BECAUSE every fairytale begins with ‘once upon a time’, let me do it too. But be warned: this doesn’t end with a ‘happily-ever-after’. 

Once upon a time, the patriarchy taught me that the love of a man was all that there was for me. 

I grew up with bedtime stories about damsels in distress waiting to be rescued, princesses whose happily-ever-after depended on being chosen, and chick flick heroines who needed a “makeover”—often just ditching their glasses—to finally be noticed.

So when I was seven, I thought it was only normal that a boy in my class kissed me without my permission. 

I didn’t like it— not the way he gripped my shoulders as though they were bike handles, not the way his lips pressed into my cheeks, stinking of the orangy scent of the Zesto juice he had for recess, not the way he pointed at me and declared that because of the kiss, I was already his girlfriend. 

I didn’t even like him, but since he was a boy and many of my classmates had a crush on him, I convinced myself I was lucky. I reasoned that he must’ve been just in love—and since love is an unstoppable force, maybe he simply couldn’t help himself.

Days after it happened, the boy kissed another girl— a new classmate— and declared her as his girlfriend. I pretended I didn’t care. That I didn’t even like him in the first place. 

But sometimes, my stomach still churns at the smell of oranges. 

Once upon a time, I thought that love was only for pretty girls. 

Girls with long shiny hair and flawless legs. Girls with fair skin and perfect teeth. Girls with a tiny waist and Barbie doll appearance. 

When I was seventeen, I learned to calculate every calorie that goes in my body. I felt like I could measure my worth with how little I eat. There was even a time when a piece of cookie sent me to a nervous breakdown. 

I refused to look at the mirrors because I hated what I saw. I felt weighted down by my own body, with its scars and imperfections. There was nothing more I’d love to do but to crawl out of my skin and be someone else. 

And so, I punished myself for not being able to look how I wanted to. I learned to starve my body, because it was only when I’m hungry that I felt pretty. 

Once upon a time, I thought that love was about sacrificing it all. 

Anything less than that cannot be considered as true love. For me then, love was a fire. It’s bright and hot, and it burns. It consumes everything in its way, like how it devoured my childhood neighborhood, leaving only ashes and dust in its wake. 

So when I was eighteen and in my first relationship, it was a belief I held onto. I thought that getting cheated on and lied to again and again is part of the sacrifice. I thought that my ex-boyfriend’s sad childhood could excuse the way he treated me. 

I thought that when I have nothing left to give, it would leave me. That it would not consume anymore if there’s nothing to be consumed. 

But it never really stopped burning. 

Once upon a time, I thought of love this way. But clearly, I was wrong. 

I’m 24 now, and I realized that though love has many faces, not all of it is good. 

Love should never be something that forces me to do the things that I don’t want to. Love should not make me feel averse of myself. It should not take away my safety, my agency, and my sense of self. And although it’s warm, it should never consume but nurture. 

I also learned that, even though not all love ends in a ‘happily-ever-after’, we can always begin our ‘once upon a time’. Because what is a story but a composition of chapters—some joyful, some painful, some left unfinished—each one shaping the narrative of who we become? And as long as we’re willing to turn the page, there will always be another chance to write a new beginning.

So here goes, ‘Once upon a time…’