Why DEAR SELF by JOY CLARICE?

Opening a diary, pen in hand, and writing “Dear Self” — it’s a ritual I’ve held onto for years. In the pages of Dear Self by Joy Clarice, I’ll share pieces of that journey — the messy, beautiful parts where self-discovery unfolds.

Everyone remembers their first love.

Every first is special.

Where It Began

I grew up in a home that valued discipline. My father ran the house with an iron fist; my mother was the strict implementer.

In our home, education was held in high regard. With a provider father and an ever-present mother, my younger sisters and I were closely monitored and guided.

Growing up with both parents as firstborns, it was inculcated in me to draw the map for my younger sisters — a path that could lead them to success. With this in mind, at an early age, I set myself on becoming the best role model for my younger sisters, Jen and Jea. Fortunately, I developed a love for studying, reading, and writing. In the early years of my formal education, I excelled academically. I once thought to myself that if I became so good at what I loved doing, I would set a good example for my younger sisters.

The thing about having strict parents was that I became afraid of falling short of their expectations — or the expectations I set for myself. I developed people-pleasing tendencies. I wanted to be at the top of my class. I had to be the best at everything. I confused academic validation with my worth. It came to a point where I couldn’t separate being an achiever from who I was. It ran deep in my blood. It became my personality. In a way, I couldn’t distinguish my alter ego from my ego…

Lessons Carved Early

Other than developing a mature outlook on life — the perspective that there was no room for mistakes, that this was reality, and there were no touch-move takebacks — I also came to believe that no one is infallible. But I digress. Having strict parents also helped me delineate and distinguish good from bad, what was right from what was wrong.

When we were kids, my sisters and I were punished when we did something wrong. It is noteworthy that even at the age of four, I discerned that lying is bad. Stealing is wrong. Good students do their homework and submit it on time. Excellent students stand out in class.

Later on, I learned an important lesson that helped me as I traversed this life: listening, observing, applying, and constantly monitoring and evaluating are qualities that will guide me along the way.

As I grew older, I became nostalgic. I combed through my memories and looked back, reminiscing along the timeline of my life — the people I’ve known; the places I came from, went to, visited, and left; the experiences that shaped me; the struggles I faced, survived, recorded, forgot, and regretted; and the dreams I achieved, forgot, delayed, doubted, and feared — all of which made me who I am.

A Small Town, A Wide World

I grew up in a small town in Mulliang, Anonat, Paracelis, Mt. Province, where neighbors are treated like family — relatives and friends. Everyone knows everyone… and everything. Mulliang had fewer than a hundred households when I was born, gradually increasing as I grew older.

Life was simple. Agriculture was the main source of income, with corn, palay, and vegetables as staples. I remember transportation being limited to boats during the rainy season, sailing through the Siffu River down to Damsite near Roxas, Isabela — the nearest market.

Despite the humble living, life was beautiful. During special occasions, most of the older men in the community would help build damaras — tents made of tolda. Some would slaughter a swine, carabao, or cow. They cooked the food while bonding over a night of drinking. It always tasted best when the men cooked. The women busied themselves preparing the ingredients, chopping spices and vegetables, and cooking the meryenda. The delicacies could feed the entire community — and more, enough for takeouts.

In my childhood, the neighbor kids, my classmates, and cousins my age became my friends. My life revolved around my family, my studies, and my friends.

I was scolded by my parents more times than I can remember. Through the phases of childhood, my sisters remained my constants — default best friends and playmates. My friends and I bickered over the smallest things and the biggest matters. I had crushes. I performed well at school.

And then, I started keeping diaries…

The Red Notebook

I wrote at the top of my red notebook, “Dear Self,” and the words flowed smoothly. Emotions poured, bleeding through every page — recording the facts of my life’s story. My history.

As I buried my face in my notes, things changed during my high school years. Life became serious. There were students as competitive as I was. I had to work harder than I did in previous years. There were teachers who didn’t like me; others were simply fair and just.

I started reading pocketbooks I found in my cousin’s house and the ones I borrowed from my best friend’s eldest sister. Some classmates let me rent theirs. I devoured those stories as if I couldn’t get enough.

I read the stories authors told… until I picked up my pen and told mine. The ideas that ran like film reels in my head, I put onto paper — diary entries, poems, short and long stories, romance and tragedy.

Then I had a fallout with my childhood best friends. I entered and left a relationship. I wept. I regretted it. I loathed.

In the years that followed, I didn’t forget. I didn’t forgive.

But I kept my notes — the transcripts of my being.

I used my diary to connect with myself. To reflect.

Leaving, Losing, Becoming

Escapism became an obsession. I drifted away. Upward. I wanted to leave the place that reminded me of heartbreak, immaturity, failure, and pain.

College led me to a different province. I met new friends. My life became different from what I was used to. Time flew quickly. I gained and lost friends. I realized some of my teenage dreams and drafted new visions.

The new place broke my heart in the end — or maybe the people did. Same story. Changed scripts. Different years.

One thing remained — I read books and wrote stories.

I went with the flow of life. I became a young adult. I went home and took a sabbatical year, giving myself time to reflect and regroup.

Then suddenly, I had enough of the sad stories. The box I had placed myself in — I wanted to escape it. I yearned to be free.

Meeting Her Again

I reread every entry of “Dear Self” in my diary. Depending on my mood, I would feel sorry for the younger version of me. I would cry. But most times, I understood her.

She didn’t want me to rewrite the past. She wanted me to remember her in the pages where she once spoke to me. One thing became clear — she wanted me to forgive. To forgive her.

Maybe I had matured. Because as I revisited the place where I used to sit and write those letters, rereading every journal, I wanted to give her life.

Many things changed in my life. So many people came and went. One thing stayed the same — my love for writing for myself… to myself.

Suddenly, there was clarity. There was catharsis. There was self-love.

There was clairvoyance.

This Space

In the interplay of crimson sunsets and lavender twilights, where introspection breathes softly like freesias releasing their tender fragrance, I invite you into Dear Self by Joy Clarice — a space where threads of awareness weave through words, creativity, and the art of inhabiting the now. Here, amidst quiet seeing and mindful tapestry, I share explorations at the confluence of writing, presence, and inner spaciousness.

As a writer navigating inner landscapes, words for me are pathways into mindfulness — crafting stories and poetry where awareness seeps into narrative like purple shadows mingling with red earth’s textures. The act of writing becomes a doorway into the present, a means of touching the subtleties of emotion, sensation, and thought as they unfurl in the moment. Mindfulness is not merely a practice but a way of engaging creatively — savoring books, inhabiting silence. In these intersections of art and awareness, I find resonance — spaces where the interior world breathes in dialogue with the exterior textures of life.

This website shares my personal journey into mindfulness-infused explorations, evoking a sense of inner clarity — seeing into spaces of being. In this seeing, creativity finds its currents: writing flows like a river touching the banks of awareness; poetry evokes unspoken depths; books carry readers into realms both familiar and unseen.

The aesthetic of crimson and lavender permeates this space — like freesias blooming softly — imagery echoing introspection, twilight beauty, and the grounding of red earth. These explorations are gentle invitations to presence — accessible nudges into the now through words, breath-like pauses, and sensory anchors.

You’re welcome here.

My First Love

Amidst life’s millefeuille, the simplicity of breathing offers anchoring — clarity within the depths of the moment. In this space, I share reflections in the hope that they accompany you in exploring mindfulness, writing, and inhabiting the tender beauty of the now.

May Dear Self by Joy Clarice unfurl like a freesia blossom — delicate, fragrant with presence.

Because everyone remembers their first love.

No one forgets their true love.

And mine is writing… dear self.

What If Tomorrow Never Comes?