Birthday Blues
Two more months, and I'll be twenty-eight. I’m grateful for the years that have passed, yet my heart aches—birthday blues, they call it. I thought I had outgrown this feeling back when I was twenty-five, but some days, it returns, heavier than before.
Today, I went for a run. My quiet walks have turned into quiet runs—slowly running away from worries and fears, yet still praying, still seeking. At this age, I wonder: Am I still doing okay?
Some days, I feel stuck, as if I’m waiting for something that may never come. Other days, the weight of uncertainty is suffocating. And now, I understand where these worries stem from. I've been watching a series about life and family, and it struck me—our parents are growing old too. We spend so much time worrying about how to give back, how to give them the life they deserve, and yet we’re still struggling to find our own way. We don’t want to live with regrets. We wonder if they’ll still be there when we finally get to where we’re going.
Gone are the days when we ran away from their watchful eyes to play hide and seek, waiting for them to call our names for dinner.
"Meryl, kakain na." My mom’s voice was always patient at first.
I’d still be playing, pretending not to hear.
"Merrelyaaa!"—a high-pitched call, veins straining in her neck.
I smiled as I walked past, thinking, Merrelya, that’s a cool name. Little did she know, I would come to love it as my pen name.
My mother could turn a messy house spotless with just one touch, and my father—he cooked the best meals. Some of my fondest childhood memories are from when we had little, yet everything felt whole. He would cook sinigang in a clay pot, prepare a pitcher of sweet melon juice, and we’d set the table outside, surrounded by mango trees. The air felt fresher, the food tasted better, and life was simpler.
On some days, my sister and I would knock each other with scissors, and my brother would never stop calling me ugly. We fought over the smallest things, yet I would always run to them whenever I didn’t have enough money to pay for the jeep. And somehow, it felt good—knowing that despite all the petty fights, we had each other to rely on.
But growing up comes with its own weight—pressure, worries. I wonder if I will ever be able to lighten their load. Being a good kid was never enough. Sometimes, it seems like those who strayed the most, who made mistakes, ended up experiencing more and achieving greater things. I know I’m far from perfect, but it’s frustrating—watching my parents grow older and feeling powerless to do anything about it.
To the things that are already gone.
To the moments that have passed.
To the time wasted, the memories once resented, the struggles that once left scars.
To the regrets, the fleeting emotions, the days we can never return to.
Everything is a story now—a story to look back on, to write about, and someday, to read again.
Yet, as I sit here, I can still hear their soft snores—a comforting sound in the quiet of the night. I can still see them persevering every morning, holding on to faith. I can still hear their voices, still feel the weight of their struggles in every drop of sweat. And for now, this is enough.
They may never know how much I owe them—how much of my life is because of them. They are the reason I keep praying, the reason I keep coming back to the One who created all of this.
So if you find yourself in moments like these, remember: We know they won’t last forever, but may we hold on to them while they’re still here.
"Teach us to number our days, that we may gain a heart of wisdom." – Psalm 90:12
