When I was a kid living in Baguio, I was sure the mountains were alive. They felt so massive, like silent warriors guarding the city. I remember mornings when the whole world seemed wrapped in this soft blue haze. It wasn’t just a color—it was something deeper, like the mountains were breathing out calm and strength for all of us.

There was this old woman who lived nearby, selling woven trinkets by the roadside. Her hands were tough, but her smile was warm, and she’d always have something to say. Once, she saw me staring at the mountains and said, “You know, these mountains—they’ve fought storms, earthquakes, even people. They’re warriors. Quiet ones, but the strongest kind.”

I didn’t really get it then, but I couldn’t stop thinking about it. I’d imagine the mountains as these ancient giants, standing firm through all the battles of time. That thought stuck with me, even when life wasn’t easy. It made me feel like I had my own warrior inside, ready to face whatever came next.

Even now, when I think about Baguio, I don’t just see the place. I feel it—the blue mist, the mountains, the quiet power of it all. It reminds me that real strength doesn’t always roar. Sometimes, it just stands, steady and unshakable, like the mountains I used to call home.