Glow by Lady E

  I really liked this dress. Enough that I stood there looking at it for far longer than necessary, having that familiar little debate with myself. It was black. Simple. Very me. I could already imagine how I would wear it. There was only one problem. The fabric was thick. And perhaps in another climate, or another version of my life, that wouldn’t matter very much. But I live in the Philippines. We’re going through El Niño. Heat and I are already not particularly good friends, and my histamine sensitivity has made me even less willing to wear something that might leave me uncomfortable simply because it looks good. Still, I stood there. Because sometimes walking away from something we like is strangely difficult, even when we already know it isn’t right for us. We start negotiating. Maybe I’ll only wear it indoors. Maybe the fabric isn’t that thick. Maybe I’ll regret leaving it behind. Then I realized I was trying awfully hard to convince myself to buy something my body had alrea...

  S ome things don’t call for attention loudly. They don’t demand to be bought or even understood. They simply exist—and somehow, they make you stop.  As I wandered through the different stationery stores, I found quiet little moments that caught me…and made me pause.

There’s a moment that happens when you walk into a stationery store. Everything is cute. (Why is everything always cute?? Everything is tempting. Everything feels like it could belong in your life. And for a second, you believe it.

E arlier this week, I found myself wandering through the stationery section at SM. Dangerous place.  Stationery stores are wastelands. That’s my term for places that I love so much that bleed my wallet dry. 

  There was a time when walking into places like this felt dangerous. Not because of the price… but because I wanted everything.

H appy Christmas, Glow Ladies! How was/is your Christmas Eve? I wish that you are surrounded with the love of family and friends, laughter, and the Miracle of the Season. 

There’s a kind of armor that doesn’t clang, doesn’t make noise, doesn’t ask permission to exist. It drapes over you softly, like a quiet declaration that you belong to yourself. Today, I wore layers—not just fabric over skin, but years of living, healing, reclaiming. There was a time they told me how to look, how to shrink, how to take up less space. They wanted me fragil e , easy to control, a reflection of their own insecurities. But they forgot—queens may bend in the storm, but they do not break. My body isn’t an apology. It’s a testament. My body has weathered storms, carried life, held me upright through every sleepless night. And now, it stands, grounded and unapologetic, wrapped in softness that no one can strip away. The Weight of Their Words I have been underweight my whole single life. I was 98 pounds. I was first degree malnourished. I can't seem to gain weight. I always got comments like, "you're too thin!" Even after giving birth, I was too thin. Some peo...