Thea's Truths & Thresholds

Category: Moments That Shaped Me

Personal stories, events, and turning points

  • Beyond False Humility: Naming the Pattern Is Not Shaming

    Beyond False Humility: Naming the Pattern Is Not Shaming

    This is the second reflection in a series on the practice of discernment and the reclamation of self-trust.

    • Part 1: Discernment, Again – The orientation: Learning to stand with the triggered self and refusing the spiritual bypass of “just letting go.”
    • Part 2: Beyond False Humility: Naming the Pattern is Not Shaming – The identity: Moving from a Victim Identity to a Healing Identity by naming the patterns that violate the Sacred Hearth.
    • Part 3: (Upcoming) The Thin Slice: How Discernment Becomes Reflex – The mechanics: How self-loyalty becomes an automatic orientation through the Core Value Bank.

    I’ve been sitting with what happened after I named Rohitash—the wellness blogger-journalist.

    That old jitter’s been creeping in again—the one that whispers, Are you being too loud? Too harsh? Failing at some “holiness” you left behind decades ago? In the Philippines, where we’re steeped in this specific brand of Catholic humility, we’re taught that “good” means staying quiet. That naming harm makes you the one causing disharmony.

    But this “false humility”? It’s just another way to betray myself. To abandon who I’ve become just to please the ghost of who I was told to be.

    What’s hit me hardest in all this—in a good way—is that I found my clarity before I had a guide for it. I’d already felt the misalignment, already walked away from him without waiting for anyone’s okay—then I came across Dr. Steven Stosny’s Living & Loving After Betrayal.

    Reading his book was like looking at a photo of a place I’d already been. He talks about the “Adult Brain,” moving from “Core Hurt” to “Core Value,” that “Thin Slice” of choice between trigger and reaction. I knew those places because I’d just found my way through them. I didn’t read it to learn how to heal—I read it and saw my own healing staring back at me.

    There’s such quiet power in that—knowing my growth didn’t come from following a rulebook—it came from finally listening to myself. From trusting what I knew deep down.

    Now, if I were to keep that growth to myself, if I were to pretend I’m still just “struggling” when I’m actually succeeding—that would be self-silencing. It would twist kababaang-loob (true humility) into something it’s not—shrinking myself so I don’t rattle people who mix up “authority” with “integrity.”

    Real kababaang-loob is inner strength. It doesn’t need to shout—but it also doesn’t need to lie about how tall it stands.

    *****

    Naming Rohitash wasn’t about shaming him. It was public discernment. It was me saying: Oh, I see the pattern here.

    The line wasn’t just crossed when he misinterpreted my words—it was the entitlement behind it all. He walked into my private space uninvited, rearranged the metaphorical furniture, then left a piece of his own work I never asked for. No courtesy, no permission—he just acted like he’d earned the right to be there.

    When I called it out, his response was like a masterclass in performative compliance—or spiritual narcissism, take your pick.

    He parroted my own words back to me—trying to make me feel “seen” so I’d lower my guard. He complimented my “calm presence” and “thoughtful naming”—like patting a lion on the head while it’s trying to protect its den. Then he signed off with “With Respectful Heart”—the ultimate palusot (excuse), wrapping entitlement in sacred-sounding language to cover up the fact he’d already squatted in my space with a self-promotional link.

    He knew he’d been caught. He just refused to humble himself enough to admit it or say sorry. He offered the “respectful heart” of a brand—not the honest kababaang-loob of a real person.

    *****

    I saw it clearly: this wasn’t a one-time mistake. It was a habit—a strategy to turn every interaction into a door for his own gain.

    *****

    Let me be straight: what he does on his own site is his business. What he does on mine is a violation of my “Sacred Hearth.” My space isn’t a marketplace, and I’m not a “milking cow” for someone else’s ego-driven lead generation.

    On the surface, it looked like he was acknowledging my boundary—maybe even apologizing without saying the words. But in my body? I felt the friction. It was a palusot through and through. An attempt to keep his “Sanctuary of Peace” image shiny while ignoring he’d already digital-squatted in my home. I didn’t approve his last comment—I don’t owe anyone a platform for their “polite” entitlement. My sacred space isn’t a funnel for a Marketing Bot, no matter how many flower emojis they use.

    By refusing to approve his ‘polite’ comment, I wasn’t being harsh; I was just being a faithful steward of my own house.

    *****

    In an earlier post, No One Puts Baby in the Corner: Discernment & Boundaries in Blogging Spaces, I spoke about the logistics: the link, the lack of permission, the blocked access. But here? I want to talk about how hollow words feel in your bones.

    Even as he echoed my language about “adult discernment” in that unapproved reply, my body knew something was off. It was the same empty frequency I felt from people like Neale Donald Walsch or Carolyn Myss decades ago. The sound of an ego trying to “nice” its way back into a room it was told to leave.

    By recognizing that “messenger who is not the message”—the same pattern I saw in those bigger names—I could shift from “personal hurt” to “conduct analysis.” If I can name the shadows in international figures, I can name the one in my own backyard, too.

    *****

    This is exactly what Dr. Steven Stosny means by moving from a Victim Identity to a Healing Identity.

    A Victim Identity focuses on the offender. It waits for them to change, to apologize, to “get it” before it can find peace. If I’d kept his behavior secret, or tried to “manage” it quietly behind the scenes with false humility—I’d still be tied to him. Still a victim of his uninvited “furniture rearranging,” waiting for him to realize and acknowledge he was wrong.

    A Healing Identity takes power back by focusing on one’s environment. It doesn’t ask the offender for permission to feel steady—it just changes the space one is in.

    Naming the behavior—and yes, the person—was how I cleaned out my house.

    By saying his name and calling out the “Marketing Bot” pattern, I wasn’t just “managing” the discomfort of an uninvited guest. I was putting a lock on the door.

    Naming is what healers do when they say: This goes against my values. And because I see it clearly, I don’t have to engage with it anymore. I’m not waiting for people like Rohitash to live the peace they preach. I’m just living my own truth, in my own rhythm.

    The work isn’t about him changing—it’s about me no longer making space for manipulation.

    Not every door deserves to stay open. Some thresholds are sealed to protect what’s sacred.

    That unapproved performative comment was the final palusot. A man whose “About” page says he “embodies wellness in every word”—yet acts like a digital squatter, riding on my authenticity to plant his own flag.

    When someone claims to be a “Sanctuary of Peace” but behaves like a Marketing Bot—the gap creates what I call “somatic dissonance” for anyone who’s paying attention.

    My body felt that friction long before my mind could name the manipulation. My body knew the truth before my brain could look up a chapter and verse. It was that familiar hollow spot where integrity should have been.

    And that is the biggest growth of all: I don’t need to justify walking away. I don’t need to soften what I see clearly. I don’t need a book to tell me that my “resounding No” is the holiest thing I’ve ever said.

    When the light shifts and the door appears—sovereignty isn’t escape. It’s coming home.

    This is what true integrity looks like: the strength to see clearly, name honestly, and walk away without apology or false humility.

    In the next reflection, I’ll dive deeper into Dr. Stosny’s ideas—how discernment is intuitive more than intentional, what that “thin slice” between trigger and response really looks like, and how to tell the difference between boundaries you can bend and those you never should.

    If any part of this speaks to you, I’d love to hear your thoughts in the comment section below.

    Peace and Blessings,
    — Thea 💙 theasjournal25@gmail.com

  • Discernment, Again: When to Let Go, When to Step Back, and When to Stop Entirely

    Discernment, Again: When to Let Go, When to Step Back, and When to Stop Entirely

    I’ve written before about not sweating the small stuff. About discernment. About boundaries, triggers, and knowing when to lean in and when to walk away.

    And here I am, writing about them all over again.

    Not because I’ve run out of ideas—but because this is what my life revolves around now. Discernment isn’t a class I aced and moved on from. It’s a practice I keep coming back to, again and again, because life just keeps throwing new stuff my way.

    Triggers don’t vanish. Healing doesn’t wrap up neatly with a bow. What does change is how I show up when things pop off.

    When the Body Speaks First After A Trigger

    There will always be something—or someone—that sets me off.

    That doesn’t mean I’m backsliding. It doesn’t mean I’ve failed at healing. It just means I’m human, with a nervous system built from years of history, experience, and doing whatever I needed to survive.

    When a trigger hits, I don’t jump straight into deciding whether it’s “small stuff” or not anymore. That call comes later.

    First, I turn inward.

    I notice the chaos in my system. I listen to whichever part of me has come to the surface—sometimes it’s the part that’s felt betrayed, sometimes the hyper-vigilant one, sometimes a younger version shaped by how things used to be. I give her room to breathe. I let her say what she needs to say. I ground myself, take deep breaths, go for a walk, stretch it out, write it down. I stay right there with myself until I feel centered again.

    Only then do I figure out what to do next.

    Because trying to discern anything while my nervous system’s firing on all cylinders isn’t really discernment—it’s just reacting, or shoving stuff down and calling it maturity.

    Being triggered doesn’t automatically mean something matters deeply. But it also doesn’t mean it should be brushed off.

    That difference is everything.

    Refusing the Bypass — The Trap of “Just Letting Go”

    We live in a world that mixes up letting go with being healed.

    “Just let it go.”
    “Choose peace.”
    “Don’t give it energy.”
    “Be the bigger person.”
    “If you’re still affected, you haven’t healed.”

    This kind of advice can sound soothing, but for those of us with trauma histories, it often ends up being another way to gaslight ourselves. It asks us to ignore what we feel rather than listen to it. It makes sensitivity seem like weakness, and setting boundaries like we’re just being difficult.

    This “bypass culture” treats discomfort like we’re doing something wrong—instead of seeing it as information.

    Discernment asks a different question entirely: What do I actually need here? Do I need to care for myself around this? Let it go? Or create some distance?

    Letting go can be wise. But it can also be premature.

    There’s a huge difference between releasing something because it really is small—and letting it slide because we’ve been taught to make ourselves smaller.

    The Limits of Self-Help

    I’ve also noticed how some self-help practices—even those that sound kind and caring—can quietly hurt us all over again.

    There’s this practice I keep seeing shared. It suggests saying something like, “I forgive the part of me that’s still attached to the person who hurt me.” I get why it exists. The idea is to shift our focus away from the person who caused the harm and back to ourselves—to take our power back instead of getting stuck in blame.

    That intention is understandable.

    But in practice? It can cross a line without anyone meaning it to.

    In trauma-informed work, the word “forgive” can make it sound like we did something wrong. Like the part of us that’s still hurting, still holding on, still feeling the impact is somehow behind the times, or mistaken, or needs to be fixed. Without trying to, it can move the focus from what was done to us—onto us for still being affected.

    It’s polite, well-meaning… but it can border on victim-blaming or shaming ourselves.

    Being attached to someone who mattered—even someone who hurt us—isn’t a failure. Being affected by harm isn’t a moral flaw. Our nervous system doesn’t need to be forgiven for responding to what’s real.

    In my own life, I’ve learned that what actually helps isn’t pardoning that part of me—it’s standing right beside her. Acknowledging that she’s reacting to something that truly happened. That what was done was wrong. And that while I can’t control the person who hurt me or undo the past, I can choose—when I’m ready, no rush—to find my way back to feeling steady again. No pressure, no self-judgment, no skipping over what I need.

    This way, I honor the hurt I felt. I name what happened clearly. And instead of fixating on the person who caused it—something I can’t change and have no control over—I take my power back by moving forward only when I’m ready. Without bypass.

    Sometimes the most healing response to the triggered self isn’t “I forgive you,” but “I see you. I’m here. You make sense.”

    The Inquiry — The Choice of Alignment

    Once I’m feeling steady, then I ask myself the hard questions:

    • Is this about what I prefer or about what I value?
    • Would staying involved means I have to override myself?
    • Is this a one-time slip-up or part of a pattern?
    • Will stepping back help me feel calm—or will it leave me feeling like I betrayed myself?

    Small stuff can be let go without losing respect for myself. But when something goes against my values? That’s a whole different story.

    Sometimes discernment means letting things roll off my back.
    Sometimes it means drawing a line.
    Sometimes it means stepping away completely.

    And sometimes, like when I came across a wellness figure whose work had all the same manipulative patterns I’ve known before, I just cut ties right then and there. No debating it. No needing to justify myself. No explanation required.

    I don’t choose battles anymore. I choose what lines up with who I am. I choose alignment.

    The New Axis — Living Without Vigilance

    Over time, discernment stopped feeling like work. It just became how I move through the world.

    It’s like digestion—I don’t think about it all the time, I just let my body do its thing. Healing’s like that now, too. I don’t monitor it constantly anymore.

    Healing just happens as a side effect of how I live: with clear values, boundaries I actually enforce, and choosing spaces where I don’t have to be on high alert all the time.

    I act when action is needed. I stop when my part is done.

    No more chasing explanations. No more replaying things in my head. No more trying to make people understand me.

    Clarity cuts down on overthinking. Discernment keeps me from getting tangled up in stuff I don’t need to be in. And trusting myself means I don’t have to convince anyone of anything.

    This is what stability feels like to me now—not that nothing challenging ever happens, but that I don’t carry more than I need to.

    A Note on Self-Help Culture—and a Rare Exception

    Most mainstream self-help struggles with this kind of nuance. It usually cares more about being positive than being precise, more about forgiveness than self-respect, more about how things look than how they feel in our body.

    That’s why a book I found recently—Living & Loving after Betrayal by Steven Stosny—stood out so much.

    It didn’t tell me anything I’d never heard before. But it didn’t mess with discernment either.

    Stosny doesn’t rush forgiveness. He doesn’t make one feel bad for not letting go yet. He puts self-respect, values, and being true to oneself ahead of making things right with someone else or looking “good.” He sees resentment as useful information, not a problem to fix—and healing as how we orient our life, not a finish line we cross.

    In a sea of pressure to “transcend” everything, his work just quietly says something I needed to hear: Taking back one’s self-respect isn’t bitterness. Being clear about what one needs isn’t resistance.

    That alignment mattered to me.

    The Sovereignty of the Page

    I write about all this not to teach anyone, or convince them of something, or fix their stuff.

    I write because it helps me make sense of things. It ties all the pieces together. It turns what I’ve lived through into something coherent.

    If something I share resonates with someone else, I trust it’ll find them when they need it. If it only matters to me? That’s okay too—the work is still done.

    This isn’t about being heard. It’s about being me.

    Returning, Again

    Triggers will come. I’ll practice discernment again. Healing will continue—quietly, naturally—because I’ve built my life to support it.

    I don’t carry everything anymore.
    I don’t explain everything anymore.
    I don’t stay where I know I need to leave.

    This isn’t the end of the story. It’s just how I find my way now.

    And I’ll keep finding it—again and again.

    In my next entry, I want to dive deeper into naming these patterns—and why owning our growth often means ditching the heavy cloak of false humility we’ve been taught to wear.

    If any part of this speaks to you, I’d love to hear your thoughts in the comment section below.

    Peace and Blessings,
    — Thea 💙 theasjournal25@gmail.com

  • Beginning the Year with Discernment and Compassion, Not Bypassing

    Beginning the Year with Discernment and Compassion, Not Bypassing

    There’s a common expectation to start the year with optimism. For me, though, a fresh start doesn’t require pretending everything is okay. I value honesty over toxic positivity, which means acknowledging what still needs my attention. I’m starting this year with compassion for the parts of me that carry past scars.

    Recently, a wellness blogger-expert’s content brought up old pain. It wasn’t just his dramatic delivery; it reminded me of a version of myself that was once deceived and betrayed. Love bombed. Recognizing this isn’t “sweating the small stuff.” It is acknowledging what was real.

    My trauma being triggered doesn’t excuse his behavior. A boundary violation is still a violation, and deception is still deception. The difference now is that I spot these patterns quickly. I canceled my subscription as soon as I noticed the warning signs.

    Others might view this as an overreaction. As part of my healing and self-inquiry process, I tuned inward and asked myself that. This isn’t an overreaction. For those of us with a history of betrayal, a breach of space isn’t a small thing—it’s a signal. Given how misunderstood trauma is, given how uninformed society is about trauma, our protective instincts are often dismissed.

    I am not overreacting; I am responding to a pattern I’ve seen before. Validating my own response is how I refuse to gaslight myself — and prevent falling into the trap of spiritual and human bypassing.

    I’ve become highly aware of performative patterns: the use of sophisticated language to mask a lack of substance, inconsistent professional claims, and a focus on high-end branding over genuine transparency.  These are tactics that exploit a person’s desire for meaning and connection. I don’t judge those who follow him because I was once that vulnerable. That memory helps me stay understanding and compassionate while I focus on my own path.

    *****

    This situation also clarified memories of my deceased, manipulative, narcissistic mother. Decades of betrayal before I cut contact made me alert to signs of manipulation and deception. While the patterns are similar, I am grateful I can now tell the difference between then and now. I am giving myself the time and space to think clearly and process the hurt without judgment — for myself and others.

    And that is how I’m starting the year: integrating my experiences rather than pushing them away — welcoming and honoring whatever is coming up for healing, release, and integration. I am prioritizing my autonomy over putting on a show. I am moving forward feeling lighter, with less distraction and more trust in myself and the Divine Intelligence.

    If this resonates, how do you honor yourself when old patterns resurface? If any part of this speaks to you, I invite you to share your reflections in the comment section below.

    Peace and Blessings,
    — Thea 💙

  • When You’re the Afterthought: Family Estrangement, Public Stories, and Finding Our People in the Philippines

    When You’re the Afterthought: Family Estrangement, Public Stories, and Finding Our People in the Philippines

    I came across the article about David Beckham leaving his son, Brooklyn, out of his 2025 year-end recap post, only to share throwback photos of him hours later. When Brooklyn was left out of his father’s recap, only added later, it reminded me of what it feels like to be remembered as an afterthought because that’s how his message came across to me. Maybe even for optics. If he wanted to honor all his kids, he would have included Brooklyn from the start.

    This hit close to home because I know what it feels like to be the one who gets left out or remembered only as an afterthought—if I would even be remembered or included. For years, “echa pwera (to be excluded)” was a recurring theme in my life with my family of origin.

    *****

    I know I’m not the only one navigating this. Looking at public figures helps me remember and reassures me I’m not alone.

    I cheered on when Prince Harry and Meghan Markle stepped away from the royal family because of deep-seated issues—racism, lack of support for their mental health, and pressure to maintain an image over their well-being. They chose to prioritize their own family and healing, even when it meant letting go of traditional ties.

    Here in the Philippines, we saw the same with celebrity Sarah Geronimo. She didn’t invite her mother to her wedding, and while some criticized her, many more supported her choice. It was a big moment because it showed our culture is slowly starting to understand that “family first” doesn’t mean staying in harmful, abusive, and traumatizing situations.

    And as for me, I didn’t decide to step back from my birth family on a whim. I started distancing myself from my siblings when I was in my mid-40s, and from my mother a few years later. I’m now in my 60s. My father passed away several years ago. After our parents’ separation, my siblings and I had been estranged from him, too, for a long time—his choice, not mine.

    I was the one who spoke up about things that needed to change. The truth teller. The cycle breaker who tried to break harmful patterns that had been going on all throughout my childhood and adult life, even for generations. It wasn’t easy, especially in a culture where “utang na loob (debt of gratitude)” is often used to pressure us into staying quiet or putting up with things we shouldn’t. But I knew I couldn’t keep sacrificing my own mental and emotional health.

    *****

    No one chooses to walk away from their family without a good reason. It’s a decision that usually comes after years of trying to make things work.

    *****

    I know there are others here in the Philippines who are going through the same thing, or something similar. Maybe you’re the one who had to set boundaries, or perhaps you’re the one who was pushed away. Either way, it can feel incredibly lonely.

    Healing takes time, and it helps to know we’re not the only one on this path. Our well-being matters, and our journey is valid—whatever that looks like for us.

    I find it encouraging to come across recent articles that signal a cultural shift in the Philippines — a willingness to speak more openly about the once-taboo topic of family estrangement and the choice to go no contact:

    Why More Filipino Millenials Are Walking Away From Family Obligations: When family duty becomes too heavy

    Looking for respondents for research on Filipino adult children estranged from their parents

    Calling for participants for a research study that aims to explore and understand family estrangement experiences among Filipino adults

    Filipino & estranged from your family? Especially this [holiday] season?

    Addressing Toxic Behaviors in Filipino Families | #YourMindOurMovement

    *****

    I’m glad not only to see the topic being discussed more openly, but also to see resources becoming accessible for those navigating such a difficult path. When I was contemplating this decision decades ago, there were hardly any materials to turn to.

    A few years back, I considered starting a support group. For now, my focus is on my own journey. Still, I want to offer a space for connection if you feel the need — a place to share reflections or simply be heard.

    I write under a pseudonym to protect my privacy, and I take confidentiality seriously. If you are or you know someone navigating family estrangement or struggling to set healthy boundaries, and you’d like to talk to someone who understands the cultural context we’re in—you may email me at theasjournal25@gmail.com  

    There’s no pressure to share more than you’re comfortable with. You may also share your reflections in the comment section below—whatever feels right and safe to you.

    Even if we’ve been treated as afterthoughts or misjudged for prioritizing our mental health and well-being, we can choose to center our own healing.

    Peace and Blessings,
    — Thea 💙

  • The Gift of Not Belonging: My New Year Threshold

    The Gift of Not Belonging: My New Year Threshold

    As we step into the first light of a new year, many of us reflect on where we’ve been—and where we think we should be. For me, that reflection has long centered on a single question: Where do I belong?

    But after six decades of searching, I’ve learned that the answer wasn’t about finding a place or group to fit into—it was about recognizing that my “misalignment” with the world around me isn’t a flaw. It’s a gift.

    *****

    Last night, the fireworks outside mirrored the clarity within — sovereignty illuminated at the year’s edge.

    From the very beginning, the first message I received from the world was rejection. My birth parents—and eventually siblings and other relations—turned away because of the color of my skin, my gender, and how I looked as a newborn.

    I was ridiculed. “Negrita of the mountain!” “Igorota!” (a female member of a northern tribe in the Philippines) were constantly hurled in my direction. Silence was the only response I knew.

    The message was clear: you are wrong, you are not welcome. That wound became the silent script beneath everything, shaping my decisions and my endless search for belonging.

    I pursued it everywhere: within my family of origin, in friendships, in community organizations, and even in the vision of a home by the sea or in the countryside. Enchanted by romantic verses, rustic dreams, folklore, and the modern cottagecore vibe, I thought happiness and fulfillment could be found in withdrawing to a charming bahay kubo (nipa hut) where everything would ultimately “come together” and “fall into place.” Yet the search acted as a diversion, leading me into misguided decisions influenced more by longing than by reality.

    This misalignment feels particularly sharp in the Philippines, where cultural values are rooted in kapwa (shared identity) and collectivism. Community, family, and harmony often take priority over individual needs—and speaking up, asserting my views, or setting firm boundaries earned me labels I heard again and again: mataray, difficult, too strong-willed, too much, uncooperative.

    I attempted to diminish myself, to conform to the expected role of womanhood, or how women are supposed to act in Filipino society, especially if I wished to maintain my social circle—putting others before me, suppressing my views, valuing the group’s harmony over my own truth. Yet every concession made me feel empty, as though I were diminishing to fit into a place I was never intended to inhabit.

    *****

    In June 2025, a fractured ankle sealed the first lesson. Forced to stop, I stepped away from the condo governance community saga that had drained me for several years—where my efforts to advocate for transparency were dismissed as being “too pushy” or having too high standards. A perfectionist in an imperfect world.

    Offering my time and skills as an unpaid committee volunteer to improve our building’s management was misinterpreted by community members as pro‑Board. They failed and refused to see—even appreciate—that my efforts were aimed at improving our entire community’s living situation.

    That rupture was more than physical—it was ceremonial. It showed me how deeply my rescuer reflex was tied to an unmet childhood need for approval, and how much of my life had been driven by trying to prove I deserved to belong.

    *****

    It is not my job to correct pseudo-authorities or educate the unwilling. My role is to name truth and protect my space.

    *****

    In November 2025, a trip to Los Baños, Laguna, shattered the last of my illusions. I wrote about it in The Los Baños Threshold: The Mirage of the Cottage Sanctuary. Standing in a place I’d once imagined as my “cottage sanctuary,” I saw clearly how the myth of belonging had kept me from my truest self. A sudden confrontation with the divide between the myth and the reality of that idealized life shattered the illusion completely.

    I finally understood: There is nothing fundamentally wrong with me. I am simply different. An outsider.

    *****

    I am no longer the woman who doubts or backs down in the face of deflection or condescension. Sovereignty is embodied now.

    *****

    I have always identified as an extroverted introvert, but learning about the “otrovert” in Rami Kaminski’s The Gift of Not Belonging: How Outsiders Thrive in a World of Joiners, gave me language for what I’ve lived all along. Otroverts thrive not by joining, but by standing apart—creating, discerning, and contributing from the margins.

    As an otrovert, I am not a joiner, and that is not a flaw. It is a gift.

    I know labels can become cages, reducing complexity to shorthand. But for me, this framework is about sense‑making—not diagnosis. It helps me depersonalize what I’ve carried, broaden my understanding of how identity and culture intersect, and cultivate compassion for both myself and the world I navigate.

    *****

    Real healing is being seen, heard, and validated by myself. External approval is welcome and appreciated, but incidental.

    This awareness is my doorway into cronehood. I look forward to spending my sunset years not in pursuit of fleeting belonging, but in lasting peace and quiet joy. I leave behind false teachings, misaligned choices, and unhealthy patterns—rescuing, compulsiveness, martyrdom—that shaped my past decades.

    *****

    The rescuer, the self‑doubter, the validation‑seeker — all sent off with one‑way, non‑refundable tickets to Pluto.

    My new year begins here: not in escape, not in external community, but in the sanctuary of myself.

    *****

    Being different is not a flaw. It is clarity. It is sovereignty. It is me.

    And when I hear “This Is Me” from The Greatest Showman, I recognize my own declaration:

    The Greatest Showman Cast – This Is Me (Official Lyric Video)

    In future posts, I’ll explore how the rescuer’s trap, compulsiveness, and martyrdom hooks all tie back to this gift of not belonging.

    *****

    I step into the new year with gratitude for discernment, clarity, and the spiral of healing — carrying less noise and more trust.

    ~~~ Mantra Seal ~~~

    I am home.
    I am my sanctuary.
    I belong to no one but me.
    This is me. I am free.

    As we step into the new year, please allow yourself a moment to reflect:
    Where have I been shrinking to fit in?
    Have you been chasing belonging in places or groups that don’t honor who you are?
    Have cultural expectations or family norms made you feel like you’re “too much”—or not enough?

    If any part of this speaks to you, I invite you to share your reflections in the comment section below.

    Wishing everyone joy, health, and fresh beginnings! Happy New Year!!!

    Peace and Blessings,
    — Thea 💙

  • No One Puts Baby in the Corner: Discernment & Boundaries in Blogging Spaces

    No One Puts Baby in the Corner: Discernment & Boundaries in Blogging Spaces

    There are responses that look polished, grammatically correct, even “perfect.” They use all the right words, the right tone, the right gestures of care. But for those of us with heightened sensitivity, discernment, and well‑developed pattern recognition, something feels off. We can sense when words are empty vessels. We can tell when care is performed rather than embodied.

    That was the case with an earlier encounter I had with a wellness blogger who claimed authority but failed to practice his ethical responsibility as a journalist. He didn’t fact‑check. He didn’t think through his response. He even linked to an unrelated post — all driven by ego and self‑promotion. On the surface, it looked like he respected my boundaries. In truth, it was face‑saving performance, optics for branding and monetization.

    In a previous post about the boundary violation in online interaction, When Clarity Doesn’t Need Permission,I talked about protecting my authenticity and space. That earlier reflection laid the groundwork for this one.

    If he were a non‑journalist, a non‑writer, an ordinary individual without any writing background, I would have let it go. I would have charged it to lack of communication skills or expertise — not everyone is trained to connect dots. That would have been not sweating the small stuff.

    But because he claimed the mantle of journalist, the disconnect mattered. Journalists are expected to think, to contextualize, to honor coherence. He didn’t. He defaulted to autopilot — branding, self‑promotion, performance. And that is why discernment demanded a boundary.

    I chose not to approve his latest comment — his attempt at crafting a supposed thoughtful response to my boundary assertion. Why? Because the words were hollow and insincere. Sure, they were the “correct” words to say when being called out — but they carried no soul.

    He simply mirrored my boundary, even repeating the exact words I used. And when words lack authenticity, when they are uttered only as a face‑saving attempt, without any genuine apology, they do not deserve further airtime in my space — a space he had already intruded upon.

    This is typical of social media culture.

    Just because platforms are public, just because readers can freely comment, they forget that these platforms are still spaces owned by the account, page, or site holder.

    There is an unwritten rule: respect the space.

    You ask permission, and you wait for permission to be granted before leaving anything behind — even in public places. And when you call yourself a wellness expert‑journalist, you pause. You ask yourself if your comment truly adds value to the conversation, or if it is merely noise.

    I would have preferred that he added something like, “I hope it’s okay that I share the link to my post, which talks about the inner child and playfulness…” or “May I invite you to my post about the inner child and playfulness…” The absence of these words revealed a lack of respect for someone else’s space.

    This wellness blogger had every right to share and promote his posts on his own site. But to do that in another’s space is crossing a line — a boundary violation. He should have stayed in his lane instead of using someone else’s platform to promote his brand. Even more so when what he shared was unrelated to the piece he was commenting on and linking to.

    It became clear to me that he wasn’t after genuine connection. He was after self-promotion and brand visibility. That is why I chose not to approve his response‑comment and blocked him from commenting altogether.

    He even had the audacity to claim that his readers trust him more than they trust themselves — and he took pride in it. That statement reveals the deeper danger:

    When seekers surrender their agency to external authorities, they are left vulnerable to exploitation. This is not care. This is branding. This is monetization disguised as guidance.

    It is the Old Energy at work — the hierarchical structures rooted in patriarchy, where authority is externalized and individuals are taught to defer rather than to trust their own inner compass.

    Systems like the Catholic Church, among others, have long propagated this model, instilling dependency on priests, doctrines, and intermediaries instead of empowering members to listen to the Wise One Within. Even the teachings of Master Jesus have been distorted. “I am the Truth, the Way, and the Life. No one comes to the Father except through me. (John 14:6)” was never meant to demand literal mediation through him. It was an invitation to awaken the Christ Within, to recognize that the path is already inside us.

    This distortion — whether in religion, health and wellness blogging, healing and trauma recovery spaces, spiritual circles, or marketing in general — serves the same purpose: to keep seekers, followers, and members dependent, to keep authority external, and to keep power concentrated in the hands of those who benefit.

    I ran my interpretation by a friend.* Their reaction was the familiar refrain: “You’re reading too much into it. You’re over‑analyzing.”

    Many people are socialized to prioritize politeness over intuition, to smooth over discomfort rather than name it. In Filipino culture, this often takes the form of hiya (shame) and pakikisama (get along with others) — values that emphasize avoiding shame and maintaining harmony, even at the cost of clarity. These cultural shields can make discernment look like disruption, when in truth it is protection.

    And because of that discernment, I chose not to approve his comment. I blocked him from further airtime. That was boundary enforcement in practice — protecting my sanctuary from intrusion disguised as care.

    This is the paradox: the majority misperceive sensitivity as weakness, as “too much.” But in truth, it is strength. A shield. A compass. It is the ceremony of clarity.

    To my fellow sensitive, discerning readers: you are not alone. Our gifts are not flaws. They are the very tools that protect and guide us.

    In the end, this is not about confrontation. It is about curation. It is about choosing clarity over optics, presence over performance. It is about honoring the integrity of our spaces and the signals of our own bodies.

    No one puts Baby in the corner. No one puts us sensitive, discerning souls in the corner.

    If any part of this speaks to you, I invite you to share your reflections in the comment section below.

    Peace and Blessings,
    — Thea 💙

    31 December 2025

    *Update:

    At first, I teased my friend: “Maybe you defended the wellness blogger because you share the same DNA!” Ironically, this was the same friend who once pointed out that pattern recognition is one of my strengths — a gift I hardly noticed because it felt second nature. When I finally embraced it, used it, and presented my findings, he dismissed me. But with my determination, and when he finally saw and connected the dots, he conceded. My discernment was right all along. Sensitivity, once again, proved itself as shield and ceremony — even in the House of Optics.

  • A Small Sting, Quietly Integrated

    A Small Sting, Quietly Integrated

    Today offered me a quiet moment of truth — the kind that doesn’t arrive with drama or rupture, but with a subtle sting that reveals exactly where I am now.

    I reached out to Claire, someone I recently reconnected with after almost a decade. Claire is someone I trust, someone who has shown me presence and depth before. Someone I feel safe with.

    We had our differences — as all friendships and relationships do. We revisited those differences, and she had acknowledged her lapses — and I now have a better understanding and appreciation of where she’s coming from. I now know how to engage with her. I now know what she can offer and what her limitations are.

    A couple of days after our reconnection, I wasn’t asking for anything heavy. I simply named where I was: sluggish, finally exhaling after weeks of hypervigilance and distress. A soft truth. A human truth.

    Her reply didn’t meet me. Not in a harmful way, not in a careless way — just in a way that reflected her bandwidth in that moment. Light. Surface-level. A mismatch. A moment of misattunement.

    And yes, it stung.
    A small ache of not being seen in the moment when I opened a little.

    But what surprised me was what didn’t happen.

    I didn’t collapse into old patterns.
    I didn’t over-explain.
    I didn’t push her into depth she couldn’t hold right then.
    I didn’t spiral into feeling “too much” or “too sensitive.”

    Instead, I felt the sting, acknowledged it, and let it pass through me like a breeze.

    Because I finally understand something I didn’t before:

    Not every moment calls for my depth.
    Not every person can meet it.
    And that’s not a failure — it’s a fact.

    I also found myself reflecting on something I’ve done in the past — what some call “narcissistic listening,” where instead of meeting the other person’s emotional landscape, we pivot back to our own. It’s not malice; it’s habit, overwhelm, or limited bandwidth. I’ve done it. We all have. And noticing it in others now doesn’t make me superior — it simply shows me how much more attuned I’ve become to the difference between being truly met and being answered from someone’s own bubble.

    This is the beginning of a new era for me.

    An era where I discern who can hold my truth and who cannot.
    Where I no longer force emotional honesty into spaces that can’t receive it.
    Where I protect my own sensitivity by placing it where it is safe, welcome, and reciprocated.

    Claire is someone who can meet me — and that’s why I can name this gently, without weight, without blame, without fear. That’s why it feels light in my body, not heavy. That’s why it feels like strengthening, not risky.

    And the proof of this shift showed up again today, unexpectedly, in a digital space. I wasn’t getting the kind of support or attunement I needed. In the past, I would have insisted, pushed, forced the interaction into depth it couldn’t hold. I would have spiraled into frustration.

    But today, I didn’t.

    I simply stepped out of that space and moved toward resonance — toward the place where I felt met, supported, and understood.

    No drama.
    No collapse.
    Just clarity.

    This is what growth looks like now.
    Quiet.
    Embodied.
    Undeniable.

    A new era, not because I declared it, but because I can feel it in my nervous system — the exhale, the lightness, the ease.

    I am finally choosing where my depth belongs.

    If any part of this speaks to you, I invite you to share your reflections in the comment section below.

    Peace and Blessings,
    — Thea 💙

  • Wicked For Good: Recognition, Not Rupture — Not A Review, Just My Reflections

    Wicked For Good: Recognition, Not Rupture — Not A Review, Just My Reflections

    The bridge was crossed. The circle closed. I didn’t need the story to break me.

    I hesitated before watching Wicked: For Good.

    After everything this year — the betrayals, the fractured ankle, the unprofessional caregivers, the hotel lapses, and the most recent trauma in Los Baños — I didn’t want anything heavy. I didn’t want another emotional blow.

    I wanted something that would lift me, not break me.

    I was in a vulnerable space, and I knew it. I was holding myself together with care, and I didn’t want a film to be the thing that pushed me past my limit.

    Even with my resilience, I was aware that one more devastating experience might have been too much.

    But I watched it anyway — cautiously, almost bracing.

    And what surprised me was the softness of my response.

    I didn’t collapse the way so many viewers did.

    I didn’t feel gutted by Glinda’s remorse or undone by the separation.

    And for a moment, I wondered if I had missed something.

    But the truth is simpler:

    I’m no longer standing in the same place as the woman who watched Part 1.

    Back then, Elphaba’s story pierced me because I knew it was my story too. I wasn’t discovering anything — I was recognizing myself.

    Now, after all the closures I had before leaving Manila for Los Baños, Laguna, I’m in a different season. A season shaped by boundaries, sovereignty, and the quiet work of reclaiming myself.

    So when I watched For Good, I wasn’t watching from the wound. I was watching from the woman who has already moved beyond it.

    Glinda’s remorse didn’t devastate me because I’m no longer seeking remorse from anyone who betrayed me. The sting still exists when I remember, but it no longer drives me.

    I don’t need fictional accountability to soothe anything in me. I’ve already given myself the closure the past never offered.

    I do recognize Glinda — the performance of happiness, the people-pleasing, the quiet self-betrayal of choosing what is approved over what is true. I recognize the longing of a woman trying to do what she believes is right in a world determined to misunderstand her.

    But that season is behind me now. That pattern is broken. I no longer explain myself into safety. I no longer wait for the world to understand me before I allow myself to be at peace.

    If I hadn’t done that work —

    if I had watched this film before those closures and completions —

    I probably would have broken down like everyone else.

    But I didn’t.

    And I’m grateful for that.

    I didn’t miss anything in Part 2.

    I’m simply in a different space than the majority. The film was grieving a layer I’ve already lived through. The story arrived right on time — just no longer at the center of my nervous system.

    So instead of rupture, it offered recognition —

    a quiet confirmation that I’m no longer watching from the wound,

    but from the woman who has already integrated it.

    If any part of this speaks to you, I invite you to share your reflections in the comment section below.

    Peace and Blessings,
    — Thea 💙

  • The Los Baños Threshold: The Mirage of the Cottage Sanctuary

    The Los Baños Threshold: The Mirage of the Cottage Sanctuary

    For years, I carried with me the dream of the cottage sanctuary. I imagined misty mornings in the countryside, verandas where I could sip tea while birds serenade me, gardens that promised healing, and quiet lanes that seemed far removed from the condo circus. I thought rural life would be my refuge, proof that I had risen above the governance battles and the endless rut of urban politics.

    Part of the allure was not just the cottage dream itself, but the silent proof it carried. I wanted to show the condo community—those still entangled in governance battles and the endless circus—that I had risen above them. That while they remained stuck in the rut, I was living in a “better” place, a heavenly retreat. But that impulse was still tethered to them. It wasn’t sovereignty—it was shadow.

    And the cottage sanctuary, I realized, was a myth I romanticized.
    Los Baños exposed it. The ankle injury in June 2025 left me vulnerable. Caregivers who should have supported me instead deepened my distress. And then came the horrific, traumatizing experience with the property landlady that stripped away any illusion of peace and safety. The countryside was not sanctuary—it was unkind terrain. Unsafe. Harsh. It harmed me. Re-traumatized me. Broke me open. It was where everything was unraveled.

    And yet, Los Baños became a full circle moment. A culmination of a long, arduous search for home. Belongingness.

    In 2003, I flew from Manila, Philippines, to San Francisco to become the full-time caregiver of my brother, who suffered from a ruptured aneurysm in the brain due to drug abuse. The experience led me to pursue graduate studies in consciousness and healing in 2006, the beginning of my escape chapter.

    In 2010, with much reluctance, I returned to Manila, holding tightly to my dream and vision of a healing center and healing practice. I continued my escape chapter in Puerto Princesa, Palawan. I fell into the orbit of a so-called healer whose energies were dark, manipulative, and corrosive. It took me years to disentangle myself from that place. Even after leaving, I twice reconsidered returning, still caught in the pull of illusion. It was the second seven-year cycle: 2010 to 2017, the long unraveling of escape and entanglement.

    The third cycle began in 2018, following the breast cancer diagnosis, when I turned toward my condo community. Governance battles, painful as they were, became the crucible where I confronted and healed my rescuing tendency. I learned to set boundaries, to seal misalignment with closure, to stop pouring myself into spaces that drained me. That cycle stretched to 2025, and Los Baños marked its end.

    The difference between Puerto Princesa and Los Baños is the difference between entanglement and sovereignty. What once took me years to escape now took me days. Within a week, I knew I had to leave Los Baños—sooner still if only I had a place to stay in Manila. That is growth. That is cadence. That is clarity.

    In hindsight, I see how much of my longing was entangled with cultural scripts.

    The cottage myth is not just personal—it is collective. Romantic poetry, pastoral ideals, folklore, and today’s cottagecore aesthetic all whisper the same story: that fulfillment lies in a quaint retreat, a rustic dwelling where life finally “comes together.”

    I inherited that imagery, and I projected it onto Los Baños. But projection is not resonance.

    Los Baños burned away illusions. It taught me that sanctuary is not about cottages or condos, not about appearing “above” others.

    Sanctuary is about resonance, cadence, and truth.

    I do not romanticize Los Baños anymore—nor the rustic sanctuary myth, nor any idyllic retreat that promises wholeness through withdrawal. I name Los Baños for what it was: a threshold. Painful. Necessary. Transformative. It shattered the cottage myth I had carried for years—decades even—and gifted me the clarity to see sanctuary for what it truly is.

    Los Baños may be where I was broken. But Los Baños was also where I was forged.
    And now, I carry its lessons: no longer needing to prove, no longer chasing mirages, only living in clarity and sovereignty.

    If any part of this speaks to you, I invite you to share your reflections in the comment section below.

    Peace and Blessings,
    — Thea 💙theasjournal25@gmail.com