have you ever felt like you needed a break, but not from yourself but the people you love?

Have you ever found yourself in a relationship where you know, deep down, that you need to take a step back? But it’s not because you don’t love the person—it’s because you realize that, to truly be there for them, you need to focus on yourself first. And as much as you try to convince yourself that it’s for the best, you can’t escape the fact that, in doing so, you’re going to hurt them.

I’ve been there.

It’s a strange, gut-wrenching feeling. You love someone, but you’re so consumed by everything else—responsibilities, personal struggles, emotional burnout—that you can’t give them the love they deserve. And it feels selfish. It feels like a betrayal, even though you know it’s necessary. How do you explain to someone that you need space, not because you want to leave them, but because you know that if you don’t take this time for yourself, you might lose everything, including them?

It wasn’t about them. It was about me.

For a while, I had been so caught up in the chaos of life—school work, expectations, and the endless cycle of trying to keep up with everything—that I had neglected myself. I had ignored my needs, health, and happiness, all while trying to be the person I thought they needed. But somewhere along the way, I lost sight of who I was. I was giving everything to everyone else, including them, and nothing was left for me.

And that’s when I realized: I couldn’t keep doing this. I couldn’t keep pretending to be okay when I wasn’t. I needed to stop. I needed to focus on my well-being, regain a sense of balance, and find myself again. But in doing so, I knew I was going to hurt them. I knew taking a break would make them feel rejected, abandoned, and unloved. And that thought alone made my heart ache.

But I had to do it.

It wasn’t that I didn’t care about them—I loved them more than words could say. But I wasn’t giving them the version of myself that they deserved. I wasn’t showing up as the person they needed because I wasn’t showing up for myself. And I knew that continuing like this would only cause more damage in the long run. So, I made the decision. I needed space. I needed time to figure things out, to heal, to take care of the things that had been neglected.

And I knew that asking for that space meant hurting them.

I was scared. Scared that they’d think I was walking away, scared that they’d feel rejected, scared that I was somehow hurting them by needing this time for myself. I didn’t want to make them feel like I was choosing everything else over them, but I had to be honest with myself. If I kept going at the pace I was, if I kept sacrificing my well-being, I wouldn’t be able to show up for them in the way they deserved.

But as the days passed, I realized that sometimes love isn’t just about being there for someone when things are easy. Sometimes, love means stepping back, even if it hurts, because you understand that you have to be whole to truly be there for someone else. I couldn’t give them my best if I didn’t take the time to give myself the care and attention I needed.

It was the hardest conversation I’d ever had, explaining that this time apart wasn’t about ending things, but about taking a step back to grow and regain myself. I wanted to be able to love them fully again, but I had to be able to love myself first. It wasn’t about them being less important—it was about recognizing that I couldn’t give them my all when I had nothing left to give.

It wasn’t easy. It didn’t feel good.

There were moments when I wanted to reach out, to make things better immediately, but I had to resist. I had to trust that this break was necessary, not to hurt them, but to heal myself. I knew that if they truly loved me, they would understand that taking care of myself wasn’t a betrayal—it was an act of love, both for myself and for them. And I’m sorry.

And in the end, after the space had given me the time to reflect and heal, I was able to return—not just as someone who left, but as a whole person. I was able to give them the love they deserved, the attention they deserved, and the commitment they deserved. It wasn’t easy, and it wasn’t painless, but it was the only way I could truly show up for them, without the weight of everything else holding me back.

After all, taking a break isn’t about giving up. It’s about facing the truth: sometimes you need to hurt the person you love to help them—and yourself—grow. It’s a painful decision, but it’s a necessary one if you want to come back stronger, both for yourself and for them.

– ven

I once read this line: “We’re hurting people not because we want to, but because we don’t heal something inside us” It stayed with me because it made so much sense. Think about it, how many times have we hurt people without meaning to? In a romantic relationship, in a friendship, even with family, there are always moments where someone ends up wounded by our actions. And most of the time, we defend ourselves by saying “It wasn’t my intention to hurt them”. Maybe that’s true, but intentions don’t erase the pain. The reality is, the thing we refuse to face inside ourselves often spill over into the way we treat others.

Most of us don’t notice when we’re pushing people away. We withdraw, we turn cold, we shutdown when someone tries to get closer. It’s not because we don’t care about them, it’s not because they’re bad people. It’s usually, because there’s something in us that’s scary.

We’re scared of being abandoned.

And so, instead of letting people in, we put up walls. We convince ourselves that it’s safer that way. But what really happens is that we end up pushing away people who may have wanted to stay.

That’s why it’s important to remember that while it may not be our fault that we were hurt, it is our responsibility to make sure we don’t keep hiding behind the excuse of “I didn’t mean to” if we’re not making the effort to actually heal. Time alone doesn’t heal us — it’s what we do with time. And even though we don’t have control over how others once hurt us, we do have control over how we treat the people in our lives now.

At the end of the day, we all want the same thing: to love, be loved, to belong, and to feel safe with someone. But love cannot grow in a heart that is still bleeding from old wounds. That is why healing matters so much. Because it’s an act of love. When we choose to heal, we don’t just free ourselves — we also protect the people around us from being hurt by the pain we’ve carried for too long. Healing helps us stop unintentionally hurting the ones who care, and it gives us the chance to finally let the right people stay.

So let’s heal, not only for ourselves, but also for the people we don’t want to lose. Because once we begin to heal, we stop unintentionally pushing people away. And most of all, let’s heal so when someone is trying to love us, we let them.

-ven

Alam mo,

hindi naman kita kilala nang buo.
Wala tayong kwento na tinapos.
Wala tayong alaala na sabay nating binuo.

Pero masakit pala ‘yung hindi na nga naging tayo,
pero minumulto mo ‘ko pa rin ako.

Pero bakit ganun?
Bakit sa bawat panaginip,
ikaw pa rin ang dumarating?

Doon lang kita nakita na totoo.
Doon lang naging “tayo.”

Hindi ko rin alam kung bakit sa panaginip ka lang bumabalik.
Hindi ko rin alam kung bakit doon lang ka lang naglalakas loob na hawakan ako ulit.
Bakit sa gabi lang ka lang nagiging totoo,
at sa umaga, parang multo lang ng alaala mo.

Walang tayo sa reyalidad, pero sa panaginip, minamahal mo ‘ko ng totoo.
Sobrang galing mo,
kasi kahit hindi mo naman sinadya, ginawa mong tahanan ‘yung parte ng puso ko na hindi mo naman kailanman tinirhan.

Hindi tayo nagkatuluyan,
hindi nga tayo nagkausap nang maayos,
pero gabi-gabi, nandyan ka.
Sa likod ng mga mata kong pagod,
sa gitna ng mga panahong akala ko nakausad na ako.

Pilit kitang kinakalimutan sa umaga,
pero sa gabi, ikaw pa rin ang bumabalik.
Doon ka lumalapit,
hawak mo ‘yung mga pangarap na hindi ko na pinangarap pa.
Yung mga alaala na hindi ko naman talaga nabuo,
pero kabisado ko na parang buhay ko.

Doon sa panaginip,
naging tayo.
Naging totoo.
Naging buo.
Pero sa bawat paggising ko,
mga ideya lang pala iyon na binuo ko.

At sa totoo lang,
hindi ko na alam kung multo ka ba ng alaala,
o multo na ng sarili kong pag-asa.

Parang sinadya ng tadhana
na bigyan tayo ng kwento —
pero sa panaginip lang.

At paulit-ulit ako.
Paulit-ulit na umaasa.
Paulit-ulit na bumabalik sa gabi,
dahil sa gabi lang kita muling nakakasama.

Pero hindi na ako uulit.

Ayoko nang gumising na luhaan.
Ayoko nang sa panaginip lang ako mamahalin.

Kaya kung babalik ka pa,
kung paparamdam ka na naman,
patawad — pero hindi na kita hahayaang manatili.
Hindi ko na ipipikit ang mga mata ko para lang makita kang totoo.
Dahil ngayon,
pati sa panaginip,
handa na akong bitawan ka.

I don’t remember when it started. Maybe it was a quiet day when the world seemed smaller, and the only thing that felt vast was the thought of you. Or perhaps it happened gradually, like the tide creeping in, unnoticed until everything was submerged.

But one day, I looked at my work—letters I’d written, poems I thought were about someone else, stories I swore were fictional—and realized every single word had your name written between the lines.

It wasn’t intentional. At least, I told myself it wasn’t. I used to write about anything—places I wanted to visit, moments I wanted to remember, people I thought I would never forget. But now, it feels like there’s only one thing on my mind. Or rather, one person. You.

The letters came first. I started writing them as a way to clear my head. Simple things, like, “Hey, I hope you’re having a good day,” or “This reminded me of you.” I didn’t even plan to give them to you. It was just easier to write my thoughts down than to say them out loud. But over time, the letters turned into something else. They became a collection of everything I couldn’t tell you in person—things I didn’t even know I wanted to say.

Then, I started noticing you in other things. I’d try to write a story, but the main character always ended up sounding a lot like you. I’d start a poem, thinking I was writing about something random, only to realize halfway through that I was describing the way you make me feel.

Even when I tried not to write about you, you’d still find your way in. I’d write about the rain, but it would turn into thoughts of you. Because just like the rain you’re impossible to ignore, impossible to forget. I’d write about music, and it would remind me of the songs you said you liked.

It’s funny because I used to think I was good at controlling my feelings. But when I look at everything I’ve written recently, it’s obvious that I’ve completely failed. You’re everywhere in my work now. It’s like my brain has decided that you’re the most important thing, and it refuses to let me focus on anything else.

I don’t know what to do about it. Part of me thinks I should stop writing altogether, but that feels impossible. Writing has always been how I make sense of things, and right now, the thing I’m trying to make sense of is you.

The scariest part is knowing that you might never see any of this. These letters, these poems, these stories—they’ll probably stay hidden in a notebook somewhere, gathering dust. And maybe that’s for the best because if you read them, you’d know the truth. You’d know how much space you take up in my mind, how much you’ve started to mean to me.

But at the same time, I wish you could know. I wish you could see how much you’ve inspired me, how your presence has made me want to create more than I ever have before.

So, I keep writing. Even when it feels silly. Even when it hurts a little, knowing you might never feel the same. Because in a weird way, it’s comforting to put my feelings into words. It makes me feel like I’m doing something, even if that something is just filling up pages with thoughts of you.

Maybe one day, I’ll be brave enough to show you. Or I’ll look back at all of this—the letters, the poems, the stories—and maybe I’ll laugh at how foolish I was. Or maybe I’ll finally find the courage to show them to you, to tell you how you’ve changed me in ways I don’t fully understand.

But for now, this is enough.

I read this somewhere “Sometimes, it’s not the situation that hurt’s you — it’s the principle behind it.” And that stuck with me.

I used to think that when I got upset, it was because of what happened in the moment — the argument, the oversight, the thing left unsaid. But as I’ve sat with my thoughts, I’ve realized it’s rarely about the situation itself. It’s about what it represents.

Like when someone dismisses how you feel—not because they don’t understand, but because they think it’s not a big deal. Or when they finally apologize, but only after you had to bring it up, so it feels like they’re just saying it to end the conversation. To others, it might seem small, like a simple misunderstanding or something that’s “not that serious.” But to you? It actually hurts. And you can’t even fully explain why—it just does.

It’s not about the action; it’s about the principle.

The idea that something so simple — respect, consideration, effort — should’ve been understood without needing to be explained. And yet, I’ve learned not everyone sees in that way. Because principles are like invisible boundaries we carry with us. They represent who we are, what we value, and how we expect to be treated. And when someone crosses that line, even unintentionally, it shakes something in us. It makes us question not only the person but also ourselves.

Why did they think it was okay to do that? Did I not make myself clear? Am I asking for too much?

Because how do you even explain that it’s not just about what happened, but the fact that they didn’t even think about how it would affect you? What really hurts is the lack of respect, the care they didn’t show, or how they broke your trust. It’s not about being dramatic—it’s about feeling like you don’t matter. And when you try to explain it but they still don’t get it, it just feels exhausting. Like no matter what you say, you’re not being heard.

That’s when I take a step back. Not to punish them, but to protect myself. Because principles? Those are worth holding onto, even if it means letting go of certain people.

I’ve learned that not everyone will value what you value. Some people will live comfortably in the gray areas, justifying their actions with excuses, while you cling to what feels black and white—what feels right. And that’s okay. You don’t need to convince everyone to understand your principles. But you do need to stand by them, even when it’s hard.

Stepping back doesn’t mean you don’t care. In fact, it’s the opposite—it means you care enough to set boundaries. It means you’ve recognized that your peace matters more than explaining yourself over and over again to someone who refuses to listen. It means you’ve chosen to honor your principles, even if it means being misunderstood.

And yeah, it gets lonely. That feeling when you start pulling away, not because you want to, but because you feel like you have no choice. You care, but you’re tired—tired of always being the one who feels things too deeply. What hurts even more is that you don’t hate them. You just wish they understood. You wish they stopped focusing on what happened and looked at why it mattered.

It was never just about the situation. It was about what it made you realize—that maybe they weren’t thinking about you the way you were thinking about them. And that kind of realization? It quietly breaks something in you.

Because principles are not negotiable. They’re not something you compromise just to keep someone else comfortable. They’re the foundation of your self-respect, and when you let them crumble for someone else, you lose a piece of yourself.

So yes, sometimes I take a step back. Not because I want to, but because I have to. Because in a world that often asks us to let things slide, to go with the flow, and to forgive without question, I’ve decided that my principles are worth holding onto. Even if it means letting go.

–ven

Do you love me or you just love the idea of me?

I think about this question more often than I should. “Do you love me or you just love the idea of me?” We’ve built something — though sometimes, I wonder if it’s real or just a beautiful illusion. Its easy to fall in love with the idea, with the way someone makes you feel in fleeting moments, with the pieces of them that align perfectly with what you’ve been searching for. Maybe it’s the way I show up in your life, a place to project your dreams, your needs, and your desires.

Maybe it’s the comfort of knowing someone is there, someone who feels just out of reach yet close enough to hold on to when the world feels uncertain. But loving a person… that’s different. It’s not just a highlight, the perfectly timed words, or the shared laughter. It’s the parts of me that aren’t so easy to love — the hesitations, the doubts, the parts that might not always align with the version you’ve built in your mind.

Do you see those parts? Do you still love me when the idea you’ve held onto begins to blur with reality? When I’m not always the version of myself you thought I’d be?

Because loving someone isn’t just about the image you’ve painted. It’s about the messiness, the vulnerability, and the understanding that people are not static. We grow, we change, and sometimes we break. If you’re only holding onto the idea of me, then what happens when that idea no longer fits for who I am?

I need to know: Do you love me for the person I am, or the person you’ve made me out to be in your mind? Because I’d rather be loved for all of who I am — broken, whole, and everything in between — than be adored for something I can never truly be.