Mikee, you’re currently in Baguio. It’s become one of my favorite cities. There’s something unmistakably Filipino about it—the warm hospitality of the people, the rich scent of stews simmering with toyo, suka, and patis as I pass through the wet markets (try finding a Filipino dish that doesn’t prominently feature one of these—spoiler alert: you can’t). The vibrant sight of fresh fruits and vegetables sold on street corners. The sprawling ukay-ukays lining Session Road selling NBA jerseys. The only thing un-Filipino about it is the cool weather—which, honestly, I love just as much.
I love the energy that pulses through Baguio, especially along Session Road. It’s an uphill street lined with local shops and restaurants, one of my top three favorite places in the world to simply unwind and be. It makes me feel like the main character as I stroll up and down, soaking in the sounds of the streets and its people. I breathe in the exhaust fumes of jeepneys whose drivers aggressively honk—frustrated by the worsening traffic, no doubt. But even with all its imperfections, I’ve grown to love the city even more.
For the longest time, I was a mere spectator in my own life. Instead of looking inward, I followed and revered those closest to me. I put the people I loved on pedestals—as if they were some kind of gods. So when I finally cut ties with someone who was God, my world crumbled. I was never the same. I’ve never felt pain quite like that, and likely never will again. But if there’s a silver lining, it’s this: nothing can hurt me like that anymore. No, not to that degree.
So many things have changed since the first time I came here alone as an adult. Back then, I was stuck in a toxic job where people stabbed each other in the back just to get ahead. At the last minute, as I was packing for my trip to Baguio, I was told I’d be flying to Kuala Lumpur in a few days to train hundreds of new hires—for a class I had never taught before. I was just getting started as a corporate trainer, and because of this, much of that vacation was spent hunched over my laptop, preparing for the program in my Airbnb. Still, the moment I set foot in Baguio, the city spoke to me. I knew I had to come back, to wander its streets and let it mirror who I was at that stage of my life. I promised myself I’d return.
A few months ago, Lorde announced she would release her new album, Virgin—her first in four years—on June 27th, a date that holds profound significance for me. Past Mikee might have dismissed it as mere coincidence, but I truly believe it’s divine intervention. As if the Gods above are signaling that they see me. They knew that instead of mourning the person tied to that day, I would listen to Lorde’s new album—one of the few things that kept me holding on through dark times—and celebrate my return to myself.
The moment I heard, I knew that during her release week, I would take a trip back here. To walk the same streets that, for the first time in a long while, made me feel at home in my own body. To soak in the city’s magic, the same magic that helped me realize I have the agency to go after what I want. And I would do it all while blasting the new album through my earphones.
As the people in my life know, Lorde is the artist of my life. I recently had Melodrama, her second studio album, tattooed on my forearm. I always knew it would be my first tattoo. There was a time when I couldn’t stop telling people that, to me, Melodrama isn’t just the greatest album, but the greatest work of art, period. Think of any book, movie, TV show, song, album, sculpture, painting—you name it. Melodrama will always be the greatest, for the way it soundtracked my coming-of-age, and for how it keeps revealing new meanings as I live through both the painful and the beautiful. I know I’m not alone in feeling this way.
This new album didn’t have to be of pristine quality like Melodrama. Hearing her voice alone speaks to the depths of me – that deep, raspy instrument of hers that revealed plain truths about the world. It taught me how pain and heartbreak can rip us open, devastatingly so, yet be the very same conduit for strength and defiance. To transcend the limits we once believed we had and shape something beautiful and profound of ourselves.
Lorde’s music became the way I could let go of complicated, devastating emotions and turn them into euphoria. I love the chaotic, off-kilter elements in her production that soar— sounds that, for all their oddity, can be enjoyed in the simplest, most human ways. As the greatest works of pop music do.
As of writing, I’ve given the album a few spins. I’m letting it sink in, allowing it to simmer. This is music I know I’ll spend the rest of my life with, so I’m in no rush. When Solar Power came out in 2021, there were people I was awfully close to who are no longer in my life. I know this music will likely outlast important people and relationships, becoming a companion through whatever and whoever comes next.
When I was at rock bottom, I stumbled upon Mary Oliver’s poem Wild Geese. It has meant—and still means—so much to me. I know that geese in flight will be my second tattoo, a tribute to the healing power this poem holds for me. The lines that resonate most deeply are: “You do not have to walk on your knees for a hundred miles through the desert repenting. You only have to let the soft animal of your body love what it loves.” Back then, drowning in shame and self-hatred, this poem reminded me of my only task: to find the one thing the soft animal within me loves—and to let it love that part of me, fully and purely.
It was a struggle to find anything I loved about myself. But as I powered through those long, sorrowful nights, my breath often short and shallow, I discovered what it was: my devotion to art—and specifically, to music. To see and feel the beauty in art, to shout my love for it from the rooftops. To let it hit me with raw force, straight to my deepest core, which, in turn, helped me see the wonder of life and what makes it worth living.
And it was through Lorde’s music that I effortlessly returned to myself. By celebrating her music and what it means to me—by being here, wandering the streets of Baguio, blasting “Virgin” through my earphones—I am loving myself in the purest and deepest way I know how.
I let the love pour inside me and throughout my whole body until it healed me, until it was no longer the only thing I loved about myself. Through this, I’ve grown to love and accept who I am—for all of its beauty and ugliness, its light and darkness, its chaos and calm— wholly and fully.
Earlier today, I went on the Yellow Trail of Camp John Hay. It was a beautiful trail. I let my hair down, letting the wind carry it as I moved through the pines and breathed in the cold air.
I was all alone, surrounded only by nature—the birds chirping, the leaves rustling, the twigs snapping and falling. Then, in the last quarter of my walk, I played Virgin, and the final track, “David,” started just as I arrived at my last stop. It quite literally—and figuratively—stopped me in my tracks.
I looked up, the trees towering over me, and took perhaps the most peaceful breaths I’ve ever taken. That familiar raspy voice, accompanied by beautiful layered harmonies and tense synths—I listened, intently: “I made you God ’cause it was all that I knew how to do. But I don’t belong to anyone, ooh.”
The synths erupt with disruption, slicing through the track with buzzing, metallic textures—layered and abrasive, glitching at the edges—shaking the song out of its simmering tension. She sings soaring “ooohs”—what’s going to happen now? Where is the song going to take me? Then the synths cut off suddenly, almost violently, and bare piano keys emerge. Lorde sings with raw vulnerability, “Am I ever going to love again?”
This was one of the purest experiences I’ve ever had in my life. In those moments, I thought of that one person. The truth is, this very same day—June 27th—marks three years since our last conversation. The pain of our goodbye echoed through me, lingering even years after it happened. It felt like an uppercut to the throat, a punch to the gut, and every hurt I’d ever carried, all crashing in at once, multiplied by a thousand.
But listening to “David,” I let the song wash over me—the years of grief, the echoes of pain and trauma reverberating through my body—finally released.
I no longer belong to anyone. I’ve cut the umbilical cord that held me captive. I’m free. I’m reborn.
And this time, I’m here to stay.
