn’t mean we’ve learned from it. Sometimes we repeat the same mistakes, run into the same walls, because we never stopped to ask, “What is life trying to teach me here?”

Growth happens when we choose to paus, to look at the hard thing and say, Okay, I get it now. I see what this was for. And sometimes, growth looks quiet: setting boundaries, letting go, forgiving yourself for not knowing better.

So yes, true — but only if we allow it. Life hands us the lesson, but we’re the ones who decide whether to study it or skip it.

5. Life says it’s too late to start over. — Truth or Myth?

That one’s a complete myth.

It’s never too late. It might feel late like the world moved faster than you did but it’s never too late.

Starting over doesn’t erase what you’ve lived through; it transforms it. Every mistake, every detour, becomes part of the story that makes your next beginning richer.

Life doesn’t close doors for good. Sometimes it just waits for you to knock again differently this time, with what you’ve learned.

You can rebuild your peace at 30, start a dream at 40, fall in love again at 50. There’s no expiry date for becoming who you’re meant to be.

So no, it’s not too late. It never was. Life’s only waiting for you to believe that, too.

❁ ❁ ❁

Growing through life isn’t about having everything figured out. It’s about being honest enough to ask, “Is this truth — or just something I’ve been told to believe?”

The more I live, the more I see that life is both messy and magical, harsh and kind. It teaches us through truths that ground us and myths that challenge us to grow.

So if you’re still somewhere between the learning and the healing, between what was and what could be, that’s okay. You’re right on time.  MESSY E.

💌 Subscribe to Miss and Mess
A journal of reflections, resilience, and the quiet power of living through life’s misses and messes.
Scroll below and hit “Yes to the Mess” — and never miss a post.

Soft Life on a Budget: A Little Luxury Before Midnight

The night before my birthday struck twelve, I found myself sitting at Seattle’s Best at almost ten in the evening. It wasn’t a grand celebration or a fancy dinner. Just a quiet meal before another year began. We ordered their Millionaire Bacon Collection — the All-Day Breakfast Plate and the Croissant — and two strawberry milkshakes. I don’t drink coffee because I’m acidic, so the milkshake felt like a simple indulgence I could enjoy without worry.

The food looked promising: the bacon glistened under the café lights, the scrambled eggs were soft and creamy, and the hotcakes were golden and comforting. The croissant, filled and flaky, had a flavor that surprised me — maybe not something I’d crave again, but something I appreciated in the moment. It wasn’t perfect, but maybe that’s what made it real.

Outside, the city stayed alive with light and sound — people passing by, cars moving steadily, conversations blending into the night. Inside the café, it felt slower, quieter. One by one, the customers began to leave until we were the only ones left. The stillness didn’t feel empty; it felt peaceful. For a while, it was just us, the soft hum of the air conditioning, and the quiet comfort of being unhurried.

We didn’t stay until midnight. We left sometime after, content and full, carrying with us the calm that lingered in that almost-empty café. Later that night, while I was looking through the photos we took, a message from a dearest friend appeared — a birthday greeting. I blinked, checked the time, and smiled in surprise. It was already midnight. My birthday had quietly arrived, without countdowns or candles — just like that. Somehow, it felt like the perfect way to turn a year older: unannounced, gentle, and real.

I’ve realized my version of the “soft life” doesn’t need to sparkle. It doesn’t need weekends at luxury resorts or expensive lattes every morning. Sometimes it’s just about choosing peace over pressure. It’s about sitting somewhere warm, ordering what feels right, and allowing yourself to enjoy it without guilt. A soft life is about finding time to step away from the noise — to take a break from work or the daily hustle just to breathe, to rest, or to quietly acknowledge that you’ve made it through another year. My birthday fell on a weekday, but I filed a leave anyway, without plans for anything grand. I just wanted space — a small pause to remember myself outside of deadlines and expectations.

I used to think softness had to be earned — that I had to work hard first before I could rest, before I could taste something nice or feel like I deserved a quiet night out. But that evening, somewhere between the last bite of hotcake and the sound of quiet laughter, I remembered that I didn’t have to prove anything to feel content.

Softness, I’ve learned, is not about the luxury itself but about presence. It’s in the way the butter melts on a pancake. It’s in the small sips of something sweet that don’t demand to be rushed. It’s in how you let yourself breathe without reaching for the next thing. People think the soft life is about comfort, but sometimes it’s just about awareness — about noticing that you are safe, full, and quietly happy in this small, ordinary moment.

I may not live the soft life people post about, but I’ve found my own version in places like this — in cafés that stay open late, in simple meals shared before midnight, in moments where I allow myself to pause. It’s a soft life built not from excess, but from enough. It’s not about escaping life’s mess, but finding gentleness within it.

And as another year began, I didn’t make a wish. I just smiled at the thought, feeling quietly grateful to still be here — living, feeling, and finding calm in the little luxuries that keep me grounded. - MESSY E.

💌 Subscribe to Miss and Mess
A journal of reflections, resilience, and the quiet power of living through life’s misses and messes.
Scroll below and hit “Yes to the Mess” — and never miss a post.

Suddenly I’m 33

I turned 33 recently, and to be honest, it didn’t feel like much at first. There was no dramatic realization, no big “aha” moment that made everything make sense. It was just another day on the calendar but one that made me pause a little longer than usual. Maybe it’s because this number, 33, sounds like the age where you’re supposed to have things figured out. Supposed to feel stable, secure, maybe even a little proud of how far you’ve come.

Instead, I feel like I’m in the middle of something unfinished.

There’s been a lot leading up to this age, a lot of trying, falling short, holding on, letting go. Things I thought would last, didn’t. Paths I thought I’d be walking by now, I’m not even close to. There were relationships that meant everything at one point and now feel like blurry chapters. There were chances I didn’t take because I was scared, or tired, or trying to be responsible. I missed things. I messed up some of them, too.

For a while, I let those misses and messes define me. I kept asking, “What if I had done that differently?” or “Where would I be now if I hadn’t chosen survival over desire?” It’s exhausting to live like that in constant replay, in measuring yourself against timelines that were never really yours.

But the thing is, I’m still here. I’ve made it through every version of disappointment and every quiet, private grief I didn’t tell many people about. And what surprises me is that I’ve learned how to live with those things, not in spite of them.

Living fully doesn’t look like a picture-perfect life for me, not at 33. It looks like learning how to make peace with the mess. It looks like showing up for my life even when it’s not going how I planned. It looks like saying no without guilt. It looks like finally letting myself rest without feeling like I’ve fallen behind.

I don’t have the answers. But I do have the capacity to stay. And for me, that’s a kind of fullness I didn’t know I could have, the kind where I don’t need to start over. I just need to keep going.

So yes, I’ve missed a lot. Yes, I’ve made a mess of some things. But I’m still here. Still learning how to live fully not in a perfect way, just in a real one.

And that’s enough for now. - MESSY E.

💌 Subscribe to Miss and Mess
A journal of reflections, resilience, and the quiet power of living through life’s misses and messes.
Scroll below and hit “Yes to the Mess” — and never miss a post.

My 13th Month Pay Tradition

Every December, when the numbers on my payslip look a little kinder, I already know where that extra amount will go. I don’t even think twice. My 13th month pay has always belonged to my parents.

It started simply, a young version of me, excited about her first bonus, wanting to give something back to the people who gave her everything. I didn’t have grand plans or savings goals then; I just wanted to say “thank you” in the only way I could. I thought it would be a one-time thing. But somehow, it became a tradition, quiet, constant, and deeply mine.

Maybe that’s the thing about gratitude. Once you begin to express it, it roots itself in you. It grows with you.

Every year, I send the money home through remittance. I don’t get to see their faces in person, but I can hear and imagine the excitement in their voices. I know how they usually spend it — on small house renovations, new appliances, or something the whole family can enjoy. Sometimes, they even use a bit for their little indulgences, and that makes my heart full. It feels like I’m part of their joy, even from miles away.

It’s not about the amount. It never was. It’s about the feeling of being able to give back, even in small ways, to the hands that carried me through the hardest parts of growing up.

I know they’d tell me to keep it for myself, for bills, for rest, for plans I keep postponing, and sometimes I do feel that tug. Especially when I hear others talk about what they’ll buy with theirs: a new gadget, a trip, a long-awaited reward. And there’s nothing wrong with that. We all celebrate differently.

But maybe this is how I celebrate too, not through purchases, but through presence. Not through possessions, but through love that has taken years to return home.

While others plan for major purchases, I quietly invest mine into love, the kind that doesn’t depreciate, the kind that keeps me grounded no matter how messy life gets. Every peso I send back to my parents feels like a seed planted in the soil that raised me. It doesn’t multiply in the bank, but it grows in the heart.

Because beneath all the misses and beyond all the messes, this is where I bloom best, in the act of giving back to where my roots still whisper, you’ve done well, anak. - MESSY E.

💌 Subscribe to Miss and Mess
A journal of reflections, resilience, and the quiet power of living through life’s misses and messes.
Scroll below and hit “Yes to the Mess” — and never miss a post.

The Silog Diaries: Soft Survival, One Plate at a Time

Not every day gets fixed. But some days get fed.

🍽️ A Meal That Keeps Finding Me

I never meant to turn silog meals into a food diary.

At first, it was just a few photos of takeout - Tocilog, longsilog, tapsilog. Familiar, comforting, always welcome. I posted them like little footnotes to difficult days. They served as the quiet reminders: “Still here. Still eating. Still trying.”

What I didn’t realize was that these posts were forming a pattern.

Not just a food diary but a survival record. This isn’t about aesthetics or perfection. It’s just me, living through my days.

These meals kept showing up for me in ways I didn’t expect. There were days when I couldn’t quite explain what I needed, only that I was tired and running on something close to empty. I wasn’t ready to fix my life or make sense of anything, but I could order something warm. And somehow, that felt like enough. When nothing else around me felt soft, sure, or sweet, a takeout box of silog did.

Takeout silog became presence. And this, I guess, became The Silog Diaries.

📖 The Diaries: Silog Moments That Stayed

Each of these meals has its own memory. Not big, not dramatic. But steady. They fed something in me that wasn’t just physical hunger. And that’s why I remember them.

🍳 Tocilog on a Tired Day

Takeout, Tocilog, and Trying Again

It wasn’t a celebration. Just survival.

I ordered tocilog from a place that packs it in a humble paper box, no frills, just something warm, sweet, and familiar. Some days don’t need big wins. Some days just ask for something that can meet you halfway, even if you’re running on empty.

Tocino for softness. Egg for effort. Rice for grounding. That was the equation that held me together that night.

The meal didn’t change my life. But it let me feel held, fed, and slightly less alone in the mess of things. If you've ever clung to small comforts in the middle of your own chaos, I think you’ll understand.

Sometimes, the reset button isn’t radical.

It’s just red, sweet, and a little sticky on your fingers.

It’s takeout tocilog saying, “You’re tired but you still showed up.”

🧄 Longsilog and Lingering Thoughts

When the flavor feels louder than your mood.

This one wasn’t gentle. The longganisa was bold, sweet, oily, and a little heavier than I expected. But maybe that matched the day. The kind of day when silence doesn’t soothe, it just sits there, stretching too long, pressing on thoughts you’ve tried to avoid.

I ate slowly, not because it was perfect, but because it was familiar. There’s something grounding about the mix of sweetness and salt, rice and egg, how it fills the spaces you don’t have words for.

Some meals aren’t soft, but they still hold you.
Not every comfort needs to whisper.
Some arrive with a bite.

🥩 Tapsilog for a Late Morning That Felt Heavy

Lazy to rise but needing to start somewhere.

It was late, closer to lunch than breakfast when I finally gave in and got out of bed. I wasn’t exactly hungry, just… aware that I needed to eat. The kind of morning where your body moves slower than your thoughts and getting up already feels like an achievement.

So I ordered tapsilog. Soy, vinegar, garlic, rice, comfort in its most grounded form. It wasn’t indulgence, just something that made sense when nothing else did.

The first bite reminded me that effort doesn’t always have to be big. Sometimes, showing up means sitting with a takeout box, fork in hand, reminding yourself that you’re still here.

It didn’t fix the heaviness but it helped me move through it. One bite, one breath, one small act of trying again.

🐖 Porksilog and the Weight of Ordinary Days

Heavy, steady, and grounding.

Porksilog isn’t fancy. It doesn’t pretend to be soft or sweet.

It’s the kind of meal that meets you where you are, on an ordinary day that feels like it’s carrying more weight than you can hold.

The salty pork, the fried rice, the egg softening the edges, it doesn’t fix anything. But it steadies you. Heavy in the best way.

This plate reminded me that sometimes survival isn’t about chasing lightness.

Sometimes, it’s about letting something solid carry you through.

🧾 The Meal Is Never Just a Meal

I didn’t write these down because I’m a foodie. I wrote them down because they were checkpoints. Small markers in the timeline of trying to live through hard things.

Silog isn’t glamorous. It’s not even always hot when it reaches you. But it’s known. It’s held me through heartbreaks and headaches, through burnouts and breakdowns. It doesn’t ask questions, it just feeds.

And that’s what this whole Miss and Mess thing is about. Not thriving. Not transforming. Just… continuing. Softly. Quietly. Still here.

Somewhere between the misses and the messes, I kept finding myself with a fork in hand and a bite of something familiar. Not fixed. Not fine. But fed.- MESSY E.

💌 Subscribe to Miss and Mess
A journal of reflections, resilience, and the quiet power of living through life’s misses and messes.
Scroll below and hit “Yes to the Mess” — and never miss a post.

Between the Winds and the Wounds

Sometimes, I think life is just one long cycle of preparing for storms and trying to recover after they pass. It sounds dramatic, but if you’ve ever been through a real typhoon, you’ll understand what I mean. There’s that familiar tension in the air before it hits — the quiet before the chaos. We start securing what we can, making sure everything is in place, but deep down we know we can never really be ready for everything.

When the storm finally arrives, it feels like all you can do is hold on. You just hope that whatever you’ve built can withstand the wind and the rain. You watch as plans get washed away, as things you thought were strong begin to shake, and you realize that sometimes, even with all your preparation, you can still lose parts of yourself in the process.

I still remember Typhoon Yolanda, although not as clearly as I once did. I don’t remember every detail of how it struck us, but I remember us holding hands tightly, trying to get through the flood currents together to reach safety. I remember the uprooted trees, how we evacuated wet and cold, and how empty everything felt when we finally went back. The place looked deserted. I can’t even recall exactly how much damage it brought to our house, but I remember the blackout that lasted until Christmas and New Year. It happened in November, yet it lingered in our lives for months. Those moments now feel vague, but the trauma remains vivid.

Even now, whenever there’s news that a typhoon is heading our way, a quiet worry starts to rise in me. It’s not just about the wind or the rain, but about the possibility of losing everything again. We’ve been gradually improving our house and the comfort of living I can give to my parents, and there’s always that fear that one strong storm could take us back to zero.

Maybe that’s why I’ve learned to see recovery differently. It’s not just something that happens after the storm. It’s part of living. It’s in every moment we choose to rebuild, to stay, to keep going even when the memories still shake us a little. The process is slow and messy. You pick up what’s left, take a deep breath, and try to make sense of what’s still standing. And while it’s not always easy, there’s something grounding about it. It’s in these moments that you see your own strength — not in how you avoided the storm, but in how you kept going after it.

Maybe that’s what life really is: learning to live through all these seasons of preparation and recovery. We can’t stop the storms, but we can learn how to stand again once they’re gone.

Because even after all the misses and the messes, we still find a way to keep living fully, just like the morning sun that always returns after the rain.

🌧️🌧️ 🌧️  

I wrote this reflection because of the recent typhoons here in the Philippines. I am writing through my worry, especially with my parents far away from us. Even though they’re not directly affected, I can’t help but feel uneasy knowing they’re facing these storms on their own. This reflection is not meant to glamorize the situation or overlook the struggles of those who are suffering. The pain and losses are real, and my prayers go to everyone affected by these recent typhoons. May they find safety, strength, and comfort in the days ahead. Writing this is my way of holding on to hope, finding calm amid the worry, and reminding myself that even through all of this, we continue to rise, rebuild, and live. - MESSY E.

💌 Subscribe to Miss and Mess
A journal of reflections, resilience, and the quiet power of living through life’s misses and messes.
Scroll below and hit “Yes to the Mess” — and never miss a post.

The Taste of Growing Up

I used to hate anything bitter.

Ampalaya, labanos, vinegar. They were too sharp for me, too honest. I always wanted sweetness, something easy to like and easier to swallow. When I was younger, I thought sweetness meant goodness. That if something stung, it must not be worth having.

But lately, I’ve noticed how much my taste has changed. Maybe it’s age. Maybe it’s distance. Or maybe it’s the quiet ways life teaches you to stop craving only what’s easy.

One weekend, I went on a grocery run, the kind of quiet routine that makes weekends feel a little steadier. I wasn’t planning anything special, just the usual restocks. Then I saw fresh labanos, bright white, crisp, and slightly intimidating. I picked some up without thinking twice. Maybe out of curiosity, maybe out of craving, maybe because I wanted to try something that once made me wince. I planned to make pickled labanos for dinner, maybe pair it with dilis.

Later that afternoon, I called my mom, the usual check-in after errands. We talked about small things, how they were doing, what I had for lunch, how the weather still couldn’t decide what it wanted to be. Somewhere in between, I told her about my plan to make atsara.

“Ah, pickled labanos,” she said, amused. “Add sugar! That makes it atsara, right?” But I already knew I wouldn’t. “No need to add sugar,” I said, laughing a little. “I like it sour. Maybe because I’m an adult now.” She laughed, and I laughed too, the kind of laugh that carries both affection and distance, like two people tasting time from opposite ends of a memory.

Maybe this is what growing up tastes like.

Learning to like what once made you cringe. Finding comfort in things that are not sweet, not easy, not softened. Realizing that not everything needs to be covered up to be enjoyed. Some things are meant to be sharp, to remind you that you’re alive, that you’ve changed.

That night, I ate my pickled labanos with dilis. The combination was simple and honest. Salty, sour, and real. It wasn’t comforting in the usual way, but it grounded me. It reminded me how much has shifted quietly over the years in taste, in tolerance, in what I reach for when I want to feel okay.

Maybe growing up is not about outgrowing sweetness but about learning to taste the full range of things, the bitter, the sour, the sharp, and the strange. The ones that once felt too much. The ones that now feel like truth.

I used to think maturity meant choosing what felt gentle. But maybe it means learning to sit with what stings and still finding something good in it not because it’s easy, but because it’s real.

So yes, I like my labanos unsweetened now. Not because I’ve turned bitter, but because I’ve learned to love what’s real, even when it doesn’t taste easy.

Life isn’t sugarcoated anymore, but it’s real. - MESSY E.

💌 Subscribe to Miss and Mess
A journal of reflections, resilience, and the quiet power of living through life’s misses and messes.
Scroll below and hit “Yes to the Mess” — and never miss a post.

Still Noodles, But a Little More

There was a time I thought eating noodles meant you were poor.

When I was younger, noodles were the default meal on hard days. They were the backup plan when the fridge looked empty, the go-to dinner when payday still felt far away. I remember the taste of those nights, salty and hurried, often eaten with a quiet ache.

Way back in college, noodles were part of my plan. I would stock a few packs at the start of the week, convincing myself they could stretch my little allowance a bit longer. It wasn’t much, but it helped me survive the long days of classes. Back then, it wasn’t comfort food. It was a strategy.

I used to believe people who could afford “real” food were living better lives. Rice meals meant stability. Take-out meant success. And noodles? They meant you were barely getting by. They were the edible reminder that life wasn’t as put-together as you hoped it would be.

But somewhere along the way, something changed.

The other day, I found myself standing in the grocery aisle, scanning the shelves for a familiar blue pack. I smiled when I saw it — Jin Ramen Mild. I started buying it because of a certain someone who shares the name, and maybe that small reason made it feel special. I even bought the multi-pack once just to collect the stickers that came with it. As a fan, that part was already a given, but it still made grocery runs feel lighter, almost like finding a tiny joy in the ordinary.

When I cooked it at home, it hit me. It was still noodles. Still the same concept of water, seasoning, and a few vegetables pretending to be more than they are. But it didn’t feel cheap anymore. It felt earned.

Maybe that’s what growth quietly looks like.

It’s not just having more. It’s understanding more.

There was a time when noodles meant lack. Now they mean choice.

They mean comfort on a long day, a small treat to look forward to, or even a simple reminder of joy in unexpected places.

I smiled as I waited for the water to boil. It wasn’t just about the meal. It was about the moment. The quiet realization that I no longer saw it as a symbol of struggle. Somewhere between surviving and slowly finding my rhythm, noodles stopped being a reminder of scarcity and became a small proof that I made it through.

Maybe healing sometimes looks like this.

You revisit something that once reminded you of lack, and instead of sadness, you feel gratitude. You remember the version of yourself who ate out of necessity, who stretched a meal for one into something for two, who tried to make it look enough. Now, you honor that version by eating the same thing, but this time with peace.

It is funny how life works. What once made you feel less can now remind you of more.

So yes, it is still noodles. Ramen, if I’m being a little fancy about it. But now I can laugh, savor, and sit with the memory of where I came from. I can look at a steaming bowl and think, this tastes like progress. It is the same kind of food, but it feeds a different kind of contentment.

Still noodles, yes.

But not the same me eating them anymore.- MESSY E.

🍜🍜🍜

💌 Subscribe to Miss and Mess
A journal of reflections, resilience, and the quiet power of living through life’s misses and messes.
Scroll below and hit “Yes to the Mess” — and never miss a post.

So This Is Adulting: Paying My Own Bills

I used to think “adulting” was about the big things, like getting promoted, moving out, or buying your first appliance that isn’t secondhand. The word always sounded too serious, too far away from the version of me who still googled how to do basic things in life and hoped I was doing them right.

But lately, I’m learning that it’s not always that dramatic. Sometimes, adulthood shows up quietly, through smaller responsibilities that sneak into your routine before you even notice.

Like paying bills.

Back in our old place, our landlady used to handle it all. She would send the total, and we would transfer the money to her: rent, water, electricity, all in one go. No numbers to check, no due dates to track. It was convenient, detached, and honestly, it kept me from ever really thinking about it.

Now, it’s different. In our new apartment, I’m the one in charge of paying the electric and water bills. It sounds simple, but that first month, I was nervous. What if I missed something? What if I accidentally paid the wrong amount?

So, I made accounts with Meralco and Manila Water, learned how to navigate their apps, and even figured out how to read our consumption. I started noticing patterns: how higher usage crept in on long work-from-home days, how weekends with extra laundry added up.

It’s funny how something so ordinary can make you feel strangely accomplished. I guess that’s what they mean when they say growth hides in the little things.

There’s still a bit of mess in the process: the trial and error, the overthinking, the quiet pressure to get it right. But it also feels grounding. It’s proof that I’m learning to manage, to take care, to show up even when no one else will notice.

Because maybe that’s what adulting really is. Not about being fully figured out, but about trying — showing up for responsibilities, for routines, for yourself.

Paying bills may not be a grand story, but it’s part of this ongoing one: of learning, adjusting, and living through the quiet messes that come with growing up. - MESSY E.

💌 Subscribe to Miss and Mess
A journal of reflections, resilience, and the quiet power of living through life’s misses and messes.
Scroll below and hit “Yes to the Mess” — and never miss a post.