The World of Second Chances

How Will I Know

February 17, 2026

Poems & Stories

July 2005

I wrote this poem in 2005.

I was young, in love and in confusion.

I was in love with somebody who didn’t reciprocate my level of commitment.

It took me decades to revisit this— and now that I’m in a better place with my family— it was like looking at my young fragile self.

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How Will I Know

How will I know
if you are not okay
if your body gives in,
too weak to lift the phone,
too tired to say my name?

How will I know
if silence means rest,
or sickness,
or something final
I am afraid to name?

How will I know
when the only bridge I have
is your number,
your small glowing screen,
your disappearing signal?

I do not know your world there.
I do not know your friends,
or the sound of their voices.
I do not know the hands
that would reach for you
if you collapsed.

I do not know your family’s numbers,
your workplace,
your hidden corners.

I do not know
half of you.

So please,
do not call it paranoia
when my chest tightens
at a day without your voice,
when my thoughts spiral
at unanswered hours.

Accidents bloom
in the least expected moments.
Fear, too,
has its own logic.

I try to stay calm.
I practice stillness.
But how can I be still
when your safety
is the question?

I do not fear
your freedoms,
your wandering,
your separate life.

It is not jealousy
that keeps me awake.
it is the fragile fact
that bodies fail,
that time betrays,
that distance hides disaster.

I do not demand
your secrets,
your maps,
your coordinates.

I only carry you
into prayer:
morning and night,
breathing your name
into God’s hands.

My deepest fear
is not loss,
but lateness,
to be the last to know
you were hurting,
the last to learn
you were gone.

We are human.
Even love obeys
mortality.

So wherever you are,
in whatever silence,
always,
take care of yourself.

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A Valentine Realization

February 14, 2026

Life & Love

Today is Valentine’s Day. We don’t celebrate it in my religion, and that’s perfectly fine with me. For as long as I can remember, I have associated this date more with my father’s birthday than with romance.

Still, before my conversion, Valentine’s Day held a special place in my heart. As a teenager, I was a hopeless romantic. The day felt magical–full of promise, excitement, and tender expectations.

I was seventeen and already in college when I had my first Valentine’s celebration. Coincidentally, it was also the first time I had a boyfriend. Instead of a traditional date, I chose to celebrate with friends, so we ended up having a group dinner. It wasn’t the candlelit evening I had imagined—no roses, no grand gestures—but it was joyful. We laughed, shared stories, and simply enjoyed being young.

When I got home that night, I was surprised to receive a bouquet of roses from a board mate who had been romantically linked with me months earlier. He didn’t know yet that I already had a boyfriend; the relationship was barely two weeks old.

In my youthful innocence, I told my boyfriend about the flowers, expecting him to find it amusing. Instead, his reaction was a mix of sadness and regret. He realized that this should have been our first Valentine’s together—and that he should have been the one to give me flowers.

From then on, he gave me flowers even without any occasion.

Today, I no longer remember him as the young man I once fell in love with, but as the boy who shared my first Valentine’s—young, naive, and surrounded by laughter and friends. Looking back, I sometimes think I should have stayed longer in that lighthearted season of life with friends. Entering a serious relationship too early quietly stole from me the chance to fully enjoy my college years.

In my late twenties, I met my future husband. It was an instant attraction followed by a whirlwind courtship. While our faith does not observe Valentine’s Day, he still gives me flowers. We simply renamed the occasion—Heart’s Day.

Last year, I asked him how much he spent on a bouquet of roses. He told me that flowers were expensive where we lived, and when I heard the price, I gently suggested he buy food instead. I wanted him to know that while flowers still made me happy, receiving something that benefited our daily life made even more sense.

And in that moment, I realized how much I had changed.

I had grown from a hopeless romantic into a practical woman—someone who now understands that love is not measured by the number of buds in a bouquet, but by the quiet consistency of effort, sacrifice, and commitment.

Real love, I have learned, lives not in grand gestures, but in the steady choice to stay, to care, and to build a life together.

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The Memoirist

February 12, 2026

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I didn’t wake up one morning and decide, Today, I shall become a memoirist.
The realization came quietly — in the middle of a conversation, in the middle of reflection, in the middle of remembering.

Someone pointed out that based on how I think, speak, and process life, I fit the profile of a memoirist. At first, I paused. I had always thought of memoirists as writers — people who publish books, tell dramatic stories, or stand in front of audiences. I didn’t see myself that way.

But then I started looking at how I actually move through life.

I realized that I don’t simply remember events. I trace their meaning. I don’t just recall experiences — I examine their impact, their emotional weight, their long shadows. I connect childhood to adulthood, past wounds to present choices, pain to growth, silence to strength.

I live inside a continuous timeline, always asking:
How did this shape me? Why did this matter? What did this change?

That’s when it clicked.

I am a memoirist — not because I write novelettes or blog, but because I live narratively.

I process life in chapters.
I carry memory as a compass.
I search for coherence, not just survival.

Some people move forward without looking back. Others get stuck in the past. I seem to move through time, weaving memory, emotion, and insight into understanding. I don’t revisit my past to suffer again — I revisit it to make sense of myself.

And perhaps the most beautiful coincidence of all:
My name, IRIS, sits right in the middle of the word memoirist.

memo — IRIS — t

Memory.
Seeing.
Understanding.

It felt like poetry written by accident.

Being a memoirist doesn’t mean being dramatic. It doesn’t mean romanticizing pain. It means honoring experience. It means believing that every season of life — even the most painful — carries meaning worth understanding.

It means trusting that reflection is not weakness, but wisdom in progress.

I realized that my constant self-examination, my desire to understand emotional patterns, my instinct to map life events across decades — none of these are flaws. They are simply how I am wired.

I am someone who remembers in order to heal.
Who reflects in order to grow.
Who revisits in order to forgive.
Who narrates in order to understand.

And maybe, one day, these quiet reflections will become written stories. But even if they don’t, I now know this:

I am living my memoir — consciously, thoughtfully, and with intention.

And that realization alone feels like coming home to myself.

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On Being Emotional

January 9, 2026

Life & Love

They said I was a grumpy baby—one who cried more often than she smiled. I remember that even as a young girl, I had bursts of tantrums that I myself could not control, no matter how hard I tried.

When I entered my teenage years, those tantrums slowly transformed into depression. I loved life, yet life itself felt suffocating. During those years, I poured all my emotions into writing. My first novelette was a ghost love story—ironic, considering that at the time, I had never experienced falling in love. Still, I wrote it as if I already understood longing.

My first love, when it came, was explosive. It was the kind of love I believed I could not live without, yet it quietly drained happiness from the inside. At seventeen, I had never heard the term toxic relationship. My mind had been conditioned to accept emotional pain as normal. I was simply told—and eventually believed—that I was “just being emotional.”

Looking back at my childhood and young adulthood, I now realize that the separation anxiety and clinginess I displayed for years were rooted in unresolved emotions from early life. Without blaming my parents, I understand that they belonged to a generation where tantrums were met not with understanding, but with discipline. Later, as an adult, when familiar patterns repeated themselves—when I spoke up and my partner did not listen, when I was dismissed as a drama queen—I became agitated. Subconsciously, I was being returned to the moments when my voice had been shut down as a little girl.

In the early to mid-2000s, another relationship entered my life. By then, I had begun sharing my emotions with friends. Yet once again, my feelings were brushed aside, dismissed in the same way I had grown accustomed to. The aftermath was subtle but lasting: I became harder. I showed fewer emotions. I learned to be more logical and less expressive. And perhaps my friends, too, could not be blamed—they were likely raised by parents shaped by the same generation as mine.

It is reassuring to know that today, people are becoming more open to understanding emotions rather than invalidating them. With greater access to information and resources, we are now able to ask why instead of rushing to criticize. And perhaps, in learning those whys, we finally make space for emotions that were once silenced.

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The Missing Bride

January 7, 2026

Life & Love

I’ve always been drawn to cases of missing persons; Madeleine McCann, Asha Degree, Jael Flores, Migui Dollente—just to name a few that I’ve followed over the years. Perhaps it’s my maternal heart reacting to the profound sense of loss and longing that families endure when someone disappears.

More than closure, I always hope for reunification. In late 2021, this fascination led me to draft a novelette about a missing woman named Mary Ann. I only managed to finalize it in 2025, as the original version was much darker and lacked character development. Time, and perhaps maturity, changed how I wanted to tell that story.

So it wasn’t surprising when the case of Sherra De Juan captured my attention. What could be more unsettling than a bride going missing just days before her wedding? I followed her story closely for almost three weeks, and like many others, I found myself defending her fiancé, Arjay, against malicious accusations. Sometimes, public judgment moves faster than facts.

Sherra was eventually found on December 29, 2025, by a rider in Sison, Pangasinan. What happened between Quezon City and Pangasinan remains unclear. The distance alone raises many questions, especially given the route one would have to take on foot or via public transport.

Like many people following the case, I couldn’t help but wonder about the gaps in the story. One possible explanation I considered was that what began as a simple errand, looking for wedding shoes, may have escalated into confusion and fear. Anxiety, especially when overwhelming, can affect judgment and decision-making in ways that are difficult to understand from the outside.

I remain cautious about treating any single narrative as absolute truth. Memory can blur under stress, and traumatic experiences can alter how events are recalled. This doesn’t mean someone is being dishonest, only that the mind sometimes protects itself in complex ways.

What matters most is that Sherra was found alive. A kind stranger helped her reconnect with her family, and she is now on the path to recovery. Her fiancé shared that once she is well, they plan to proceed with their wedding in the coming months. His patience and loyalty during her most fragile moment speak volumes.

Cases like this remind me why stories of missing persons stay with me. They are not puzzles to be solved for entertainment, but human lives suspended in uncertainty. And sometimes, against all odds, they find their way back.

For those curious, the novelette I mentioned earlier—born from the same empathy and questions—can be found through the Amazon link below.

Amazon Link:
https://www.amazon.com/Missing-Woman-Disappearance-Mary-Gonzalez-ebook/dp/B0F615624N/ref=sr_1_1?crid=ZVJIOWMGV7EV&dib=eyJ2IjoiMSJ9.t91_7d4nu_VF5xXT4dXrXi0k7RJEEecBOCKoXr4rIirBGD1jNFvSs7-p7U3Ko86X9mkWJtpiPVe6gSGbAly7Vj4Av3V3gtDpuYdTMq4tCyKUGEmQkR5ZdR4iNbhnc_wmUexAIxEb-o2c5cXdPVT4ZA.Y3A9n9hpr0NTnHZJiygdwg53TcsF1LL9HMHlAJEPG08&dib_tag=se&keywords=the+missing+woman%2C+reese+c&qid=1767742612&sprefix=the+missing+woman%2C+reese%2Caps%2C344&sr=8-1

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When Life Makes You Choose

January 5, 2026

Life & Love

I recently turned down two invitations from my high school friends.

The first was my goddaughter’s debut last December. I was genuinely looking forward to it—the last time I saw her was in 2009.

But that day fell on a work shift in my new job, where I’m still under probation. I had already incurred a few absences due to family matters, and I knew I couldn’t risk another one.

The second invitation was a wedding here in the Philippines. The couple had already gotten married in the UK, and the local celebration was scheduled for January 3. I was asked to RSVP by mid-December, and at that time, I was still scheduled to be on duty. I explained my situation, and my friend understood. Later on, I found out that I could have reported to work on January 5 instead. As much as I wanted to tell her I was suddenly free, I also thought about how they might have already finalized their guest list. I didn’t want to be an inconvenience to newlyweds who had enough on their plate.

These moments made me realize how different life is now compared to when I was in my late 20s. Back then, I would drop everything to attend a friend’s event. Life felt simpler. I had my parents helping care for my firstborn. I didn’t yet have two younger children who required hands-on parenting. I also didn’t carry the weight of a managerial role, where decisions, or mistakes, had real operational consequences, and where there was always a manager above me to step in if things went wrong.

It’s not that I value my friends any less now. If that were the case, I wouldn’t feel this quiet sense of loss from not being there. The truth is, even though we are the same age, our responsibilities have grown in different directions. And sometimes, I wish for a season where I can finally catch up with them—without checking duty schedules, leave credits, or family logistics.

Life happens. Careers evolve. Family responsibilities take precedence.
But in my heart and mind, my friends still matter—and I hope they know that.

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Happy 2026!

January 3, 2026

Uncategorized

Wow- – -I can’t believe it’s already 2026.

Sometimes I still see myself as a young girl, eyes full of wonder, imagining what life would be like in the year 2000.

And now here we are. It’s 2026, and I’m no longer that young girl.

The first half of 2025 was particularly difficult for me.

In many ways, it was a continuation of unresolved challenges from 2023 and 2024.

I’ve come to realize that being overly optimistic can sometimes do more harm than good. Hope needs boundaries; there must be a point when we stop waiting and begin building new strategies.

Still, there was an unexpected gift in being down during the first semester of 2025. I found myself writing novelettes- – -stories that may not mirror my own life exactly, but speak to shared human experiences. Writing became a way to process, observe, and connect.

As I step into 2026, I want to do more so that I can gain more, and ultimately give more. I want to wake up each day not just to follow routines, but with the energy and intention to contribute to something greater, even in small ways.

When a person goes through trauma, the natural response is often to rest, retreat, and shut down for a while.

I’ve done that. But I also know that resting too long can quietly turn into stagnation. This 2026, I choose to reboot—not in haste, but with purpose.

So here’s to surviving 2025, with all its lessons and scars. And here’s to welcoming 2026- – -with courage, clarity, and renewed intention.

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