Comfortable Isolation

What I went through since 2013 is no joke.

When I was diagnosed with myasthenia gravis, it felt like my body suddenly became a stranger. “MG” wasn’t just a medical term anymore—it was the weakness in my legs, fatigue that didn’t make sense, stairs that felt like mountains, and prayers that sounded more like “Lord, why?”

Not gonna lie, I can’t say I never questioned God. But amidst all the questions and maybe a little bit of resentment, there was one simple truth that remained: He was with me, holding my hand through the darkest time of my life. It was the kindness that couldn’t be denied or replicated, and I told myself that I would give it back. Pay it forward. By making myself available to anyone who needed my help. After all, “Whatever you did for one of the least of these… you did for Me,” He said in the Bible.

I did my best to be available. I helped establish a support group for my fellow MG patients. I became an active church volunteer alongside my mom who had been serving the parish for as long as I could remember. The thought that I was doing something good and that there were a lot of people who prayed for me compensated for the challenges my condition stubbornly presented.

But when I was just trying to rebuild physically, my faith started taking hits again.The people who were supposed to nurture my spiritual growth ended up disappointing me. Some fell. Some failed. The people I considered real friends broke the trust I had placed in them. And when the disappointment came over and over, when the hurt surged like tidal waves, I did what anyone tired of being hurt would do.

I chose comfortable isolation.

I kept my circle small. I only opened up to people I trusted the most, the ones who showed me kindness that was too genuine to ignore. For other people, I kept my expectations low. I stopped caring. Stopped giving a damn. Stopped asking questions. Life became peaceful, predictable, and safe. And I knew it was valid.

No, comfortable isolation wasn’t rebellion. It wasn’t even bitterness. I only did what I had to do to preserve myself to keep my faith in God intact when it could have turned into cynicism. It kept me from walking away completely.

But here’s the thing about God.

He doesn’t always force you out of hiding. He just keeps inviting. Not in a loud, guilt-tripping way, or even in a “you should be doing more” tone. He does it in gentle, persistent, “Anak, I’m not done with you” kind of way. Invitation after invitation. Through people who understood the side of me that still cared. Through opportunities that would bring out a much better version of myself. Through children who needed to be fed and taught about the Lord’s kindness and greatness. And somehow, even when I tried to stay quiet in my corner, the invitations kept finding me.

That’s how I found myself saying yes again, to serving with Disciplesheep.

No, the Church is far from perfect. The people around me are still flawed (just like me). But the invitations, along with their intentions, made me realize that my heart still has the capacity to open up again, even just for a little bit. That the woman who once prayed, “Lord, gamitin Mo ako,” never really disappeared. She just learned how to protect herself.

And maybe this is what growth looks like. Not going back to being wide open and naive. Not staying closed and guarded forever. But asking for something braver.

So from today, this will be my prayer. My hope, my whispered declaration:

“Lord, please increase my capacity for safe connection.”

I don’t need to add more to my 15 premium friends. I don’t have to give people automatic access to my heart. Just the grace to open up without abandoning wisdom. Serve without losing myself, and believe in the community without pretending hurt never happened.

And maybe this is a turning point for me, too, and it’s a quiet one. No grand gestures needed. Just a softened heart, a willing yes, and the courage to trust that safe connection is still possible.

(This is my full reflection from the recollection.)