The morning sun spilled through the sheer curtains of my room, casting golden streaks across the floorboards like gentle reminders that time was moving forward. I stretched, the light catching on the small potted plants I had lined on my window sill—a habit I picked up a few years ago when I started appreciating how little things could thrive when given love and attention.
It was June 2018. I had just turned 18, and for the first time in what felt like forever, I wasn't afraid of what lay ahead. The shadows of my past, the heartaches, the missteps, and the tangled emotions I had once carried with me so heavily—they no longer defined me. They were stepping stones, part of a journey that had brought me here.
Here was a sunlit room in our now-renovated provincial home, where the walls were a calming cream and the doors had finally been replaced with ones that didn't creak at every touch. The kitchen was brighter, the living room cozier. Even the garden outside had transformed into a lush haven, buzzing with bees and laughter from the neighborhood kids who often came over.
College was just a few months away. I was waiting for the official results from the University of the Philippines, my first choice. I had applied for a BS in Information Technology—a practical and high-demand course, especially with the rise of remote work and digital transformation everywhere. My interest in tech had grown over the years, starting with simple web design and eventually branching into data analytics and software tools.
Writing remained my quiet escape. I still kept a journal, scribbled poems in the margins of notebooks, and occasionally submitted pieces to online platforms. But I knew now that it didn't have to be the center of my career for it to be meaningful. It could be my joy, my solace—a piece of myself I would always keep.
That morning, I brewed coffee for Mama and Papa. They were both up early, already fussing over the backyard vegetables and planning another batch of herbal oils. Ever since we named Mama's small business *Balik Simula*, orders had trickled in more steadily. I had designed the labels myself, complete with a logo and handwritten quotes about healing and nature. It made everything feel more real.
"Nag-message ulit si Tita Luz kagabi," Mama said as she stirred her coffee. "May gusto raw siyang ipa-custom na wedding souvenirs. Mga soap bars daw with dried flowers." (Tita Luz messaged me again last night. She said, she has something she would like to be custom-made for wedding souvenirs.)
I grinned. "We can do that. I already drafted a layout for her labels last night. I'll show you later."
Papa chuckled. "Hindi ka na talaga mapipigilan. When you were a kid, you used to scribble on the walls. Ngayon, may sarili ka nang product line." (No one can stop you now. Now, you have your own product line.)
It was moments like this—the casual, everyday kind—that reminded me why I had worked so hard to change our lives. I used to feel stuck here, suffocated by the limits of our small town. But now I saw it differently. This place had become a foundation, a sanctuary. And I was building a future on it.
After breakfast, I biked to town to meet Jasmine and Coleen. We were helping out with a youth seminar hosted by the barangay hall. Jean had gone off to Manila for an internship with a tech startup, one that developed mobile apps for education. She sent regular updates and promised to visit before school started again.
The seminar hall buzzed with teenagers chatting, adjusting plastic chairs, and arranging manila paper on the walls. Coleen was at the front, fussing over the projector setup while Jasmine handed out colored markers.
"Look who's finally an adult," Jasmine said with a teasing grin. "Eighteen ka na. Pwede ka nang mag-vote, magpakasal, tsaka bumili ng cellphone plan."
I laughed. "One out of three isn't bad. I already registered to vote last week."
Coleen smirked. "And cellphone plan?"
"Still mooching off Papa's load," I admitted.
We spent the morning guiding a group of high school students through activities that focused on goal setting and self-awareness. It felt surreal to be in that role—the mentor, the ate they looked up to. One girl approached me after the session.
"Ate Carmela, paano mo po nalaman na gusto mong mag-computer course?"
I crouched so we were eye-level. "I used to think I'd be a full-time writer, but the more I learned about technology, the more I realized I could use those skills to help others—and still write on the side."
She nodded thoughtfully, like she was tucking my answer away for later. I smiled, knowing the power a few sincere words could hold.
After the seminar, Raziel called.
**Raziel:** "So, adulting already?"
**Me:** "Trying. Still haven't figured out taxes, though."
**Raziel:** "No one has."
He had started college a year ahead of me in the city. We didn't see each other often, but our conversations never lost their rhythm. He told me about his robotics thesis and the competition his team was gearing up for. I told him about the seminar, about how weirdly wonderful it felt to be taken seriously by other kids.
"You're a force now, Carmela," he said. "I hope you know that."
I did. Not in a loud, boastful way. But in the quiet, firm way one knows they've survived and are finally thriving.
That evening, I opened my laptop and began working on a mock website I'd been building for Mama's business. It wasn't anything fancy—just a few clean pages with a product catalog, an order form, and a short blog I updated weekly with wellness tips. It was my way of keeping both my tech skills and writing sharp.
When I hit a coding snag, I messaged Jean, who was more advanced in web development. She responded right away with helpful notes and encouragement.
Before bed, I pulled out my old notebook—the one Raziel had given me for my 15th birthday, filled with his prompts and questions. One page read:
*"What would you do today if you weren't afraid?"*
I answered: *Start a YouTube channel teaching basic coding in Filipino for provincial youth.*
It sounded crazy. But maybe crazy was good. Maybe it meant I was growing.
Turning 18 wasn't just about age. It was about owning my choices. Knowing that stability didn't have to mean giving up on joy. That I could pursue a field that promised growth and income—and still be the girl who wrote under the stars and recited poems to her plants.
I was no longer the girl chasing someone else's attention or drowning in regrets from a life I couldn't redo.
This time, I was the girl who had been given a second chance and was finally using it to build something real—for herself, for her family, for the life she knew she deserved.
Tomorrow would come, with all its uncertainties and challenges.
But tonight, I rested with the quiet pride of someone who had turned her past into her power.
And that made all the difference.