There was that day the rice bag tore.
A slit too quick,
and the grains—each one paid for—
spilled onto the floor like it meant something.
I stood there watching,
thinking,
“Of course.”
So,
thank you.
Not the type I say when someone gives me an extra straw.
Not the sweet kind, wrapped in ribbon.
Just—
thank you. Full stop.
No smile. No fanfare.
To the failure I carried like a worn ID,
thank you for making me sit still
long enough to hear my own voice
when it wasn’t trying to impress anyone.
To heartbreak,
thank you for making food taste bitter
so I’d finally notice the times it didn’t.
For the way I now pause
before swallowing.
For that one jab during COVID—
I flinched harder than I needed to.
Not because it hurt,
but because my body remembered
how it once didn’t want to keep going.
Thank you for that.
Strangely.
I sat on a bench once,
in a plaza that didn’t care about my story.
I watched people pass like nothing in them was breaking.
I felt invisible.
Which was painful—
and oddly,
safe.
Thank you to that silence.
You didn’t hug me.
You didn’t fix it.
But you stayed.
To the taho vendor
who called me “boss” when I felt like anything but—
thank you.
I didn’t know you were anchoring me that morning.
I just thought I was hungry.
To the girl I wrongly accused,
I’m sorry.
Also—thank you.
Because the shame of that moment
made me think twice
before assuming again.
Some pain arrives loud.
Mine was soft,
like fog.
Like sitting in a cold room waiting for warmth
but forgetting to stand up and switch on the light.
And when I was too tired to even think of getting better,
I told myself:
Padayon lang.
I didn’t always believe it.
But I said it anyway.
Better days ahead, right?
Who knows.
Still—thank you
to the weak body,
the unfinished prayers,
the stutters in my voice
when I tried to say something honest.
On the last day of med school,
I wasn’t proud.
I was just relieved.
Which, honestly, felt better.
And maybe that’s gratitude, too.
The quiet kind.
The kind that doesn’t clap for itself.
So this is not an ode.
Not a lesson.
Just a small, personal ramble.
A nod to all the aches
that didn’t kill me,
but didn’t cheer for me either.
Just a soft
thank you.
Full stop.
That’s all I’ve got.
And somehow—
it’s enough.