LAMAW

There are days when the world doesn’t ask for anything extraordinary from you—no milestones, no applause, no deadlines—yet somehow manages to offer everything your soul didn’t realize it had been yearning for. Today was one of those quiet, golden days. It unfolded slowly, without rush or fuss, but left behind a fullness I’m still carrying as I write this.

It began, not with fanfare, but with a glass of lamaw—a humble offering from my aunt and Lola. For those unfamiliar, lamaw is a traditional blend in our part of the world: fresh coconut juice swirled with a touch of condensed milk, a splash of crushed Royal Tru-Orange, and bits of Skyflakes crackers gently floating on top. It’s not something you’d find in a trendy café or a recipe book—it lives in memory, passed through generations in quiet kitchens where love is measured not by teaspoons but by gestures.

There’s something about food made by women who raised you; it fills more than just hunger. It fills in the cracks you didn’t know were growing inside you.

But here, in our home, lamaw is more than refreshment. It is care, bottled and stirred. It is a whispered “I love you” in edible form. It’s the way my Lola slides the glass toward me with a soft smile, as if to say: you’re home now. The taste is sweet, familiar, with just enough fizz to wake you gently from the weight of your thoughts. It reminds you that sometimes, comfort doesn’t need to be profound. It just needs to be shared.

Not long after, Auntie Perly prepared her special pancit bam-i—not for a fiesta or celebration, but simply because it was lunchtime. No guests were expected. No photos were taken. It was just us, gathered around the table, breaking bread on an ordinary day. And yet, that’s what made it feel sacred. It was a meal stitched with intention, seasoned not just with spices but with affection. These are the kinds of moments that rarely make it to Instagram reels or photo albums, but live on in the softest corners of our memory. The kind that quietly shape your definition of home.

After we ate, I wandered into the garden, hoping for air—but maybe also for answers. The backyard was bursting with life: orchids stretching wide like small acts of praise, vines weaving around fences with delicate urgency, and bougainvilleas spilling their unapologetic color across the path. There was a certain defiance in their beauty—a wild, unashamed declaration of being. I stood there for a while, saying nothing. Listening to the leaves rustle like lullabies, breathing in a rhythm I had forgotten I needed.

And it struck me then—how much of life happens quietly. How much strength is rooted in silence. Lesson one whispered itself through the leaves: You don’t need to bloom loudly to be enough. Quiet growth is still growth. Sometimes, the most beautiful things in life don’t raise their voices. They just keep reaching for the sun anyway.

In the afternoon, I went on a grocery run for my mom and brother. It wasn’t glamorous. No filters. Just fluorescent lighting, the clack of shopping cart wheels, and a mental checklist I kept whispering under my breath. But as I bagged the items and made my way back home, I realized this, too, was love. Perhaps one of its most honest forms—showing up. Taking care of the needs that often go unnoticed. Choosing others, even in the smallest ways.

Lesson two arrived without grand revelation: Love often looks like errands. Like groceries. Like being the dependable one. It may not be poetic. But it is profound. And often, it’s in these mundane rituals that we pour our deepest devotion—tending, providing, protecting.

As the sun melted into an amber haze, I began what I called “the great cleansing.” I opened drawers I had been avoiding for months, pulled out forgotten trinkets, receipts from old seasons, photos from lives I’ve outgrown. Some things I tossed with surprising ease. Others, I held for a few seconds longer—acknowledging them, honoring their part in my journey—before letting them go. A few chosen pieces were kept, but placed differently, with more care. More purpose.

Wiping down the surfaces felt like wiping the fog off a mirror. There was clarity in it. Not just for the home, but for the heart. I was making space—not only on shelves, but in myself. Lesson three lingered as the day dimmed: Decluttering your space can declutter your spirit. We don’t just hold onto things—we hold onto identities, expectations, versions of ourselves that no longer fit. Letting go, gently and with gratitude, is a way of saying: I’m ready to grow again.

Now, I’m in bed. Muscles tired. Heart full. The day was not extraordinary in any cinematic sense. But it was real. It was textured with the kind of meaning that doesn’t need to be explained. A day of lamaw, of quietly cooked meals, of errands done out of love, and a sunset spent in release.

These are the days I want more of—not necessarily louder, richer, or more exciting, but days anchored in presence. Days that remind me that life, when lived with intention, doesn’t have to be fast to be meaningful. It just has to be true.

A day that reminded me of the kind of life I’m striving for—not always fast, not always loud, but deeply rooted in presence.

And maybe, just maybe—that’s the life I’m building.