The first time halo-halo saved me, I didn’t even know I needed saving. I was 13, drowning in year-end exams and what-ifs. The future loomed like a storm cloud, dark and unpredictable.
That’s when Tita Connie’s carinderia became my lighthouse. It was a Tuesday. Or maybe a Thursday.
The days had started to blur together, each one weighed down by expectations I couldn’t seem to meet. I slumped into my usual spot, fully prepared to drown my sorrows in a greasy plate of silog. But fate, or maybe just Tita Connie’s intuition, had other plans.
“Try this,” she said, placing a tall glass of halo-halo in front of me. “It looks like you need some sweetness in your life.” I stared at the colorful layers.
Red beans, white macapuno, purple ube. Crushed ice like fresh snow, evaporated milk swirling through it all. A miniature mountain range of flavors and textures waiting to be explored.
My first spoonful was a revelation. The sweetness hit first—a jolt of sugar straight to my brain. Then came the cold that shocked my system awake.
As I let the flavors melt on my tongue, something inside me started to shift. With each bite, I felt the knots in my chest loosening. The constant chatter in my head—not good enough, not smart enough, not enough, period—began to quiet down.
I realized: This is what it feels like to be present. Not worrying about tomorrow’s deadlines or yesterday’s mistakes. Just here, now, savoring each unique spoonful.
As I mixed the colors together, .