The bloom of one
I’ve always believed that life comes in stages.
For the longest time, I thought I was running behind. By 29, I imagined I’d be living alone in a small apartment in the city, walking to work in a sleek pencil skirt, coffee in hand, and calling the shots in meetings where people hung on my every word. But life, as it turns out, has its own rhythm. I still live with my parents, work most days from the same childhood house I grew up in, and my commute involves nothing more than slippers sliding down the stairs.
Still, there’s something quietly beautiful about it.
My mornings start with brewed coffee—strong, with four drops of stevia, just the way I like it—and the smell of garlic rice wafting from the kitchen. I’d wave at my mom, already bustling with her morning chores, and sit by the window for a few precious minutes before logging in to work.
The view isn’t spectacular. Just rooftops, trees, and a few neighborhood kids playing—but it’s familiar. Grounding.
I’m an HR professional, juggling multiple clients, Zoom calls, spreadsheets, and deadlines. It’s not glamorous, but it pays the bills and gives me something I value more than anything right now: time. Time to rest. Time to grow. Time to breathe. And in the quietness of that time, I’ve found pieces of myself I thought I had lost.
There’s a kind of autonomy in being single that I’ve grown to truly cherish. It wasn’t always like this. I used to think I needed someone to complete me. I’ve loved deeply in the past—the kind of love that consumed me, made me forget who I was outside of the relationship. When those chapters ended, I was left picking up the pieces, unsure if I’d ever feel whole again. But slowly, I began to rebuild. I took myself out on little dates—coffee shops, solo movie nights, trips to the bookstore. I started writing again, journaling my thoughts, pouring myself into stories I once dreamed of publishing.
One day, while sorting through old notebooks, I stumbled upon a page where I had scribbled, “Your life is happening now—don’t miss it.”
That became my mantra.
I’m not waiting for a boyfriend to bring me flowers. I buy them for myself. I don’t need anyone to plan my birthday—I hosted an intimate coffee workshop date, surrounded by my closest friends, laughter echoing in every sip. I don’t need grand romantic gestures to feel loved. I find love in my dad making my favorite sinigang when I’m sick, in my mom setting aside the last piece of turon for me, in my niece Bela and nephew Miggy, who fill my heart with joy in ways I hadn’t expected—like how I never thought I could love these little aliens more than myself, but here we are.
Sometimes, late at night, loneliness creeps in. Social media doesn’t help. Engagements, weddings, baby announcements—they flood my feed like a montage of milestones I haven’t yet reached. But instead of spiraling, I remind myself: different doesn’t mean less. My timeline is my own. And it’s valid. It’s real.
I’ve filled my life with intention. I started doing CrossFit—something I used to be intimidated by—and found strength I didn’t know I had, both in my body and in my spirit. I volunteered when I could. I planned events on weekends. I showed up for my friends, even when I was exhausted. I laughed until my belly hurt. I cried in the shower and let the water carry it away. My world isn’t missing anything. It’s simply unfolding in a way that feels right for me.
I’ve started saying yes to more experiences. I jumped from a cliff in Sugba Lagoon. I took day trips alone, just for the thrill of being somewhere new. I’ve begun to live more fully, and not in the big, extravagant ways—but in the quiet, meaningful ones that remind me I’m alive and evolving.
One rainy afternoon, I sat at my desk—laptop closed, journal open—and began writing a letter to my future self.
Dear Kai,
I hope you still romanticize your life—that you still find magic in simple things. I hope you’re still proud of the woman you became in your late 20s. You learned that love doesn’t always come wrapped in red ribbons. Sometimes it comes in soft moments, in stillness, in the way you hold yourself up when no one else sees. If love finds you, I hope it feels like peace. But even if it doesn’t, I hope you know—you were always whole.
I paused, tears slipping down my cheek, not from sadness, but from something else—something like grace.
This is my season of blooming. Not loudly. Not for show. But deeply, quietly, beautifully. And I wouldn’t trade it for anything.
—————
Jhanikka S. Ramos, 29, is an HR professional.
