They say some people wake up with music in their heads. I wake up with something else—an orchestra of thoughts, a quiet stampede of questions and realizations before the first sip of coffee ever touches my lips. That’s why journaling has never been just a routine for me. It’s a refuge. A mirror. A slow and sacred way to anchor myself when life feels like it’s rushing ahead without waiting for me to catch up.

June 2019 was a month that moved quickly on paper—filled with errands, deadlines, and milestones—but in my soul, it asked me to slow down and listen. I received my NMC Decision Letter, a moment I had prayed for with trembling hope. When it came, it didn’t feel loud or cinematic. It felt quiet. Sacred. Like a soft “yes” whispered after a long season of “not yet.” I completed my three-dose anti-rabies vaccine (a small but necessary task that reminded me: responsibility is love, too), and officially opened our KNN store. It was a humble launch, but it filled me with pride—not because of profit, but because of the courage it took to begin.

I held onto ordinary joys like talismans—Sunday masses that reset my week, food that tasted like comfort after long days, the warmth of homemade pork adobo, sweet and sour shrimp, and the occasional escape into a KFC meal that made me feel twelve again. I found myself pulled into stories—action-packed ones like John Wick that helped me release what I couldn’t put into words, soft dramas like Put Your Head on My Shoulder that reminded me how beautiful the small things are. I even fell down the rabbit hole of house tour videos on YouTube, daydreaming of soft lighting, warm wood floors, and a future that felt both distant and strangely within reach.

And the music—oh, the music. It was both prayer and therapy. The Fifty Shades soundtrack playing in the background like the score to a movie only I could hear. Linkin Park’s anthems echoing with old wounds and quiet healing. George Ezra’s “Shotgun,” playing on loop like the soundtrack of my better days. These songs didn’t just fill silence—they helped carry me through it.

God’s delays are not His denials.

But if there’s one truth June handed me gently, it’s this: God’s delays are not His denials. That sentence anchored me when fear tried to make me restless. Because there were moments that month when I missed things—forgot to print a document, overlooked a detail, failed to prepare on time. And in those moments, the old familiar wave of self-blame came knocking. But instead of letting it in, I chose grace. I chose to believe that delays don’t mean disapproval. That progress isn’t always loud. Sometimes it looks like stillness. Sometimes it feels like nothing is happening—when in truth, everything is taking root beneath the surface.

Everything is taking root beneath the surface.

I am thankful—for health, for another breath, for prayers answered in whispers, not shouts. I am thankful for Jan Helge, whose quiet love steadied me when I didn’t have the words to ask for help. And most of all, I am thankful for the ability to still believe. To still write. To still be here.

June taught me that growth isn’t always dramatic. Sometimes it’s the gentle unfolding of a heart that’s still learning how to wait well. Still becoming. Still brave enough to believe that even the smallest steps count.

So here’s to the unseen victories. The quiet progress. The dreams still on their way.

—With gratitude and grace,
Anj 🤍