What We've Been Writing #07: Where do we go from here?
In the last few weeks we wrote about transitions: making them, riding them out, and figuring out whether we should change with them, or stay pretty much the way we are.
If I was actively waiting for a turning point three years after the end of a long-term relationship and doubting whether it even was a thing in a first place, the past few weeks would have been it. Between representing the Philippines at an APEC event in South Korea, a radio interview that may have been a little more consequential than I first imagined, and several big projects being fully realized, this feels like me stepping on a whole new step: moving on, moving up, moving ahead.
And yet I still ask myself if I deserve to be here.
I don’t think it’s solely my own self-doubts at play here. I think it’s something we all generally feel as we find ourselves in the midst of some huge transitions, whether in our own lives, or in the settings we find ourselves in. There’s excitement in realizing you’re there; there’s trepidation in realizing you’re definitely going to lose something you’ve held on to, and gain something you might not even want in the first place. So, of course, we’re writing about it.
Birthdays (growing older)
Is it cheating if I set the stage with an essay that’s technically three years old and not originally published on Substack? At least that’s what Ria Tagulinao said this post was about—written on the occasion of her birthday, and now brought over to this platform, lightly edited and with added narration, which brings the added dimension of reality to words. (And made me wonder which on-screen characters she has voiced for.)
And in any case, the sentiments she made in her piece are universal: crossing a human-defined threshold (in this case, turning 30) and finding yourself wondering if you are in the right place.
When I identified as a 30-year-old, I wondered: Am I just being pretentious? Did I pompously consider myself a full-fledged adult because I now live on my own and enjoy unlimited sangrias and roll with cool and sexy ladies like Ana and Robbie?
But as I thought more about why I’m so drawn to them, I realized that it isn’t so much about the optics of growing up as it is about the promise of having lived more years. These two feisty, funny, and fiercely independent women show me that growing older, as the adage says, can make you wiser.
Isn’t that amazing? How every year of your life can promise clearer lenses and sharper senses?
Another birthday post, this time from writer and creative Toni Potenciano, and this one’s specifically about literally moving to a new place.
It’s a miracle to talk about it this way. When exactly one year ago, I felt like dying. The very idea of moving away was so overwhelming, swallowing me whole for days at a time. To leave the home we had stayed in the longest on record was like cutting flesh. I cried for days. If only grief alone could pay for our move. The younger versions of me bubbling back up to the surface. An ache more than 20 years in the making. It took months for me to recover, to unclench, to believe that all the time and resources were worth it. To slowly settle into this new life that brings me peace and even some joy.
Birthdays (being born)
I spotted a couple of posts in the last few weeks that revolve around pregnancies, and at the risk of sounding nonchalant, they can’t be any different from each other.
The first one’s from Dominique Gonzaga-Sulatra, who’s counting down the days to the birth of her second child. (By the time you read this, she’s probably already given birth, so advanced—or belated—congratulations from Stack Natin!) Her piece focuses on the adjustments she (and her husband) had to make to accommodate what’s ahead, even if they may sound a little counterintuitive.
In February, I began to take on extra editing work—to help save money for hospital bills when our second child arrives. That meant clocking extra hours at night, often when my pregnant body was begging for rest and my brain was already in sleep mode. It’s been a stretch—physically, mentally, and emotionally. But even in the middle of the hustle, I’ve been learning to carve out quiet times of refreshment: cooking my favorite meals, releasing my poetry collection, and even writing short fiction. The stretch is necessary, but so is the stillness. One keeps me moving forward; the other keeps me grounded.
I’m also keen to highlight a later line she wrote.
Stability isn’t the absence of change—it’s the choice to stay rooted in the middle of it. And maybe that is what God is teaching me most in this season: that even when I feel like a ticking time bomb, I can build a quiet steadiness deep within—not on my own strength, but with His.
On the other end is this piece from Jion Legaspi, who talks about losing her daughter during pregnancy.
Some have asked what my daughter’s name means. Ayli means “smile” in Kapampangan. A name I spent months mulling over, and a name I had to quickly decide on because we were on the way to the hospital.
I never got to see Ayli smile, so I like to think that I’ll be honouring her by doing all the smiling for her instead. As much as I can for the rest of my life, despite not being much of a smiler myself. Most days, my smiles are forced, but I smile nonetheless. Because it’s the badge that I swore I’d wear for her.
I’ve been sitting with this piece for a while. This happened to my family. We were supposed to be four siblings, but my mother miscarried when she was pregnant with our supposed youngest sibling. I think I was 8 or 9 then. My parents must’ve tried their hardest to insulate us from what is essentially a death in the family. All I remember is that they had to be in hospital, and the baby had to be removed from her body. I don’t remember seeing any tears.
I’ve encountered many similar stories since. A good friend of mine lost her twins, for instance. Showbiz reports in the news sometimes touch on female celebrities miscarrying. That probably trivializes things a little bit. You can’t really convey the pain effectively on a two-minute news package, especially the fact that it doesn’t really go away.
I’m thankful for the good days. The good days matter because they are a reprieve from the constant ache. They’re a soft pause in the unrelenting hum of heartbreak. Emphasis on the words soft pause. They’re not a sign that the grief has lessened, only that, for a fleeting moment, I’ve found enough air to breathe a little deeper, to laugh without guilt, to remember without crumbling. The good days don’t erase the sorrow, they simply make space for me to carry it with more grace.
But somehow, the good days also don’t matter, because as the days go by, the wounds are still just as fresh as day zero.
But then, humanity was never really good with grief. The turmoil is indescribable, and from the outside, there’s little we can truly do.
Should I stay or should I go?
This is when the digest decidedly turns into thirtysomething territory. I will try my best to still accommodate everyone.
Our 20s is supposedly when we figure things out; our 30s, on the other hand, is supposedly when we already have. But of course things are messier than intended. I’m 36 and I’m still figuring things out, and I’m sure I’m not alone. But some adamantly believe folks like us who still aren’t “there” at this point are either extending their youths or are immature enough to even get past it… ah, whatever.
I’ve been thinking about this piece from lawyer and educator Ross Tugade. This is, ostensibly, about missing a concert from Norwegian pop duo M2M, but—and I suppose this echoed a lot more because I write about pop culture on my own publication—is about much more, besides. Not just the concert, nor the new EP they released.
The way Marion and Marit stripped it down in 2025 gave it an almost haunting quality. Their obviously more mature singing voices? They can tell a different story now, perhaps of a woman in her late 30s to 40s taking one last shot at love. Or how that unresolved, final minor chord in the track makes the mood unsure, even forlorn. Nostalgia targeted at people in my age group makes for a quick cash grab, but I’d like to believe M2M’s comeback is quite different. Their exclusive interview with Elle Norway tells us as much: it was pure chance, then reconciliation, and finally something more deliberate and future-looking.
On the flipside, our cohort finding resonance and solace in pop culture could also be seen as a backward step. I mean, not me, but some. I’m thinking particularly of how you have “tita” K-pop fans going all out when their favorite groups visit the country. (How’s your Festa-slash-reunion week going, tita Armys?) But, as Alyssa Chua reminds us, we really shouldn’t be speeding towards our new phases. We ride our transitions one way: the way we judge to be the best.
Sometimes, I find myself pouring over old journal entries or little scribbles here and there. I read entries from previous years, and I like that I can see where I was a year, 2, 3, 4, 5, years ago. 2018 and 2019 Alyssas were definitely very different from each other. And they are certainly very different from 2025 Alyssa.
Like the way we grow around grief, we grow around our experiences, too—both the good and the bad. I read about the things that had me write paragraphs and paragraphs ranting about certain topics and cringe about how petty I sounded. How immature. But I keep them despite being tempted to delete them (haha!) just so they remind me about where I’ve been.
Before I wrap up, let’s say hello to four new additions to the Stack Natin directory in the past month: Erwin Oliva, Jesh, ¿Miao? and nadaj!
The directory is open year-round to writers on Substack who are Filipino or of Filipino descent. You can join us by punching in your details here, or you can explore the whole list here.
And also, we’re accepting submissions—fiction or creative non-fiction on “wise men and women”, until 25 July.