How Much Land Does a Man Need? by Leo Tolstoy

Is this a warning from the universe?

Pakhom’s desire to own more land is reasonable at first. He thought that once he has enough, he will finally feel secure. But when is “enough” enough? The more he gains, the more restless he becomes.

When Pakhom is given the chance to claim as much land as he can walk in a single day, I knew it’s too good to be true. He knows he should stop, yet he keeps going and afraid that stopping means losing an opportunity. By the time he reaches the end, his body gives out. In death, he finally receives the only land he truly needs.

As I move through my own life, this story makes me think and align my goals with purpose. As a noob property owner and top performer in my field, I am surrounded by growth, numbers, and the constant push for more. Ambition has its place, and I am grateful for the opportunities I have. But this story reminds me how easy it is to confuse progress with greed.

I pray I never forget how to be grateful. I pray I learn when to stop. I want success that does not cost me my peace, my values, or my ability to rest. Tolstoy’s story becomes a reminder for me to pause, to breathe, and to ask myself not how much more I can take but whether what I already have is enough.

#SugarQuoted #LeoTolstoy #HowMuchLandDoesAManNeed

No Exit

 

No Exit is a one act play by Jean-Paul Sartre about three people locked in a room, slowly realizing that the real pressure comes from being watched and judged.

No Exit exposes how people can become each other’s punishment. Sartre’s idea that “hell is other people” isn’t about disliking company. It’s about how we trap one another with our judgments, how we freeze someone in the worst version of themselves and call it truth.

Rereading it reminds me to do good here on Earth, not out of fear, but because our presence can either suffocate or set someone free. Garcin and the others suffer not from fire or chains, but from the way they refuse to take responsibility and the way they keep each other pinned to old stories.

This play, for all its darkness, teaches something simple: be the kind of person who does not turn another’s life into a small room with no exit. #SugarQuoted #NoExit #JeanPaulSartre #Booktalk

WHEN ALL ELSE FAILS WOULD YOU BE THERE TO SEE RIGHT THROUGH ME?

The Metamorphosis by Franz Kafka

I just finished reading The Metamorphosis, and it left me with some realizations. The story of Gregor hits painfully close to realities we often ignore. What struck me most wasn’t just his bizarre transformation (metaphorical) but how quickly his family distanced themselves when he was no longer useful to them.

It made me think about times in my life when I felt unseen, disconnected, especially when I wasn’t at my “best” or most productive. In a world that often measures our value by our output, this story is a reminder of how fragile human connection can be. Many of us bend over backwards for others, but when we finally need support, we’re met with silence, or worse, rejection.

Let’s not lose ourselves trying to meet everyone’s expectations. Let’s surround ourselves with people who love us for who we are, not just what we can give.

May we also reflect on how we treat others when their “shine” fades. Do we stay, or do we turn away? #SugarQuoted

Her Super Power

 

she's tired. not because she’s weak, but because she gives her best in everything... always.

she shares what she knows, helps when she can, shows up even when needed.

she doesn't expect anything in return.

misunderstood? often. unappreciated? most of the time.

but she’s used to it.

she keeps giving anyway.

out of love.

because that’s just who she is.

and maybe… that’s her super power.

— Sugar Quoted

A Memory I Wasn't Supposed to Have

Today marks the 33rd death anniversary of my Lolo. And as strange as it sounds, I feel like I remember him vividly.

I was born in July 1991. By the time my Lolo passed away, I wasn’t even a year old. A baby. Not even talking, walking, or forming memories, at least according to science.

But somehow, I have this scene in my mind.

I’m on his lap. We’re sitting in an open kubo right in front of our old house. It’s a quiet day. The air feels soft and warm. I can see the sidewalk just infront of us, and out of nowhere, a couple of pigs are being transported  from a house on our left to the exit alley of our Purok. The pigs are loud and I remember being startled, but safe. Because I was in my Lolo’s arms.

Now, every logical part of me knows I shouldn't remember this. Scientists call it infantile amnesia where babies don't form clear, retrievable memories before the age of two. But this one… this one has been with me for as long as I can remember. Not a dream. Not a story someone told me. Just… mine. Stored somewhere deep in the folds of my being.

Maybe it’s just a constructed image built from old family photos, but as far as I can recall, we didn’t have many, given our financial situation. Or maybe it came from stories told over meals and family gatherings. But when I asked my mom and grandmother about it, they said they had no idea about the specific memory. What they did confirm was the kubo I described. There really was a small structure like that in front of our old house. And the pigs? Our neighbor used to raise them as a business, and it was common to see pigs being transported when someone bought from them.

Or maybe just maybe it’s a spiritual memory. Something my soul tucked away before my brain had the ability to label it.

But I like to believe this: that in those few short months we had together, he made me feel so loved, so held, so safe that even if the memory itself wasn't meant to stay, the feeling did.

And maybe that's the kind of legacy we hope to leave behind, not grand stories or loud legacies, but the small, quiet comforts that last long after we're gone.

To my Lolo, whose arms I barely knew but somehow still remember, I carry you in me, even if I never got the chance to truly know you. Your lap was the first seat of safety I ever knew, and I’ll always be grateful for that single, sacred moment... real or not.

Why Are Some People Like That?

"I believe self-preservation and transformation begin by cutting connections and burning bridges that no longer serve you." ~SUGARQUOTED

There are people who suck the life out of your kindness, as if it’s something they're entitled to. You give once, they ask again. And again. Say “no” and suddenly, you’re the bad one. You’re selfish, you’re greedy, you’ve changed. Say “yes” and they take without a second thought. Not even a damn “thank you.”

They’ll be sweet when they need something. Play nice. Act close. But there’s always a catch. A favor. A follow-up. And when their life’s good? They forget you. Like you never mattered.

What I can’t wrap my head around are the ones who think they’re the only ones struggling. Who believe their pain is bigger, louder, more important. And when they finally realize you're hurting too? They still won’t care. They won’t ask. They won’t check. They won’t show up.

And that hurts in a way I can’t always explain.

Because when I give, I give fully. No hidden motives. No scoreboard. Just love. But I’m tired. Tired of being expected to pour from an empty cup. Tired of being guilt-tripped when I say, “That’s enough.”

Maybe it’s how they were raised. Or maybe they’ve just always been like that. ENTITLED, BLIND, SELFISH at the core. I don’t know. I just know I grew up with nothing, and maybe that’s why I VALUE everything.

Done bending.
Done bleeding for people who wouldn’t even flinch if it were me on the floor.

So, I’m cutting them off. Slowly, surely, and with no regrets.
If your presence costs me my peace, you’re too expensive.

And I’m not paying anymore.

What You Don’t See

Sometimes people look at me and say,

"Ang swerte mo."
"Buti ka pa... blah blah blah"
"SANA ALL!"

I never really know how to respond.
Because how do you explain that the life they see
is built on sacrifices that didn’t always make sense while I was making them?

I’m grateful. I truly am.
But behind everything I’ve built… are parts of me I’ve buried.

I grew up without a father.
That absence shaped me more than I can ever explain.
I was raised by my grandmother with all the love she had, but not much else.

We didn’t have the means. We just survived.

And while others were out being carefree teenagers,
I was already trying to figure out how to earn,
how to study with an empty stomach, 
how to stretch coins to last until Friday.

I was a working student.

I swept floors. I ran office errands.

I walked into class with worn-out shoes and a worn-out spirit, and still pushed to be a Dean's Listee.

I didn’t have a backup plan.

No safety net. 

You didn’t grow up with my constant fears,

or carry the long-term effects of a head injury from 2010

that changed the way I remember, think, and live.

You didn’t feel the weight of trying to be strong

as a mom, a wife, a career woman

while sometimes wishing I could just pause and be held.

You didn’t see me whisper to my husband, “Dad, I want to cry,”and not even know why.

Quarter-life crisis hit me like a truck.

Everyone around me seemed to have found their rhythm.

I was still trying to find mine

trying to prove that I belonged in rooms where I always felt like an outsider.

I’m 80% introvert.

I build walls naturally out of protection.

Because when you grow up with only yourself to depend on,

you learn to survive in silence.

You learn to observe, to overthink, to hide your softness.

And people… didn’t like that.

I had bullies, not the childhood kind,

but the adult kind: the ones who smiled at me then questioned my worth behind my back.

They called me hard to approach, too guarded.

They didn’t know how hard it was just to show up,

to speak, to try to be present.

So if there’s something I wish people knew, it’s this:

    Don’t reduce anyone’s life to a headline.

    Don’t box up someone’s growth into a single quote or caption.

    Because behind every “Sana all,”

    is a story you haven’t heard.

And behind mine,

are pieces of me I’ve had to lose

and rebuild over and over again.

People look at me now and see someone who’s “made it.”

In real estate, in family, in life.

But I didn’t magically arrive here.

I crawled here.

Sometimes in silence, sometimes in pain,

sometimes with nothing but faith and one last option left.

And every step forward came with a price

my time, my peace, my health, my past self.

So instead of comparing your journey to mine,

honor your own.

Because this...

this life of mine that looks “put together” from the outside

isn’t perfect.

It’s patched, scarred, healing, honest.

And very much real.

So now when people say, “Sana all,”

I just breathe.

Because no one saw the nights I cried quietly,

wondering if I’d ever be enough for myself, let alone anyone else.

You see the strength now.

You see the wins.

But you didn’t see what it cost to get here.

And that’s why I say

You didn’t grow up in my silence. You didn’t earn these scars.

You didn’t bury the parts of me I had to lose just to keep going.

I am proud of what I’ve become,

Because it was painful...

And I survived it anyway.

So instead of wishing you had someone else’s story,

hold your own a little closer.

It’s valid.

It’s beautiful.

And it's yours.

PS:

If you're also building a life from scratch,

If you’ve been your own hero more times than you can count,

Just drop me a “Still rising.”

We don’t need to explain. We’ll know.

~SugarQuoted

Avisala Eshma

 Avisala Eshma.

This photo was taken years ago. I was dressed as Danaya, the Sang’gre who carries the Brilyante ng Lupa.

Danaya is known for her strength. She doesn’t need to speak often, but when she does, people listen. She protects, she endures, and she stays grounded no matter what.

I’ve always admired that about her.

Maybe that’s why I chose her as my own hero or maybe something in me wanted to grow into her. That kind of strength that doesn’t try to prove anything. The kind that shows up when needed, stays calm through chaos, and doesn’t seek the spotlight.

Over time I started to realize that some parts of me, the resilience, the way I hold things together, the way I choose peace but won’t back down when it counts, they’ve always been there.

I’m still learning. Still becoming. But if I could hold even a small piece of Danaya’s grace and strength, I’d be very very proud.

Encantadia Chronicles: Sang'gre MALAPIT NA!