Do you ever just wake up and think,
"WTF am i doing with my life?"
Like, legit. You open your eyes, check your phone, and suddenly you're 24, unemployed, emotionally unstable, and your banana bread is literally on fire.
“Hi, I’m Aurora Ysabelle Zobel.
24 years old.
Born in Manila.
Raised in Singapore.
Educated in New York and Milan.
And currently… cremating a banana loaf.”
Fantastic.
Amazing.
My ancestors did not build a business empire for me to commit arson in a BGC baking studio.
I stared at the charred remains like it personally betrayed me.
As in, how dare you?
Twenty minutes ago, I was doing my little “omygosh i have purpose” dance by the oven. May kasamang spin and finger guns pa ako.
And now?
I just baked disappointment in loaf form.
“Miss Zobel…”
Chef Gina hovered behind me with that fake-nice energy na parang gusto ka niyang yakapin—but with a knife.
“I think the banana bread is a little overdone.”
A LITTLE?
Girl, it’s a crime scene.
Call NBI. Call CSI. Call Martha Stewart.
“OMG no worries, Chef!” I smiled, fakely. “Trial and error, diba?”
Heavy on the error. Light on the trial. No justice.
She walked away before i could embarrass myself further, probably to cry in the pantry.
I took a deep breath and told myself:
Aurora, calm down.
This is fine.
Hindi mo kailangang maging magaling agad.
Growth mindset, sabi ng TikTok girlies.
Okay, backtrack.
Bakit ba ako nagba-banana bread on a Sunday morning when i could be, like, in Paris or whatever?
Well. I just got back from the States. Supposedly to start my fresh new business era.
Kasi nga daw,
“Sayang ang Zobel name kung walang ginagawa.”
Sabi ng lola ko, tita ko, parents ko, yaya, aso, halaman. Lahat sila may opinyon.
I took another degree.
Graduated again. Still no spark.
Just another expensive diploma collecting dust next to my emotional damage.
So here i am.
Twenty-four.
Single.
Slightly burnt.
Owning five ceramic mixing bowls and zero direction in life.
And based on today’s results?
Maybe banana bread isn’t part of my origin story.
By 4PM, I was sulking in the car, crime-scene banana bread wrapped in foil like a sad trophy.
My driver looked concerned. “Ma’am, gusto niyo po bilhan ko na lang kayo ng banana bread sa Wildflour?”
“NO.”
“No—I mean… no, thank you. I’m fine.”
(I was not fine.)
Pag-uwi ko, the condo was cold and quiet.
Parang personality ko lately.
I dropped the sad bread on the counter and opened the fridge with false hope.
Nothing.
As in literal na wala.
Just one Yakult bottle. Isang piraso. Solo. Expired ata.
I stared at it.
“This is my rock bottom.”
But did i drink it?
Of course.
Was it sour?
Yes.
Was i ashamed?
Also yes.
Then i looked at the stove and went:
“Wait lang. Maybe i’m not a baker…
BUT WHAT IF I’M A COOK?
Like… MasterChef Philippines realness?”
Delulu is the solulu.
I tied my hair into a cute bun. Changed into my pajama set that screams Culinary Barbie with commitment issues.
Then turned on the stove.
Like i knew what i was doing. (Spoiler: I did not.)
I Googled “easy dinner ideas” and ended up on some guy’s 5-minute garlic butter chicken recipe.
Na-three replays ako, tas still confused kung saan part ilalagay ang butter.
So i freestyled.
CHOP.
SLICE.
Blood.
“SH*T!”
Napaupo ako sa kitchen floor, clutching my finger like i got stabbed in a telenovela.
Maliit lang naman ‘yung sugat.
Pero i felt that in my soul.
So i gave up.
Ate dry cereal straight from the box like a raccoon with a Birk*n.
No milk. No bowl. Just me, my hands, and existential dread.
I sat on the couch, staring at the TV.
Nothing was playing. Netflix was just idling.
Parang brain ko—naka-pause. Buffering. No content.
“What now?” I whispered. “Am i supposed to be… an influencer?
A DJ?
Magbenta ng scented candles with trauma-infused names like ‘anxiety vanilla’ and ‘daddy issues lavender’?”
DJ Aurora on the beat. Playing Sad Girl Hours from 11PM to breakdown.
I grabbed my phone.
Big mistake.
Instagram? May nag-propose.
TikTok? “How i became a 6-figure pastry chef at 23!” Shut up.
Twitter? Called a nepo baby again. Not even wrong.
I clicked YouTube for comfort.
Instead i got trauma.
“PBA Star Calix Montemayor’s On-Court Meltdown 💥”
And there he was.
Veins popping.
Sweat glistening.
Jaw clenched like he was mad at the earth.
“Ew.”
Calix Elijah Montemayor.
Walking migraine.
National basketball heartthrob.
Professional trigger.
We go way back.
Same NYU circles.
Same friends.
Same mutual hatred.
He thought i was shallow. I thought he was rude.
We were both right.
Last convo namin?
Me: “Just because you’re tall doesn’t mean you’re deep.”
Him: “At least i’m not a walking LV bag with abandonment issues.”
Honestly? I should’ve thrown my iced latte.
But that sh*t was ₱600. So i took the L.
Now he’s viral. Again.
Meanwhile ako?
Injured.
Breadless.
Drinking expired Yakult in my sleepwear.
“I hate men,” I muttered.
Then paused.
“No—I hate him. Specifically.”
I tossed my phone across the couch.
Hit a pillow.
Deserved.
And then i laid there, cocooned in my sadness.
Wondering if this is it.
Is this all i’m meant to be?
Just another pretty face na marunong magpa-deliver, pero hindi magluto?
A part of me—deep down, like under layers of glam and generational pressure—wanted more.
Something real.
Something mine.
But for now?
Definitely not banana bread.
11:38 PM.
Still staring at the ceiling. Still flopping.
Then—phone buzz.
Unknown Number:
“Hi, Zobel? It’s Chef Gina. Can you come in early next class? I want to talk about your progress.”
Progress daw.
Okay, Chef. Let’s call it post-mortem.
I sighed and typed back:
“Of course, Chef! See you then 😊”
Then whispered into the void:
“Tomorrow.
I try again.”
Pause.
“But like... not banana bread. Never again.”