If you were to ask me how I’ve really been lately, I might offer a polite smile and say, “I’m okay.” But the truth is far more complex. I’m tired—bone-deep and heart-heavy. Teary-eyed more often than I’d like to admit. And still trying, with every ounce of strength I can gather. This month has not arrived gently. It has felt more like a storm disguised in calendar dates—a swirling whirlwind of deadlines, emotional landmines, and invisible weights I seem to be carrying alone. With my OSCE exam looming, a full-time job demanding my energy, the unspoken role of being a silent anchor for others, and the quiet grief that still lingers, I find myself fighting the urge to unravel, even as the threads begin to pull.

On the OSCE and Overwhelm

Preparing for the OSCE has been no small task. My brain feels like a carousel of ENT case scenarios—tonsillitis, quinsy, otitis media, earwax impaction—each whirling in rotation alongside acronyms, red flags, and risk factors. I try to tie it all back to my current role as a Stroke Clinical Nurse Specialist, connecting theory with the stories of real patients, anchoring everything I learn to the human faces behind the diagnoses. But studying doesn’t happen in a vacuum. It happens in between night shifts, in between meals I forget to eat, in the rare quiet after emotional calls from home. Sometimes, I catch myself reading with one eye open, the other already dreaming of sand between my toes in Siargao—a soft, wistful reminder of how long it’s been since I truly rested.

On Trust, Tuition, and Treading Carefully

And just when I thought I was treading water, life sent another wave crashing in. A tuition payment I had worked hard to send—sacrificing small joys, saving bit by bit—was quietly redirected without my knowledge. There was no conversation, no explanation. Just a hole in my heart where trust used to be. It wasn’t just about money. It was about being unseen. About realizing how invisible the weight you carry can feel to others. The quiet sacrifices, the sleepless nights, the things you go without so someone else can go further—they don’t always get acknowledged. That realization hurt in ways I didn’t expect. But I’m choosing growth over guilt. I’m choosing boundaries over bitterness. I’ve decided to protect my peace, not out of spite, but out of self-respect. Because love should never be blind to sacrifice. And trust, once cracked, takes more than an apology to mend.

On Goodbyes and Grief in the Quiet Hours

In the background of it all, another grief has been brewing. My mum is preparing to return to the Philippines. After months of making memories together—sipping tea in London cafés, laughing in Welsh towns, holding hands during quiet walks—her departure feels like a shadow slowly falling over my days. The kind of goodbye that sneaks up during breakfast when there’s one less cup to pour. The kind that stretches out in the silence of the evening, where her presence used to fill the room with warmth. And then, there’s Hans. Some days, I can still hear his laugh—a familiar echo that both comforts and crushes me. On others, there is only the silence he left behind. He is gone, yes. But not really. He lingers in the corners of memory, in the way I keep moving even when I feel like sitting down and weeping.

On Showing Up Anyway

Still, I rise. I work. I write. I dream. Even if my dreams feel like they’re tucked beneath layers of fatigue and quiet heartbreak, I still chase them. Because being tired doesn’t mean I’m weak. It means I’m alive. It means I care. And that, I’ve learned, is something to be proud of. These days, I hold close the truth that not all seasons are for blooming. Some are for surviving. Some are for holding steady. Some are simply for breathing, for whispering to yourself, “This is enough,” even if the world around you tells you it’s not.

I remind myself: it’s okay to survive before you thrive. It’s okay if your “enough” looks different today than it did yesterday. And it’s okay to hold onto hope like a candle—even when the wind howls. Because small light still breaks darkness. Still counts. Still matters.

📚 Current Read: Forgiving What You Can’t Forget – a title that feels far too relevant right now.
🎧 Song on Repeat: “Don’t Forget About Me” – Dermot Kennedy (because some songs understand you before you do).
💔 This Week’s Curveball: Tuition heartbreak—the kind that tests not just your patience, but your values.
✅ Small Win: Submitted a paper I’ve been dodging for weeks. It’s not perfect, but it’s done. And done is enough for today.
💌 Reminder to Self: Even when your heart is heavy, you’re still light. You’re still trying. And that is brave.

So here’s a gentle update from a quietly struggling, fiercely loving, slowly healing heart: I’m still here. Still standing. Still choosing to believe that even when life gets heavy, we are never truly alone. We carry each other, even in silence.

And if you’re reading this, quietly shouldering your own invisible weight, please know—I see you. I’m with you. And you’re doing better than you think.

– Anj ❤