The Life Beyond Yesterday

My name is krizia mendez, 27 years old, the second of four siblings. By profession, I am an accountant in a company, but deep inside me lives a dream I have carried for years—to build my own café, a place born from passion, comfort, and hope.

I have always been the kind of person desperate to grow. Desperate to improve. Desperate to become more than what life once told me I could be.

I am addicted to learning—about life, about people, about skills, about the world. I study everything that sparks my curiosity. Some things stay with me, some things I leave behind, but every lesson becomes part of who I am. Even the things that were not meant for me still gave me wisdom.

What many people do not see is how badly I want to succeed.

Not for pride.

Not to prove anything.

But because I know what it feels like to struggle.

I know what it feels like to dream while carrying pain.

I know what it feels like to want more for yourself, even when life feels heavy.

I have goals bigger than my fears. I have dreams taller than the walls that once tried to stop me.

This story is not only about success. It is about healing.

I want to share how I slowly healed myself from childhood trauma, from heartbreak, from silent battles no one knew I was fighting. I want to tell you how I survived life’s struggles, often feeling alone.

But was I truly alone?

Maybe not.

Because along the way, there were people who became my shelter. People who guided me, believed in me, stayed for a season, or taught me lessons through leaving.

And above all, this is also the story of how I loved someone more than I loved myself.

Have you ever loved like that too?

Have you ever given everything to someone until nothing was left for you?

Have you ever lost yourself while trying to keep someone else?

If yes, then maybe this story is for you.

Come with me as I show you how I learned to choose myself again.

Maybe through my journey, you will begin to find your own way back to yourself too.

Maybe you will learn that peace is possible.

That healing is real.

That letting go does not mean losing.

That drowning is not the end of the story.

Welcome to my journey…

Even before I understood the world, I felt like I had already seen too much of it.

As a child, I was never like the others. While they ran freely, chasing games and laughter without worry, I often found myself standing still—watching, thinking, wondering. At six years old, my mind carried questions that did not belong to a child. I would stare at people and ask myself, What are they thinking? What are they hiding? What kind of world exists inside their minds?

It became a habit—no, more like a quiet obsession. I observed everything: the way people spoke, the way they paused, the way their eyes moved when they thought no one was looking.

I was not just living my childhood.

I was studying it.

Some children are not given the luxury of innocence—they are given awareness, and with it, a deeper understanding of life far too early.

A Home Filled with Absence and Love

My mother worked night shifts as a nurse, and my father spent long days working at the airport as an air-conditioning engineer. They were both hardworking—both doing everything they could for us.

But as a child, I did not understand sacrifice.

I only understood absence.

My sister and I were left with a nanny, someone who was supposed to care for us. Yet even at that age, I felt it—something was missing. We were being watched, but not truly cared for.

There is a difference.

And even a child can feel it.

When my mother came home from the hospital, I would always notice the exhaustion on her face. It was not just tiredness—it was something deeper, something heavy. She would quietly clean herself, removing the scent of the hospital, and then lie down to rest.

She barely had time to see me.

And yet, I never blamed her.

Because somehow, even without understanding, I understood.

So instead, I chose to stay close.

Even if I had just woken up, I would lie beside her. I would pull the blanket over her gently, careful not to wake her. Then I would watch.

I would watch her breathe.

Slowly. Quietly.

Just to make sure she was still there.

Because in my young mind, there was always a fear—

What if she stops breathing? What if something happens? What if I lose her?

That fear never left me.

It lived in me.

It grew with me.

Love can exist even in absence—but it often teaches us fear before it teaches us peace.

The Mind That Never Rested

My thoughts were never quiet.

I created endless scenarios in my head—stories of what could happen, what might go wrong, what I needed to be ready for. I imagined losing people, imagined accidents, imagined endings before they even began.

It was exhausting.

But in a strange way… it comforted me.

Because thinking made me feel prepared.

If I could imagine it, maybe I could survive it.

Now I understand—

I was not overthinking.

I was protecting.

An anxious mind is not broken—it is simply a heart trying to prepare for pain it has not yet faced.

The Illusion of Perfection

Despite everything, my childhood was not empty.

It was filled with moments—beautiful, simple, unforgettable moments.

We were a family of four.

And in my eyes, we were perfect.

Every weekend, we went to church together. I remember the quiet feeling of sitting beside my family, hearing prayers echo in the air. Afterward, we would go to the mall—laughing, eating, spending time as if nothing in the world could ever break us.

I never once heard my parents argue.

Not once.

To me, they were flawless. Untouchable. Unbreakable.

My father would often tell us stories—how he met my mother, how their love began. His voice carried warmth, and we would laugh together, the four of us, inside our small home.

Those were the moments I held onto the most.

Because they felt… safe.

Sometimes, the most beautiful memories are not perfect—they are simply moments where love felt whole.

2 A.M. Love

Some of my favorite memories happened in the quietest hours of the night.

At two in the morning, we would ride together on my father’s motorcycle to pick my mother up from Angel’s Burger. All four of us, squeezed together, holding on to each other against the cold air.

My sister wore her dark pink jacket.

Mine was light pink.

I remember that clearly.

While waiting for my mother, we would order burgers—our favorite. There was something special about those moments. The dim lights, the quiet streets, the feeling of being together when the rest of the world was asleep.

It felt like our own little world.

Untouched.

Unbroken.

I never questioned it.

I never thought it would change.

Happiness does not always come in grand moments—sometimes, it lives quietly in the simplest routines we never think will end.

The Day I Learned Acceptance

My father always made sure things were fair. If he bought something, there had to be one for me and one for my sister.

That was how I learned to give—equally, completely, without leaving anyone behind.

But one day, he brought home something special.

Music boxes.

Mine was white.

My sister’s was pink.

And I wanted the pink one.

We argued. I cried. I could not understand why I couldn’t have what I wanted. In my small world, it felt unfair.

My father looked at me and said,

“You are still young, but you must learn this early—not everything you want will be yours. Learn to accept what is given to you.”

But I didn’t listen.

I cried louder.

Until he disciplined me.

And somehow, that moment stayed with me—not the pain, but the lesson.

From that day on, something in me shifted.

I began to accept things.

Not because I had no choice—

but because I began to understand.

And in that understanding, I found gratitude.

Acceptance is not about giving up—it is about finding peace in what is given, not just in what is desired.

A Mother, A Teacher

On my mother’s rest days, the house felt different.

Warmer.

Alive.

She would cook, and I would sit beside her, watching every movement. I had my small toy kitchen set, and I would imitate her—pretending to slice vegetables, pretending to cook.

I struggled with the dull plastic knife, and she would laugh softly as she watched me try.

Then one day, she said,

“Come, I’ll teach you.”

She guided my hands, slowly, patiently. I remember how scared I was—afraid of getting hurt. My hands trembled as I held the knife.

But when I finally made my first cut…

I felt something.

A quiet pride.

A small victory.

From that moment, I wanted to learn everything she did. I watched her cook, wash clothes, clean. I even tried to copy the way she scrubbed fabric, fascinated by the sound it made.

I admired her deeply.

And now, looking back, I realize—

The things I once admired

are the things I now find exhausting.

We often forget that the strength we admire in others is the same strength we are slowly becoming.

I was just a child.

But my heart carried questions, my mind carried fears, and my soul carried a kind of love I did not yet understand.

And maybe…

That is where my story truly began.

Some stories do not begin with innocence—they begin with awareness. And from that awareness, a deeper journey unfolds.