Remember my "How to be you po?" blog post? It was written in 2016. As I was checking my blog stats to update my media kit, I noticed that this post continues to gain traction. People read it even today. 

I read it again and, certainly, some things about me don't exist anymore. 

So I thought of reposting it and see how much I've changed over the years.

While my first tattoo (a compass) was and still is significant to me because I love to travel, I told myself that if ever I will get another one, it has to be drawn and designed by me. You see, I used to work as an illustrator and a graphic/web/software/UIUX designer. I designed all our business logos and promotional materials, our wedding invitation, my children's birthday posters—anything I deem personal. A tattoo should not be any different.

I had my first tattoo in 2016, and since then, I've discovered new hobbies and interests, pursued my passions, survived trials, and celebrated milestones in my life enough to warrant a permanent mark on my skin. But if I had done so, I’d probably be covered in ink by now. In 2022, after I gave birth to our third child, I had envisioned a tattoo in my mind—it covers every significant thing about my life. But it was only this year when I finally had the time to draw. 

It's the first day of October and the first thing I read on my Facebook news feed today is my friend's call to ignore messages coming from her account. Apparently, she was hacked and the said hacker had been asking money from anyone on her friends list.

This is not the first time I've heard of this. It's not a surprise that people would do things unimaginable just for money. 

But anyway. 

There is a reason why I haven't been posting dancing content on TikTok lately, why my face is getting "rounder" each day, and why we have to hold off or probably let go of our plans to immigrate to Canada (cold weather is a huge trigger).

It's crazy how life can change in a heartbeat.

One minute I'm carrying and pushing around heavy furniture, the next minute I can no longer cut my own nails.

I think I have already done all kinds of haircuts and styles. Pixie, bob, short, medium, long, wavy, curly, side-swept bangs, curtain bangs, blunt bangs, corncrows, name it. But the most liberating of all is this:

There was a time when a fellow blogger walked up to me and said, "I read your blog and I look up to you, Ate Sar." (non-verbatim)

WHOAH! WHOAH! WHOAH! HOLD IT RIGHT THERE, YOUNG BUDDY! Because you don't know what you're talking about. But, thank you!

It's not the first time I heard someone say that but it never really sank in me because I honestly still think of myself as a misfit. Not worthy of being an inspiration or an "idol". I suck as a blogger and an adult too.

All this time, I thought that people who read my blog will see me as an internet drama queen who whines about working too hard but is lazy as fuck, or someone who constantly complains about being broke and still eats at Japanese restos every week.

I don't remember the last time I posted something beautiful or helpful. I only blog about the most trivial and uninteresting things in my life. I also rant, but in the most subtle, often (slightly) funny way, with an occasional use of strong language.

I think people see a different Sarah whenever they read this blog. But here's the thing, if you meet me in person and expect me to utter "shit" and "fuck" like how I do it here because I'm supposedly pissed off at the littlest things, then you're going to be disappointed.

And a graphic designer at that?

Well, honestly, I've never been under the spotlight for being color blind. Or maybe I am just lucky not to be surrounded with scumbags who point at random objects and ask me what color that thing is the moment I tell them I am color blind.

It was back in college when I found out about it after taking an Ishihara test during one of our lessons in Anatomy and Physiology. I'd usually answer a random number in frustration because I cannot see what my classmates can. Apparently, I was the only one in our class with that defect.

I am an average looking gal. Most of the time, I look like I just rolled and fell from my bed.

This morning, just like every morning, I woke up earlier than my alarm feeling groggy. And to make things worse, I hit the corner of my bedside bookshelf with my head. I could have gone dramatic over a small, assumed-concussion like what I always do when my hormones go on a monthly overdrive and tell Jan my last goodbyes in case I didn't make it out of bed.