My dad has been relatively quiet since I got back to the city. Very on brand. It’s not that I was expecting a grand gesture—a blinking streetlight at the exact moment I passed under it, his favorite song on shuffle, or some other poetic, cinematic proof that he was still around. But I thought maybe I'd feel something. A shift in the air, a nudge, some barely perceptible thread connecting us between here and wherever he is now.

​

Instead, there’s been stillness. No feathers on my doorstep, no vivid dreams where he appears just as I remember him, no sudden whiff of his cologne in the middle of a crowded subway car. I tell myself that maybe I'm just not looking in the right places, or maybe I am, but I'm too caught up in the noise of real life to notice. Or maybe, and this is the one that knots my stomach, he’s waiting. Watching. Letting me find my footing again before making his presence known. 

​

I search for signs in the little things anyway. The way I keep catching 11:11 on the clock, and even though my dad didn’t care about angel numbers, I let myself pretend he does now. He knew how much making that wish meant to me. The way I swear I heard his laugh—just for a second—when I was half-asleep, the kind of trick your mind plays on you when it wants something badly enough.

I don’t know what I’m waiting for exactly. A dream? A feeling? A glitch in the universe where, for a moment, I don’t have to wonder if he’s close—I’ll just know? Maybe this is how it goes. Maybe the quiet is the sign.

But, who are we kidding here? I’m me, after all. Sitting with uncertainty like a normal person? Absolutely not. I needed answers. I needed something solid. So, in true Lau fashion, I did what any emotionally unstable but deeply self-aware person would do—I booked a call with my psychic. 

​

In true Rheda fashion, she greeted me like an old friend, told me things a quick Google search couldn't have dug up, and then casually dropped, “Oh, and your dad wants you to stop asking for signs. Instead, he’s asking you to check in on the girl holding four bags from Forever 21.” Who is that, you might ask? We’ll get to that later. No spoilers, losers and virgins! Bet you wanna know what else we talked about! Too bad—this isn’t a Netflix binge, and unfortunately for you, I’m still living the rest of this plotline in real-time. I have also covered this previously and extensively, only to find out she was right about what I had been calling in. In any case, stay tuned, I guess!

​

Sure enough, on his birthday, no less, I came across a poem on Instagram. I took my younger self to coffee, it’s called. Because apparently, the universe (or my dad) has a sense of humor—and a flair for perfect timing. It stopped me mid-scroll, right between a reel about how to properly season a cast iron skillet (which I will never do) and a meme about emotionally unavailable men (which I should probably unpack in therapy). But this? This felt personal. Like a nudge. Like the kind of thing I wish my dad would have sent me, except he never really figured out how to copy and paste links. Also, he didn’t have an Instagram. Also also, he was the poster child for emotionally unavailable men. 

​

Since then, as I scrolled through my TikTok FYP, I realized there was no escaping it–the latest trend that had its claws on all of the girlies, and by all of the girlies, I mean me. It started with a harmless scroll, a casual doom loop, and video after video, it appeared: different iterations of the poem. Funny, how that happens. It’s a  tender, introspective, slightly devastating piece about meeting a past version of yourself and offering them grace. The post that somehow made its way into the cultural bloodstream and now had a chokehold on my algorithm. Naturally, I did what any self-respecting person would do: I watched upwards of thirty videos of other people taking their younger selves out to coffee, sent at least five of them to Jen (my therapist), and then promptly spiraled into existential contemplation about why this was the thing uniting the girlies of the internet this week. 

​

Some of you may remember piece I wrote about grieving him as every version of myself–the little girl who has exclusively watched Disney movies since his passing and believed her dad was invincible, the volatile teenager who wanted nothing to do with him, the adult trying to make sense of both. Lately, I’ve been emotionally unraveling, and I think it’s because I’ve spent so much time soothing that little girl– reframing memories, searching for meaning, holding space for her loss– that I’ve completely neglected the teenager-turned-collegiate-tornado. The one who was furious. The one who didn’t want comfort, didn’t want softness, didn’t want to believe she’d ever look back with anything but resentment. 

​

I’m currently learning about Appraisal theory in my Social and Emotional Learning class, which tells us that emotions aren’t just things that happen to us–they come from the way we evaluate and make sense of experiences. And I’ve been watching the situational meaning of my dad’s absence shift in real time. When I grieve as my younger self, I appraise this loss as inevitable, woven into the fabric of love itself. But when I sit with my teenage self–when I let her take the wheel–her appraisal is completely different. To her, this loss isn’t just about feeling abandoned; it’s about wanting to burn this motherfucker down in the name of closure. It’s about the things that never got said, self-sabotaging because it feels safer, the apologies she thinks she’ll never get, and all the walls she’s going to build because of it. And so while my adult self tries to balance these appraisals, it’s the tension between them that’s leaving me emotionally exhausted. 

​

Maybe that’s what grief really is—not a singular emotion, not something that just happens to us, but a constant recalibration of meaning. It’s not linear, not something we conquer or graduate from, but something we learn to live alongside, like a song stuck in the background of our days, sometimes barely noticeable, other times so loud it drowns everything else out. Grief isn’t just sadness, or longing, or love that has nowhere to go—it’s a shifting, unpredictable tide of who we are, who we were, and who we’re still becoming in the wake of loss. It sneaks up in the smallest moments, in inside jokes we can’t tell anymore, in the way we instinctively reach for our phones to text someone who isn’t there. It reshapes the past, making us see things we missed, and it rearranges the future, forcing us to navigate a world that feels a little less whole.

​

And yet, for all its weight, grief is also an invitation. A messy, unwelcome one, sure, but an invitation nonetheless—to remember, to redefine, to hold onto what matters while letting go of what no longer serves us. It asks us to carry forward the parts of them that shaped us, to weave their presence into the fabric of who we are now. Because maybe grief isn’t just about loss. Maybe it’s also about becoming.

​

Since we’ve established this forum as a space for my verbal diarrhea and unsolicited vulnerability, I spent yesterday’s session with Jen unpacking all the ways my teen-to-collegiate tornado has done everything in her power to throw me off course. And let me tell you, she has been busy.

​

She’s been destructive, sure—scattering debris of impulsive decisions and burned bridges in her wake like some kind of emotional storm chaser. But she’s also been calculated, which is honestly more concerning. She’s taken matters of self-sabotage into her own hands like a girl boss of personal chaos, making sure that anytime things got too good, she found a way to undermine it. Procrastination disguised as perfectionism. Avoidance masquerading as self-sufficiency. Fear of failure cleverly rebranded as indifference. She’s pulled fire alarms on things that weren’t even burning, just to feel in control. She’s ghosted opportunities she secretly wanted, convinced herself that love was a liability, and dodged vulnerability like it was an unpaid internship. And for what? To prove some outdated narrative to herself? To keep her heart wrapped in bubble wrap, safe but untouched?

​

The worst part is, I get why she did it. I see her. I know her. She was just trying to survive in a world that felt unpredictable, in relationships that felt conditional, in a life that sometimes felt like it belonged to someone else. But now? Now she’s exhausted. And, frankly, so am I.

So Jen and I sat with that. With the wreckage, with the old defense mechanisms that no longer serve me, with the fact that I’m not that girl anymore. And maybe the real work isn’t about punishing her for the damage, but about letting her know she doesn’t have to fight so hard anymore. That she doesn’t have to keep proving she can do it alone. That it’s safe to want things, to show up, to stay.

Because as much as she tried to throw me off course, I’m still here. And maybe that means I was never really lost to begin with.

Maybe healing isn’t about erasing the past but learning how to hold it differently—detaching from the parts that don’t serve me without pretending they never existed. Trusting that I can access my history when I want to, but otherwise, it stays locked in its container, no longer spilling into every present moment. That’s emotional endurance: knowing when to lean in, when to let go, when to stop reopening old wounds just to prove they still hurt.

It’s realizing that external variables and choices—other people’s words, their actions, their exits—aren’t reflections of me. That micro-moments of self-betrayal add up just as much as macro betrayals from others. That I can learn to stand on steadier ground, even when the world is unpredictable.

And as strange as it sounds, the more structure I have, the freer I feel. When I build something solid—boundaries, rituals, places to put all the messy feelings—the less they control me. Oddly specific coping mechanisms? Sure. But specificity is how I stay afloat. It’s how I find order in the chaos. It’s how I tell my younger self: I’ve got us now.

So maybe this is what repairing the relationship with her looks like. Not rewriting the past, not undoing every dumb decision, but holding her with gentleness. Giving her the structure she never had, the steadiness she craved. Letting her rest, finally, knowing that I can carry us both forward.

 

I’ve told you time and time again that I never know where you are when you’re reading this. I promised you I’d stop prefacing my writing, and maybe that’s the teenage me overexplaining—she needs attention, after all—but I share these pieces of myself with you in hopes that one day, when you need it most, you can come back to my words as a source of comfort.

​

I never know where you are when you’re reading this, but I like to think that, whenever that moment comes, my voice will find you exactly where you need it to. Maybe you’re overdue for a coffee with your younger self, or maybe I should mind my own business and let you live your life. (Also, maybe I should stop invalidating my own experience just because my imposter syndrome is flaring up, but let’s put a pin in that existential crisis for another day.)

​

ANYWAY. Let’s get back on course!

​

As my homework for this week, Jen asked me to write my own version of that poem. She told me to get specific, to stop hiding behind abstraction, to name the things I’ve only been hinting at. Which is annoying, honestly, because specificity means accountability, and accountability means I can’t pretend I don’t know what I know. And what I know is that the girl carrying three Forever 21 bags could use some company. So, if you’ll indulge me, let’s grab a Starbucks with her. It won’t be a poem, though—sorry! She doesn’t like rules.

​

This morning, I took my younger self to Starbucks at 11:00.
I was right on time.
She was five minutes late, announcing her arrival with a cloud of Marc Jacobs Dot perfume and the kind of energy that says I dare someone to look at me the wrong way today. A walking contradiction—desperate to be noticed, praying no one actually sees her.

​She’s got a wired headphone in her right ear (just the one—always just the one), refusing to take it off, as if removing it would mean letting her guard down. She’s alternating between All You Had to Do Was Stay and I Wish You Would (not Taylor’s Version—she’s still years away from knowing the true meaning of re-recording your past and reclaiming it). The playlist of a girl who pretends she doesn’t care while actively curating a soundtrack for her heartbreak.

 

She ordered an iced white mocha, no whipped cream.
I ordered a flat white.
I wore my hair straight, parted clean down the middle.
Hers was pulled into a ponytail so tight, she’d be nursing a headache by the afternoon.
I had on light-wash jeans and a white top.
She was in Nike spandex and a gray NYU tee, because she thought her New York chapter started earlier, and couldn't wait another second to leave Manila. Thought slipping on that logo meant she belonged, that she was already becoming the person she wanted to be. She didn’t know yet that New York would come later—and thank God for that. That she’d spend the majority of her twenties there, that it would reshape her in ways she couldn’t yet imagine. That the city wouldn’t be some fantasy she tried to fast-track her way into, but a real, messy, earned home. Manila would stay the same, and be there when she needed it.
 

Four Forever 21 bags sat slouched at her feet—proof of Dad’s latest fuck-up. A peace offering. An I don’t have the words, so here’s a credit card kind of apology. The only kind she ever got.
 

She crosses her arms. She doesn’t trust me yet. That tracks. She doesn’t trust anyone. She sizes me up, skeptical, like she’s waiting for me to say something she can roll her eyes at.
 

I tell her she has the floor to let it all out. 
But before she does, she sees 11:11 on her phone. She makes a wish. 
So do I. 
 

She’s mad. At Dad, for never saying the words she needed to hear. At herself, for still needing them. At me, for something she can’t quite name but feels anyway. And at the universe, which has not, to this day, given her a break.
 

She talks for an hour straight, barely pausing for breath, the caffeine making her hands shake. She cries about Dad. About the weight of loving someone who makes it impossible. About the guilt of taking the gifts while knowing they weren’t really free.
​​

I want to tell her it gets worse before it gets better. That the road ahead may not always be forgiving, but it’s worth it. That she will forgive Dad, not because he earned it, but because she deserved the weight to be lifted.That when it mattered, I said everything I needed to say to him. 

 

But I know her, she's not ready to hear that yet. Instead, I let her feel. 
 

She cries about him, too. The boy she swears will be it, the one she’s still crossing her fingers for.
We’re not gonna tell her that we’ve put that chapter to bed. That we stopped waiting. That in the end, we chose ourselves.

 

She stirs her iced white mocha with the straw, eyes narrowed like she’s about to interrogate me.

“So,” she says, dragging out the word for dramatic effect. “Did we get our happily ever after?”

​

I smile, because of course she’s asking. Because of course she still thinks the story ends there.

​

“That’s not the question you should be asking,” I tell her. “Focus on yourself first. That’s the real work.”

​

She groans, slumping back in her chair like I’ve just assigned her a 10-page essay. But I don’t budge.

​

“We’ll both find out soon enough,” I say, softer this time. “That it’s not something we need to worry about. You have to learn to love us first.”

​

She looks skeptical, but I can see the wheels turning. She’s always been stubborn, but she’s also always wanted to believe in something bigger than herself.

​

“And?” she presses, tilting her head. “Do you at least have a feeling?”

​

I sip my coffee, considering it.

​

“Yeah,” I tell her. "Time will tell."

​

She doesn’t believe in softness yet. In surrender. She thinks strength is fists up, teeth clenched, a wall so high no one can get over it.
 

I don’t argue. I just listen.
 

I want to tell her not to make dumb decisions. Not to pick up the phone when she already knows how the conversation will end. Not to spend years proving her worth to people who were never planning to stay. But she will. She’ll do all of it.
 

And she’ll be better for it.
 

Because that’s the thing about choices—you don’t always make the right ones. You won’t. You’ll mess up, you’ll love people who don’t deserve you, you’ll chase things that were never meant for you. And still, you will be okay. You will learn when to walk away. You will learn that leaving doesn’t make you unlovable. That grief doesn’t make you unfixable. That you are allowed to change your mind, your heart, your life.
 

We leave Starbucks together, and I ask her to come stay with me for a while. She hesitates, gripping the handles of her fluorescent yellow bags like armor, like proof that she still needs something to hold. I don’t push. I just walk beside her, matching her pace, letting the silence be enough.

Somewhere between the crosswalk and the next breath, she exhales. Her shoulders loosen, just a little. She doesn’t know it yet, but she’s already on her way home.

I turn to her, meeting her eyes—furious, exhausted, still searching for something solid. There’s a flicker of doubt in them, the kind that says I want to believe you, but I’ve heard a lot of promises that didn’t stick. She’s spent years bracing for impact, for disappointment, for people who say one thing and mean another. I know this because I was her. Because some days, I still am.
 

“Sorry I left you for a while,” I tell her.
 

She shifts her weight, gripping the handles of her fluorescent yellow bags, like armor, like proof that she still needs something to hold. I don’t ask her to put them down. I know better than that.
 

“But I’m here now,” I say, softer this time. “And I’m not letting go of your hand.”
 

She studies me, waiting for the catch. When none comes, she exhales, almost like she doesn’t mean to. Her shoulders drop just a little. The crease between her eyebrows softens. She takes the earbud out and wraps the chord around her phone.
 

She won’t let go just yet—I wouldn’t expect her to. But she doesn’t pull away, either. And for now, that’s enough.

Oh, my sweet whores, she’s done it again—rambled for far too long and gone softer than a boner post-GG900DHVS (if you know, you fucking know). And if you don’t? Well, some mysteries are best left unsolved. If you’ve made it to the end—which I always hope you have—then allow me to say one last thing: thank you so. For sitting with me in the mess, for indulging my unsolicited vulnerability, for letting me be exactly who I am—chaotic, sentimental, occasionally unhinged. The last two weeks have been some of the hardest in a long time, and it’s been a strange kind of comfort knowing that, somewhere out there, you’re reading this. That even in my most disjointed, oversharing, borderline deranged moments, there’s space for me to heal here. 

Grief is weird; life is weirder, and somehow, despite it all, we keep showing up. So, thank you—for showing up for me, for yourself, for whatever version of us exists in this strange little corner of the internet. You didn’t have to, but you did. And that means more than I can say. If nothing else, I hope you leave here feeling a little more seen, a little less alone, and, at the very least, deeply curious about whatever a GG900DHVS is.

Big hug, 
Lau(ra)