Justine, Chris Mae, Me, and Aiza @ Camp 7, Baguio City (May 4, 2008)
Justine, Chris Mae, Aiza, and Me @ Pozorrubio, Pangasinan (May 5, 2008)
@Jollibee Magsaysay, Baguio City.. with Justine and Chris Mae
I have always been very observant about how people give meaning to the words happiness and contentment. Little kids, I guess, have the simplest definition. For them, it might mean getting a shiny new toy, holding a melting ice cream on a hot day, or simply being in the warm embrace of their parents. Their joy is pure and undiluted—uncomplicated by the weight of responsibilities or the shadows of past disappointments. But I’ve noticed that this simplicity changes over time. The meaning grows more layered, more complex, shaped by the joys, losses, and lessons we gather along the way.
I remember when I was still a seemingly innocent little girl in my school uniform—white blouse neatly tucked into a navy pleated skirt, its fabric smelling faintly of laundry soap. My black leather shoes were polished every morning but always ended the day scuffed from running across gravel paths and skipping over puddles after the rain. The air in the schoolyard often carried the scent of chalk dust and fried snacks from the canteen, and the sound of the bell would echo like a call to adventure rather than a summons to class.
Like any other student, I had friends who shared in my “kiddy crimes”—those harmless acts of mischief that filled my grade school and high school years with color. They were the people I laughed with until my stomach ached, the ones who made the hours between classes feel like entire adventures.
Every time I was with them, life felt so light, as if there was no room for worries to sneak in. We were perfectly content with the simplest things—giggling at an inside joke no one else could understand, racing each other down the hallways with our laughter bouncing off the walls, or sitting under the shade of an acacia tree, talking about everything and nothing.
We let our feet take us anywhere—wandering to the canteen where the sweet smell of banana cue tempted us, to the far end of the field where the breeze felt cooler, or into an empty classroom where our voices became louder in the absence of teachers. Hours would slip away unnoticed, and we’d miss a lesson or two without a second thought.
We’d swap stories about our “dreary” teachers, exaggerating their quirks for laughs, and whisper strategies on how to “defeat” our so-called enemies—rival groups who probably thought the same about us. It was all so petty, so childlike, and yet, at the time, it felt like the biggest mission in the world.
There is so much to cherish about being a child. Yes, children cry just like adults do—but there’s a softness to their hearts that makes them quick to forgive. I’ve seen a child, red-eyed and sniffling from a quarrel, break into a smile minutes later, ready to play again. They have forgiveness, humility, meekness, submissiveness, and an eagerness to learn—qualities that seem to fade as we grow older. Sometimes I wish our then semi-uncorrupted minds could have stayed that way forever. But I know that’s impossible. Life demands we grow up, and with growing up comes change.
Those memories are part of our innocence, a stage everyone passes through. Now we call ourselves grown-ups, but we still cry—sometimes for reasons we can’t even explain. After high school graduation, we went our separate ways. We said our goodbyes with promises to keep our friendship alive. And for a while, we did—meeting occasionally, exchanging messages, sharing pieces of our new lives. But life moved on. We met new people, took different paths, had our hearts broken, and watched some of our dreams dissolve.
Still, there’s something magical about reunions. When we see each other again, it’s as though time folds in on itself. We laugh like we used to, trading stories and teasing each other as if we were back in the schoolyard. Recently, during a get-together, they jokingly teased me about how “boring” my life seemed compared to theirs. We laughed it off, but deep down, I realized how much we had all changed. Eight years ago, we were carefree teenagers. Now, our faces carry the stories of sleepless nights, tough decisions, and silent battles fought alone.
Looking back, I see how my own path has been shaped. I’ve spent so much of my time helping other people—listening to their struggles, offering advice, and trying to give them hope. It fills me with happiness to see someone’s eyes glow again after feeling lost. But somewhere along the way, I realized I couldn’t always do the same for myself. There were nights when I wished someone would reach out and do for me what I try to do for others.
Sometimes loneliness creeps in, along with moments of hopelessness and helplessness. But I know I’m not alone in that. Everyone—young or old—has their own struggles. They may differ in form and intensity, but no one is exempt.
And here’s what I’ve learned: in the end, it’s not the size or shape of the problem that defines us—it’s how we respond to it. Our reactions, our resilience, our ability to keep moving forward—these are the things that matter in the long run. Because it’s in overcoming challenges that we find the truest meaning of happiness and contentment. Those words are no longer just about toys, laughter, or easy afternoons. They are about victories, big or small, that prove to us how far we’ve come in the race called life. Without the struggles, they would be empty words.
And perhaps the most comforting thought is this: happiness and contentment are not fixed destinations—they are shifting, growing, evolving alongside us. My definition will not be the same ten years from now, just as it isn’t the same as it was ten years ago. I hope that in the years ahead, I will learn to extend the same kindness to myself that I so freely give to others. I hope to surround myself with people who will remind me to laugh, to wander, and to take joy in small moments. And when life feels heavy again—as it surely will—I hope I will remember that the child I once was still lives in me, ready to forgive, to hope, and to keep chasing light.
Because maybe that’s what true contentment is—not the absence of struggle, but the quiet strength to keep going, knowing that somewhere between the battles and the laughter, we are still growing, still loving, and still learning how to be happy.
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