I can’t quite recall which dream came first, but I know I wanted to be both a cashier and a halo-halo vendor even before I fully understood the concept of a "dream." Like many young girls, I dreamed of having my own toy cash register at home. I remember begging my mother to persuade my godmother—who lived just a short walk away—to buy me one. Back then, it was just a simple play-money cash drawer, nothing like the sophisticated electronic cash registers you see online today with built-in calculators, checkout scanners, weight scales, and even microphones. That little toy was priced at about one hundred and fifty pesos, which felt like a small fortune given our financial situation. That’s why I had to plead with my mom to shamelessly ask my godmother to give it to me as a Christmas gift. To my delight, after two Christmases had passed, my godmother finally handed me the much-coveted cash register. She even joked that it would be her last gift, as I’d no longer be a child by the next Christmas.
As for wanting to become a halo-halo vendor, it wasn’t exactly a steady dream. It only came to mind every summer when a lady in our neighborhood became the talk of the town for her delicious halo-halo. She had a way of skillfully layering the ingredients in such an inviting, drool-worthy manner, topping it all with a spoonful of ube halaya, a rectangular slice of leche flan, and a generous drizzle of evaporated milk. Watching her work her magic, I wanted to be just like her when I grew up. I imagined myself standing in her spot, wearing an oversized, earth-toned shirt fluttering in the humid summer breeze, with my hands expertly crafting desserts for a crowd of eager kids.
But those dreams were eventually replaced by another when a few of my grade school classmates complimented me on how neatly I had drawn a stick house on my pad paper. That little push was all it took for me to tell my mom I wanted to become an architect. I didn’t realize how naive I was to think that simply drawing a straight stick house qualified me to be an architect. Still, it was quite the leap from my earlier dreams, wasn’t it?
Then came second grade. I remember the same teacher who confidently—but perhaps mistakenly—taught us to pronounce "animals" as aniMOLS. Ironically, she was also the one who convinced me to change my dream to becoming a teacher. No, it wasn’t her pronunciation that inspired me, but a specific moment that stuck with me. One day, she was clearly unwell, coughing between sentences and looking utterly exhausted. Yet, there she was, tapping the blackboard with her stick and dictating words for us to write down. It was the third time in my young life that I found myself admiring someone’s sheer determination. Despite her obvious discomfort, she showed up to teach us. That moment struck a chord deep within me—a calling, perhaps. I wanted to be like her. I wanted to inspire another child, just as I was inspired, by showing how the drive to educate could push through even the physical discomfort of illness. From then on, I held a newfound respect for teachers and their craft. It became a driving force behind my dedication to my studies. I wanted to honor the knowledge and lessons they gave me by not letting them go to waste. For a time, I thought that would be my final dream: to become a teacher.
But then, the summer before fourth grade arrived. One day, I went downstairs to invite my friends—who were renting the room below our house—to play outside. To my surprise, when I peeked into their room, they were completely engrossed in their notebooks, writing furiously. They were so focused they didn’t even look up when I called to them. It wasn’t until I called a second time that one of them finally acknowledged me, only to say they couldn’t come out because they had to keep writing. I felt a little hurt at first, but since they were my only playmates that day, I decided to step into their room out of curiosity. I silently watched them write, their hands moving so fast across the pages that it seemed like the words were pouring out of nowhere. Unable to hold back my amazement, I thought out loud, “Where are those words even coming from?” One of them, without missing a beat, responded nonchalantly, “Imagination.”
Imagination?
It was the very first time I had heard that word. I let each syllable roll on my tongue, trying to link it to something familiar in my memory—anything that could help me define it without having to ask. But I couldn’t find anything. Finally, I asked them directly: what was imagination, and what did it have to do with what they were writing? Patiently, they explained. Imagination, they said, was the ideas they created in their minds—made-up scenarios and worlds—that they poured into words when writing stories.
At that moment, something clicked inside me. It was the exact same awe I had felt when I watched my teacher coughing at the blackboard, her chalk-dusted fingers unwavering in their duty. But this time, it was as if I was transported to another realm. When I mouthed the word imagination out loud for the first time, I felt as though I had stepped into a universe dotted with countless stars. I saw a unicorn with smooth, milky-pink skin and a single spiraling horn glinting in the light. I saw magic, superpowers, and endless possibilities. That moment was monumental—a catalyst for what would become my lifelong dream. I didn’t start writing immediately, but I became utterly fascinated by words. Literally, every word, everywhere. I began scanning textbooks—whether English or Math—and studied how words formed sentences, and how sentences turned into paragraphs. Even technical instructions in Math books caught my attention. I questioned everything: why were the words in literature so different from those in Math? How were they chosen to suit their purpose?
It was a transformative period for me. By fourth grade, I had written my first story—a Wattpad-like love story about high schoolers navigating friendships, heartbreaks, and the fear of stepping into college. I shared it with my classmates, and their praise was overwhelming. They encouraged me to write more, sparking a confidence I had never felt before. By the time I started high school, I already knew what I wanted to become:
I wanted to become a writer.
That was always my response whenever someone asked me about my dream. This question was a common one for high schoolers, who, in just four years, would have to choose a course aligned with their aspirations. Unlike my earlier dreams—which came and went quickly—this one stayed with me from the moment I discovered it, lasting well into high school. I was confident it wouldn’t change. It felt final, certain, like the one thing I was truly meant to pursue. So, I kept writing. After school, I spent hours imagining and crafting stories, doing little else. Looking back, I might have seemed like an addict—obsessed with writing and nothing else. I vividly remember gathering the blank pages from my old notebooks, sewing them together to create one thick book to house my stories. I even had a friend once ask how I managed to fill up those thick notebooks with words. Honestly, I had no clear answer. It just felt natural, like a stream that never stopped flowing. There were no dead ends, just an endless surge of ideas waiting to be written.
Time flew by unnoticed, and before I knew it, I was in my senior year of high school. One of the best memories I have from that time—perhaps the best—happened just before graduation. I ran into my English teacher as she was heading downstairs. She stopped me in my tracks, smiled, and asked about the latest essay I’d written. Then she told me it was great. I don’t quite remember how I reacted at that moment, but I’m sure I thanked her. As we parted ways, I struggled to contain my giddiness. Her words stayed with me, lighting a spark of pride and motivation within me. Not long after that, I had another encounter with her. This time, I approached her with a question that had been weighing on my mind: what course would be best for someone like me, dreaming of becoming a writer? Without hesitation, she suggested journalism.
But my entrance exam score wasn’t high enough for me to pursue Journalism in college, so I ended up with my second choice: majoring in English. At the time, it felt like a mistake. It seemed like everyone in this course was in the same boat—people who hadn’t passed their first-choice programs. I resented it at first. It felt like a constant reminder of why I couldn’t study Journalism, and to make matters worse, I had no clue what this course was really about. At one point, I was so frustrated that I seriously considered dropping out and transferring to a more "practical" course. But then, something convinced me to stay.
And do you know what it was? Writing.
If I’m not mistaken, our first play was based on Greek mythology, though we drew inspiration from the movie Gods of Egypt. I don’t remember exactly what I wrote in the script, but I clearly remember how much I enjoyed the entire process—brainstorming, conceptualizing, writing, and distributing the final output to the production team. It’s always the act of writing that makes me feel seen. I felt that way every time we were preparing a play for our productions. It might sound cringy, but this was when I truly felt like I was living with a purpose. There’s something about having a purpose that makes you feel like a good person—and writing gives me that sense. It helps me find beauty in every little moment and honor it through words. Honestly, if it weren’t for the plays we wrote, I don’t think I would have enjoyed my college life as much.
Writing saved me.
I thought it would always be that way—saving me every time I fell. But after graduation, life happened. Life gutted me and flung me into a bottomless abyss. At that time, I almost accepted that I would be trapped there—in a dark, lonely pit of life where nothing could save me. Going to work as a first-time employee felt like dragging myself through each day. The moment I stepped outside our house, I felt like I was close to dying. It was as though a heavy cloud hovered above me, pouring rain and thunder, keeping me on the edge of tears, even while simply working at my computer. I always had that lump in my throat that kept my lips sealed because if I opened them, I might burst into tears—and I didn’t want to scare anyone at work. This went on for months—months of just surviving and merely existing. Then, one day in November, our operational manager hushed the office and asked for everyone's attention. She announced that for our year-end party, there would be another friendly competition for all the teams, just like in previous years. This time, however, it would be a short film contest. That meant we had to prepare a script—I had to write.
In that very moment, amidst all the excitement, I found myself rising from an unknown yet familiar depth. I realized, in that brief instant, that I had been in a much darker place, and the tension I felt was more intense as I struggled to reach the surface. I was lost in thought, yet I could hear my coworkers encouraging me to lead our team and write the script because they knew I used to write. I felt the rush of air filling my lungs as I nodded absent-mindedly to them. I could hear my heavy breathing echoing in my chest, syncing with the beat of my heart.
I let out a relieved sigh.
Finally, the relief of breathing freely again. Then, the depth of loneliness was replaced by the gentle pull of gravity, and everything from that point on began to feel brighter and clearer. The heavy cloud above my head dispersed, and was replaced by a spark of hope.
Regrettably, we didn’t win Best Picture, but I did win Best Director. Still, I was beyond blissful. The confidence I had lost after graduation finally found its way back to me. I broke down the walls I had built between myself and my coworkers and started joking around with them. It led me back to my old self—the one who could be good at something once she put her mind to it. From being ranked the lowest, I managed to work my way up at work. That short film contest helped me trust myself again, and it enabled me to perform at my best at work, eventually earning multiple star awards. Looking back, it produced fruitful outcomes when I was reminded of what gave my life meaning—the same dream that could save me.
Writing has saved me once again. And it always will.
I’m now writing whenever I can, even though I have to force myself sometimes. I still haven’t been able to pursue writing as a full-time profession because I have other priorities right now that can support me financially and help me achieve my other goals. Looking back, I regret putting writing aside while I was focused on my practical work, thinking I could pick it up later. But writing, like any skill, needs to be continuously cultivated. It may not be one of my top priorities at the moment, but that doesn’t mean I’ll let it stagnate, thinking it will magically return to the same state when I pick it up again. For me, writing is about simply writing—nothing fancy, no beating around the bush. I just need to write and keep doing it.
I’ve realized I shouldn’t loathe my current job just because I’m not able to pursue my dream right now. Instead, I can use it as a stepping stone to help me get closer to my goal.
It may not be my time yet. But if that time never comes, I’ll always have my own space to retreat to, open my laptop, and remember that writing will always welcome me back... just like right now, as I’m writing.