Dear Self,
Happy birthday.
Hey—you’re finally more than half golden.
Do you remember the promises you made to yourself?
The life you imagined:
helping Ma and Pa,
being the sister who steadies Jen and Jea,
a friend who listens,
a mind that works, a heart that writes,
a pen that leaves marks on the world,
a doctor who heals,
someone who loves,
someone who dreams of forever with another.
Some of it, you have lived.
Some is still unfolding.
The sixth? A path still being traced.
The seventh? Plans shifted, winds changed.
Settling down? Not yet.
But still—here you are.
Dancing through your own rhythm,
living your timeline,
softly, surely.
Maybe fifteen-year-old you would be surprised.
Maybe even disappointed.
But I see now:
I am more than a list of wishes.
I am the quiet strength that grows in vulnerability,
the soft pride in small victories,
the fullness in empty spaces,
the hope that blooms in weakness.
I leave traces of this life in poems,
like lanterns for the world to see:
Clairvoyance: Tossing It All for the World to See,
From the Alcove of My House,
and someday, The Seven Letters of Sta. Clara.
One day, the pieces will come together.
All the scattered fragments of dreams and detours
will form something luminous, something whole.
Until then, I keep walking,
leaving the traces of us along the way.
So when I meet you—somewhere, sometime—
I can look you in the eye and whisper,
“I lived.”
I know you’ll smile for me.
All my love,
Joy Clarice