Help a friend out, yeah?

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I work remotely, cook my own meals, and live in a two-bedroom flat that’s less than a 10-minute walk from various establishments.

This means I rarely venture out and am quite notorious amongst my friends for refusing to go out on Friday nights (are you crazy? Manila Friday night traffic is hell, why would I subject myself to that?).

Add to that the fact that I am insanely introverted and have reached a point in my life when I couldn’t be bothered to pretend to care for things I don’t give a shit about.

On that note, I do know…


I think I’m doing a bang up job in this remote working thing. Really, I think I am.

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Photo by Muhammad Raufan Yusup on Unsplash

Before I started working as a freelancer, I absolutely, from the depths of my heart, hated the commute. Metro Manila traffic and public transportation are simply too horrible to even describe, let alone go through, so I really found a way for me to be able to work from home.

The great thing about working remotely, at least for me, is that I don’t have to do the commute thing. Which means that I am not annoyed or haggard when I start working, and that I don’t worry about battling my way through commuting hell after work.

The challenging thing…


It wasn’t an easy ride but it sure was enlightening.

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If someone would map my career, that person would probably shake her head in wonder. My path is not what you’d call straight. Or steady. Or even with a discernible order.

Faking it

After getting a degree in Economics, I started working at a consulting firm at age 20. I worked 75-hour weeks talking to Sales Directors and CEOs and Country Managers of FMCG companies, selling our services, building sales training manuals, observing field trainings, and generally dealing with clients, trainees, trainers, and all other logistical considerations of running a training programme.

Since I was young, and most of the people I…


It may never go away, but it gets easier.

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When I started therapy about 2 years ago, I started experiencing the full extent of my complex PTSD. The way my doctor describes it is that everything is locked tight in a growing ball of knotted string (emotional isolation and regulation as defence mechanism). What we are doing in therapy is slowly unraveling this ball of knotted string, forcing me to take a closer look at it, and finally being able to react.

I’ve experienced many different reactions or manifestations of my PTSD in the past two years. …


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4 weeks

It was summer. It was fun. And for the first time after a long while I started feeling right again. Not like before, no. But not too wrong either.

Nights were filled with laughter as we tried each other’s cooking and talked about where we’ve been, where we want to go, what we’ve been through, and our mutual love for ice cold beer and the Oxford comma.

The days remained the same, though underneath the sameness there is such a desire to rush the hours so we could be together.

I didn’t have a single nightmare those 4…


One of the most disconcerting things I ever experienced is to face the Bogeyman every week and try to figure out how to get myself out of its hold.

Oh, I know what caused it to appear. My head knows exactly why the Bogeyman is here and my overthinking, decidedly mutinous brain refuses to believe that talking it out with someone who knows me only from the evaluations of three different shrinks will banish it.

I went anyway. Because my overthinking, contrarian brain loves to argue with itself.

Not that I made it easy. I’m afraid I’ve been downright bitchy…


The younger half of Millennials have been receiving a lot of flak from older generations. Here’s how to understand them better.

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I used to be the youngest person where I worked.

Now, at thirty, I am one of the eldest. It’s mind-boggling, really, realizing that.

That realization was brought solidly home when we were out for lunch one sunny day and I excitedly mentioned that All Saints will be releasing a new album.

All I got were blank stares. It’s such a sad thing.

Then we started talking about the huge difference a handful of years make in terms of work ethic, life perspective, and interests. And that got me thinking. Millennials have been receiving a lot of flak from the…


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Credits to the beautiful, anonymous soul who put those words on paper. Photo taken at Incantatus Festival 2015, Philippines.

Life is eternal movement.

I found this line in Radhika Jha’s Smell when I used it as my book report for an Asian Literature class back in college. At 18, I thought it very profound. At 29, I’m living it.

Let me backtrack a bit.

See, I keep a journal. I don’t write on it regularly (months would sometimes pass between entries) but I make a point to write something on two occasions: January 1st and May 16th. My January 1, 2015 entry included this:

I know it’s wrong of me to think this way but I feel like everything…


or, Things I’d Tell My 18-Year-Old Self

Today, I turned 28. I refuse to fall under the stereotype of women who deny their real age (though opinion may change when I do get older — ask me in 10 years). Apart from the odd existential crisis moments, I actually like getting old. It makes me feel that I’m doing life correctly because I haven’t died an embarrassing death.

When I was 18, I was an opinionated college student who thought she had her life figured out. …


A list of the things a 27-turning-28-year-old learned about life. So far.

I am approximately on the 10,159th day of this adventure called my life and while I may not always have what I want or need, I figure I’m still luckier than I could have been. There are people and experiences that have turned all those days into great learning experiences and imparted very important lessons about life and love. …

Lyra Reyes

Writes stories. Goes places. Writer at e27.co

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