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, and often complicated process of becoming. This is a space where memory meets reflection, where writing becomes both witness and companion, and where self-discovery unfolds one page at a time. 

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 of the rules. With a provider father and an ever-present mother, my younger sisters and I were guided closely and expected to do well.

As the eldest daughter, I carried a responsibility that felt larger than myself. Growing up with both parents being firstborns, it was inculcated in me to draw the map for my younger sisters—a path that could lead them toward 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 loved learning.

I loved studying, reading, and writing.

During my early years of formal education, I excelled academically. Somewhere in my young mind, I believed that if I became exceptionally good at what I loved, I could show my sisters what was possible.

But the thing about growing up with high expectations is that eventually, you become afraid of falling short of them.

Or perhaps you are afraid of falling short of the expectations you set for yourself. 

I developed people-pleasing tendencies. I wanted to be at the top of my class. I had to be the best at everything. Slowly, I confused academic validation with self-worth.

Being an achiever stopped being something I did.

It became who I was.

It ran deep enough that I could no longer distinguish my accomplishments from my identity. 

Lessons Carved Early

Alongside a mature outlook on life came another belief: there was no room for mistakes. Reality, as I understood it then, did not offer touch-move takebacks. 

Yet my upbringing also taught me important lessons.

As children, my sisters and I were disciplined whenever we did something wrong. Even at the age of four, I already understood certain truths: lying was bad. Stealing was wrong. Good students completed their homework. Excellent students stood out in class.

As I grew older, those lessons evolved into something more nuanced.

I learned that listening, observing, applying, and constantly monitoring and evaluating would become lifelong companions. They would guide me through difficult decisions, unexpected turns, and seasons of uncertainty. 

Over time, I also 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 survived; and the dreams I pursued, postponed, achieved, and abandoned.

All of it contributed to the person I was becoming.

A Small Town, A Wide World

I grew up in Mulliang, Anonat, Paracelis, Mt. Province—a community where neighbors were treated like family and where everyone knew everyone else’s stories. 

Life was simple.

Agriculture sustained most families. Corn, palay, and vegetables were the 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 worked together to build damaras—large 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.

Those gatherings taught me something about belonging long before I understood the word. 

My world revolved around family, school, and friendship. 

I was scolded by my parents more times than I can count.

My sisters remained my constants—my default best friends and playmates.

My friends and I argued over the smallest misunderstandings and the biggest matters. I had crushes. I excelled in school.

And somewhere along the way, I began keeping diaries…

The Red Notebook

At the top of my red notebook, I wrote:

Dear Self.

And the words flowed smoothly.

Emotions poured onto the pages. Thoughts bled into paragraphs. Memories found permanent homes in ink.

I was documenting my history.

My becoming. 

As I buried myself in my notebooks and books, life became serious. High school introduced new challenges. There were students just as competitive as I was. There were teachers who inspired me, others who challenged me, and some who remained simply fair.

Around that time, I discovered pocketbooks. 

I borrowed them from cousins, rented them from classmates, and devoured every story I could get my hands on. 

I loved reading other people’s stories. 

Until one day, I picked up my pen and began telling my own.

The film reels that played endlessly in my imagination became diary entries, poems, short stories, long stories, romances, and tragedies. 

Then life happened. 

I had a falling out with my childhood best friends.

I entered and left a relationship.

I cried.

I regretted it. 

I grieved. 

For years, I did not forget.

For years, I didn’t forgive.

But I kept my notebooks.

I kept the transcripts of my becoming.

And whenever life felt overwhelming, I returned to them.

Writing became the place where I met myself honestly. 

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 people.

Formed new friendships.

Created new dreams.

Lost some of them too.

The place changed. The people changed.

Yet the story remained strangely familiar.

Different setting.

Different cast.

The same lessons.

Through it all, one thing remained constant:

I continued reading.

I continued writing.

Life moved forward.

I became a young adult. 

Eventually, I returned home and gave myself a sabbatical year—a season to pause, to reflect, and to regroup.

And somewhere in that stillness, I realized I had grown tired of carrying only sad stories.

The box I had placed myself in no longer fit.

I yearned for freedom. 

Meeting Her Again

One day, I reread every “Dear Self” entry I had ever written. 

Depending on my mood, I would cry for the younger version of me.

Other times, I simply understood her. 

What became clear was this: 

She never wanted me to rewrite the past.

She wanted me to remember her.

To acknowledge her.

To forgive her.

Maybe I had matured.

Maybe time had finally softened certain edges. 

But as I sat there rereading years of journals, I no longer wanted to grieve the person I used to be.

I wanted to honor her.

Many things had changed.

Many people had come and gone. 

Yet one thing remained unchanged:

My love for writing.

For writing to myself.

For writing for myself.

And suddenly, there was clarity.

There was catharsis.

There was self-love.

There was a deeper way of seeing. 

There was clairvoyance.

This Space

This space shares my personal explorations into awareness and creativity—through writing, poetry, books, reflection, and the quiet beauty found in ordinary moments.

The imagery of crimson and lavender, of freesias blooming softly against red earth, echoes the themes that continually draw me back to the page: introspection, growth, memory, healing, and wonder.

If these reflections resonate with you, then perhaps you have found a place here too.

You’re welcome here.

My First Love

Amid life’s millefeuille, the simple act of breathing offers an anchor—a reminder that clarity often lives within the present moment.

Through these pages, I share reflections in the hope that they accompany you as you explore writing, mindfulness, creativity, and the tender beauty of becoming.

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.