No Juan Is An Island

They say your birthday is supposed to be a celebration of your existence, a day where the world pauses to acknowledge that you are here. But for as 8—where the day was less of a milestone and more of a Tuesday.

For years, my birthdays passed like a quiet shadow. A few greetings here and there, but rarely a gift to unwrap or a party to host. I can count on one hand the number of times I actually celebrated with friends or family. It wasn’t until I started earning for myself that the narrative changed. I discovered that I could gift myself the world.
Those solo travels became the light I looked forward to. I remember the stillness of San Vicente, Palawan, the vibrant, dizzying energy of Marrakesh and Casablanca, the misty peace of my many trips to Sagada, and the vastness of the journey from Hong Kong to Beijing. In those moments, I realized that gifting myself experiences was a profound form of growth. Travel was my love language to myself.
But then, the world stopped with the pandemic, and my own world changed further with the diagnosis of a degenerative visual condition. The mobility I once took for granted vanished, and with it, the ability to escape into the horizon. Birthdays became solitary once again, but this year, the silence feels heavier.
Today has been one of the loneliest. It’s a sharp kind of ache when your immediate family—those you’ve supported through their darkest phases—forgets the day entirely. My mother reached out, but only to ask for money, never mentioning the date. My siblings remained silent. While I am deeply grateful for the close friends who did remember—Ate Lils, Ate Josh, Jec, and Claro—there is still a nagging pain from the absence of others I hold dear.
I had plans to treat myself today. I wanted a haircut, a massage, and a cake, since I knew no one else would bring one. But my body had other ideas. My eyes and head have been in pain all day, keeping me tethered to my bed. I spent the hours cuddling with my dogs, their quiet presence the only thing keeping the walls from closing in. By late afternoon, I managed to order some Jollibee and a small cake through a delivery app. A celebration for one.
I thought I was used to this empty feeling. I thought I had built a fortress against the disappointment. But today, a quiet loneliness crept in and took root. It’s hard to focus on gratitude when it’s being overshadowed by sadness.
As I blow out a candle, my wishes are simple but heavy. I pray I won’t lose my sight; I still want to do worthwhile things. I hope for the continued growth of Story Candle, so I can find financial stability. I have a major check-up this April, and the looming costs are a constant weight on my mind.
If you feel moved to help, whether through supplies like soy wax and fragrance oils for my craft, or through a small gift like my e erday meds (eyedrops like Nepafenac) or to my GCash (0927-948-6375), I would be more grateful than words can say.

Thank you to those who remembered. I’m still holding onto the hope that someday, my birthday won’t just be a day I “get through,” but a day that is truly, deeply happy.