There’s a particular kind of exhaustion that doesn’t come from long bus rides or late-night drinks—it comes from showing up for people who don’t show up for you.
I didn’t know that would be the takeaway when I said yes to a spontaneous Labor Day trip to La Union. All I knew then was that my last few weeks had been a blur of overpriced cocktails, chaotic group chats, and the kind of emotional whiplash that only comes from partying too hard and trusting too easily. Bangkok. Puerto Galera. And now, apparently, the beach town of La Union.
I said yes because I always do. Because the idea of another weekend spent “recovering” felt more suffocating than spending it in a car full of vague plans and flaky friends. Because there’s always the hope that this time, the chaos will be worth it.
Spoiler: it wasn’t. But also—maybe it was. In a different way.
The Art of Almost
There’s a recurring theme in these trips: the promise of potential. The idea that things will fall into place just because we showed up. We imagine effortless bonding, serendipitous nights, deep conversations under moonlight, and maybe—just maybe—someone new to connect with.
Instead, what I got was a patchwork of almosts.
Plans that almost happened. People who almost came through. Conversations that almost mattered.
And there I was, holding it all together with a smile and a portable speaker.
La Union, like many places that become temporary homes for Manila’s overworked and emotionally burned out, has this energy—relaxed, chaotic, magnetic. It draws in people looking for something. Healing, maybe. Or distraction. Or just a reason not to stay home. But the thing about places like this is: they don’t give you anything you don’t bring with you. They only reflect what’s already happening inside.
And what I brought with me was this: a desire to feel chosen. Not accommodated. Not tolerated. Not scheduled in like a lunch meeting that can be rescheduled at whim. But chosen, wholly and deliberately. I think a lot of us are looking for that, in one way or another.
Ghosting in Real Time
Here’s what no one tells you about organizing a beach trip in your late 20s or 30s: it’s less about the beach and more about emotional project management.
You set the plan. You book the place. You hold space—for people’s moods, their indecisions, their quiet chaos. You compromise. You chase confirmations. You send reminders. You pick up the slack. You carry the weight of everyone else’s “maybe.”
And then they ghost. Not just digitally, but physically. They vanish from commitments they agreed to. They flake with casualness so sharp it stings. They forget you had expectations, and you forget you had boundaries.
You’re left watching the sun set on a plan you built, sitting across from someone who barely showed up, both of you pretending this is fine. That this was the point.
It wasn’t.
We Deserve Better
The hardest lesson from this trip wasn’t that my plans fell apart. It wasn’t the wasted money or the lukewarm beer or the way “group fun” became “group indifference.”
It was realizing that I had surrounded myself with people who saw friendship as a convenience—not a commitment. That I had overextended myself, again, to try to create something beautiful for people who would rather scroll through options than stay present.
And worse—I had accepted that as normal.
But it’s not.
It shouldn’t be.
We deserve friendships where “yes” means yes, not “maybe unless something better comes along.”
We deserve the kind of presence that doesn’t need to be chased.
We deserve plans that are not perfect, but at least reciprocated.
It sounds simple. But in a world where everything is optional—commitment, affection, effort—these things have become rare.
What La Union Really Taught Me
La Union didn’t give me the epic weekend I was hoping for. There was no magical night, no breakthrough moment, no montage-worthy sequence set to tropical house beats.
Instead, it gave me silence. Space. Time to see things as they are.
It gave me early mornings where I sat alone on the porch, wondering why I keep mistaking proximity for closeness. It gave me long, crowded bus rides next to strangers who seemed more emotionally available than some of my friends. It gave me hours of waiting—for people, for plans, for feelings that never quite arrived.
And maybe that’s what I needed.
To finally stop romanticizing flakiness as spontaneity.
To stop mistaking avoidance for mystery.
To stop shrinking myself into the shape of someone easier to disappoint.
The Exit Plan
I left La Union with less than I arrived with—less food, less patience, fewer illusions. But also, oddly, more clarity.
I don’t want to keep being the person who keeps the group chat alive. I don’t want to bend over backwards to coordinate meetups for people who don’t even check the time. I don’t want to keep showing up for people who treat emotional labor like an Airbnb amenity—nice if it’s there, but not something they’ll pay for.
There’s a quiet kind of strength in walking away. From plans that drain you. From people who can’t hold space for you. From expectations that always leave you second-guessing your worth.
So I’m not swearing off travel. Or friendship. Or late-night congee.
But I am learning, slowly, to value my own energy more.
To protect it.
To spend it wisely.
To only offer it where it will be met—not with perfection, but with presence.
Because life is too short to spend it waiting for people who never intended to arrive.
And you?
You deserve better than a weekend full of maybes.
You deserve people who show up.
Not just for the trip—
But for you.
