Jaded

Even when I was young, people already called me a strong, independent woman. Back then, I wore those words like a shiny medal pinned proudly on my chest. And I had one dream. To work abroad, earn my own money, and build a life beyond the tiny corners of the world I grew up in.

And eventually, that dream came true.

At twenty-five, I left the Philippines and stepped into the unfamiliar life of an overseas Filipino worker. And from that moment on, I never really stopped leaving home.

I learned how to survive in foreign countries where even grocery shopping felt like a mission impossible. I learned how to smile politely at people whose language I didn't understand. I learned how to eat eggs and sometimes instant noodles for three straight days while waiting for salary day. I learned how to cry silently in a shared room because homesickness is embarrassing when everyone around you is also homesick.

Saudi Arabia became my training ground. It taught me discipline, patience, and how to survive under forty-eight degree heat without turning into grilled barbecue. (Actually, I had history of heat-stroke, ^_^)

Then, barely a year after leaving Saudi, life threw another opportunity my way, and I found myself packing my bags again. This time for Qatar.

At some point, airports started feeling more familiar than my own hometown. 

I became the kind of person who could identify terminals faster than tourist spots. I mastered the art of converting currencies in my head while mentally calculating how much remittance I could still send home. My camera roll slowly transformed into screenshots of remittances, exchange rates, random sunsets, and photos of food I could not pronounce.

And yes, living in the Middle East gave me experiences I never imagined I would have. I met people from different cultures, heard stories from every corner of the world, and realized that loneliness sounds the same in every language.

But somewhere along the way, exhaustion quietly moved in beside me.

No. Not the kind of exhaustion that can be fixed with sleep. 

The deeper kind, I mean. The one that settles into your bones after years of constantly starting over. The kind where you become tired of pretending you are okay every time someone says, "Swerte kaayo ka kay naka abroad ka."

Because the truth is, working abroad is beautiful... but it also painfully lonely.

People only see the travel photos, the shopping bags, the carefully filtered instagram stories. What they do not see are the birthdays missed, the funerals attended through video calls, the heartbreaks endured alone in a tiny room. They do not see how OFWs learn to celebrate Christmas with strangers while pretending not to miss home too much.

And now that I am getting older, with a family of my own, I realize something.

That maybe, I have already lived my life to the fullest.

I have wandered enough airports. I have survived enough goodbyes. I have worked enough overtime shifts to know that money can buy comfort, but never stolen time. 

I have spent years chasing a dream only to discover that dreams can also make you tired.

And perhaps that is why lately, I feel jaded.

Not ungrateful of course. Never that. 

Just...tired.

I am already tired of constantly being strong. Tired of acting independent all the time. And tired of carrying everyone's expectations as though I was born without limits.

Because people often forget that strong women also get exhausted. We get homesick. We get lonely. We get burnt out from always being the reliable one. Sometimes we also want someone to tell us, "Pwede naka pahulay.." T___T

These days, my definition of happiness has changed.

It is no longer about collecting passport stamps or proving that I can survive alone anywhere in the world. Sometimes happiness now sounds like eating dinner peacefully with family. Sleeping without setting five alarms for work. Laughing without checking the exchange rate first.

Funny how life works.

When I was younger, I thought freedom meant leaving home.

Now, I think freedom might actually mean finally finding my way back to it.

I guess that's it for tonight. I can't hold back my tears anymore. I still have work tomorrow, and I can't afford to show up with swollen eyes.

And to anyone out there fighting silent battles too, I hope tomorrow feels a little lighter for all of us.

Goodnight.

Sowing Through the Pain

There are seasons in life where I slowly stopped giving. Not because I became selfish, but because I became tired.

I got tired of being the one who understands. 

The one who waits.

The one who forgives first.

And the one who stays soft in a world that keeps teaching people to harden.

I used to think that generosity only meant money. But the older I get, the more I realize that some of the most painful things we give are invisible.

Time.

Patience.

Effort.

Loyalty.

Late-night prayers for people who never even knew we whispered their names to God.

Pieces of ourselves handed quietly to people we loved.

And sometimes, it hurts when you feel like you gave so much only to receive so little in return.

When I get to read the passage in 2 Corinthians 9:6 (KJV), it spoke to me in a way I cannot fully explain.

"He which soweth sparingly shall reap also sparingly; and he which soweth bountifully shall reap also bountifully."

I honestly misunderstood this verse. I thought it was only about blessings and rewards. But I believe that God was speaking about the condition of the heart. Because pain has a way of making people sow sparingly.

Like after enough disappointments, you stop opening up. You stop trusting easily. Stop loving loudly. And you become careful with your kindness because you are afraid that people will waste it again.

Trust me, I've been there.

There were moments when I wanted to protect myself so much that I slowly became emotionally distant from everyone. I convinced myself that expecting less and giving less would hurt less too.

But the reality is, when you stop sowing good things because life wounded you, your soul becomes empty as well.

Not every seed grows overnight. Some prayers take years. Some kindness returns in unexpected forms. Some love never comes back from the same people you gave it to.

But maybe, maybe that is the point. 

Maybe God asked us to give because love was never meant to survive through fear.

God wants us to continue being kind even the world becomes cold. He wants us to continue loving even after heartbreak. And to continue to believe that what is pure is never wasted.

And maybe, the "harvest" is not always material things...

It maybe healing, peace, a softer heart, and the ability to still love without becoming bitter. 

Choosing to remain genuine is already something sacred in a world where many people only give when it benefits them. 

So from now on, I pray differently.

Not: "Lord, give me more.."

But: "Lord, do not let pain turn me into someone who is afraid to love, afraid to give, afraid to care."

Because I want my life to be remembered not for how much I kept for myself, but for the seeds I planted in the lives of others, even the quiet ones nobody ever saw.

\^___^/

Well, I hope you understood what I was trying to say. I know it was a lot, but I couldn’t sleep, so I ended up writing something just to ease my mind a little.

Goodnight.

Left Behind Again

There is a different kind of pain that comes from feeling unheard by someone you once considered safe. 

Not anger, nor hatred. Just that quiet ache that settles in your chest when a person who calls you a friend chooses doubt over understanding.

I kept asking myself after what happened today, "Do you really see me as a real friend?" Because to me, friendship was always built on trust. Not perfect trust, not blind trust, but the kind that says, "Even if I do not fully understand you right now, I will still listen. I will still believe that your heart is good." 

And maybe that is why it hurt so much.

Because when someone immediately questions your intentions, dismisses your words, or makes you feel like your voice no longer matters, it feels less like a misunderstanding and more like abandonment. Like being left behind in the middle of a conversation you thought was safe enough to speak honestly in.

I have always tried to be a good friend. The kind who stays, who listens, who remembers small details, checks in quietly, and gives people the understanding I wish someone would give me. I carry people gently because I know how heavy life can already be.

Sometimes I wonder why it's so difficult to find someone who does the same for me.

Why is it so rare to find a person who does not make you feel like you constantly have to explain your heart?

Someone who trust you even the situation is messy. Someone who does not make you feel guilty for feeling hurt. Someone who chooses to protect your friendship instead of protecting their pride.

And what broke me the most was not even the disagreement itself. It was the feeling of suddenly becoming alone in a place where I thought I belonged.

And maybe that is what hurts about disappointment. It does not come from strangers. It comes from people you once felt safe with.

Still despite everything, I do not think I will ever regret being genuine. I would rather continue loving deeply, listening sincerely, and caring wholeheartedly than become someone cold just because others failed to value my heart.

and I HOPE someday, I meet people who choose me the same way I choose them.

People who stay when conversations become uncomfortable. People who listen before judging. People who understand that friendship is not only about laughter and convenience, but also about trust during difficult moments.

BECAUSE BEING A GOOD FRIEND SHOULD NOT FEEL THIS LONELY.

A Mind That Never Rests

 
The moment I created this blog, I already accepted the fact that I would slowly become an open book. 

Every word I write carries pieces of me that I once tried so hard to hide. This weblog has become part of my life because it is no longer just me who knows what I have been going through. All of you who take the time to read every piece I write have somehow become part of my journey too. You have seen fragments of my heart through paragraphs, quiet cries hidden between sentences, and thoughts I could never say out loud in real life.

Lately, I have been struggling more than I care to admit.

I realized that keeping everything inside is not healthy at all. Pretending to be okay, swallowing every emotion, and staying silent about what truly hurts me has slowly started consuming me day by day. The scary part is that I no longer react the way I used to. Terrible things that once broke me now feel normal. Being verbally hurt. Being mentally exhausted. Being emotionally drained. Somehow, I became so used to pain that I stopped questioning it.

And honestly...that scares me.

People always say, "It's okay to not be okay." But no one ever talks about how long a person can survive feeling that way. How long can someone carry heaviness in their chest before it completely changes them? How long can someone cry silently before they no longer recognize themselves?

Because I am scared.

I am scared that one day, I will wake up and no longer be the person I used to be. The soft version of me. The hopeful version of me. The person who used to smile genuinely, laugh loudly, and believe that life would eventually get better. Right now, everything feels heavy. Every day feels like a battle inside my own mind.

And the hardest part of all is being torn between leaving and staying.

Leaving the things that hurt me feels terrifying. But staying feels like slowly losing myself too.

I wish people understood how exhausting it is to fight battles inside your head while trying to look normal on the outside. Sometimes I want to disappear from everything just so the noise inside me would finally become quiet. Sometimes I just want someone to hold my hand and tell me that I do not have to carry all of this alone.

I do not really know what to do anymore.

But I think writing this is my way of asking for help without directly saying the words out loud. Maybe this blog is not just a collection of thoughts after all. Maybe this is me trying to survive. Trying to breathe. Trying to remind myself that I still exist underneath all this pain.

If you are reading this and feeling the same way, please know you are not alone.

And maybe...maybe we are all just trying to find our way back to ourselves again.

The Softest Kind of Love

There is something deeply tender about loving someone enough to accept the place they can give you in their life, even if it is not the place your heart secretly longs for.

"If being friends with you is the only way to be with you, then so be it.."

It sounds heartbreaking, honestly. But the more I sat with those words, the more I realized how rare and gentle that kind of love truly is.

Most people only stay when they are promised more. Attention. Affection. Or certainty. But there are few souls who choose to remain even when love asks them to stand quietly at the side instead of at the center.

And somehow, that kind of love feels softer, pure, and unselfish.

This has been one of the sweetest things I have ever heard. The fact that someone, no matter how deeply he likes a person, chooses friendship instead of forcing something further..says so much about the kind of heart he carries. It means he values the person more than his own desires. It means he wound rather protect the connection than risk breaking it with pressure, expectation, or selfish intentions.

There's just maturity in there. But more than maturity, there is kindness.

Love is not about possessing someone. Sometimes, love is simply saying, "I care about you enough to stay in whatever way you are comfortable with.." 

Some people underestimate how beautiful friendship can be when it is built from genuine affection. Because you know? there is something comforting about a person who stays without demanding labels, without making you feel guilty for not being ready, or without turning tenderness into obligation.

A love like that does not scream. Doesn't beg. And it doesn't manipulate.

It just simply remains. Quietly and patiently.

I think that is why those words lingered in my heart for so long. In a world where people often leave the moment they cannot have what they want, hearing someone say "I will be here, even just as your friend." feels pure.

Because not everyone knows how to love without ownership.

And maybe, maybe, that is the sweetest part of all. Being chosen gently, without pressure, without conditions, without fear.

Just a soul saying, "having you in my life in any form is already enough for me.."

The Boy Who Left His Slippers Behind

 

Story written by: Rossengel B. Pareda

Humility is not loud. It doesn't demand attention or applause. It doesn't try to win the room. It simply exists. Steady, grounded, and sure of itself. It is the quiet strength of knowing who you are without needing to prove it to anyone. It's choosing to listen before speaking, to learn before assuming, and to serve without seeking recognition.

Last Wednesday, during our midweek prayer meeting, I saw something that stayed with me long after the service ended.

There was a young boy, just a teenager. Nothing about him screamed for attention. But as he reached the doorway of the church, he quietly slipped off his sandals and left them outside. Then he walked in barefoot.

In the middle of a crowd.

In a place where people notice everything.

For a second, I froze. Not because it was strange, but because it felt...sacred. Like I was witnessing something deeply personal between him and God.

And then a verse came rushing back to me: "Take off your sandals, for the place you are standing is a holy ground." Exodus 3:5

He did not say a word. He didn't look around to see who was watching. He didn't hesitate. It was as if, in his heart, he already knew, this place, this moment, deserved reverence. 

But not everyone saw it that way.

Some people, especially those his age, laughed. Whispered. Judged. To them, it looked like ignorance. Like something odd, maybe even embarrassing.

But he didn't flinch.

He walked in barefoot, found his seat, listened intently, and bowed his head in prayer, as if nothing else in the room mattered. 

In that moment, I realized something that hit me deeper than expected. Humility is not weakness. Its courage. The kind of courage that chooses obedience over approval. The kind that honors God, even when people misunderstand. 

That boy was simply following what his heart believed was right. And somehow, that quiet act spoke louder than anything else that night.

Humility, I realized, is not about blending in. Sometimes, it means standing out in the most unexpected way. Without pride, without noise, without explanation.

Just a heart fully surrendered.

And that night, a barefoot boy reminded me what that truly looks like.

Selective Presence

There's always a kind of silence that does not come from distance, but comes from realization.

I used to think I mattered in people's lives in the same way they mattered in mine. I would show up, check in, remember the little things, make time even when I was tired. I gave without keeping score, because that's what genuine care looks like, right?

However, as time goes by, patterns reveal what words try to hide.

The messages would only come when there was a need. A favor. Or a question. Or a moment of inconvenience they could not solve alone. And of course, I would respond. I would. Because that's who I am. I help. I stay. I understand.

Til silence returned.

Not the peaceful kind of course, but the kind that feels selective. Intentional. The kind that makes you question whether your presence only exists in someone else's life when it's convenient for them.

It's a strange feeling, to be remembered only when you're useful, and forgotten the moment you're not. 

At first, I made excuses for it. "They're just busy." or "Maybe they're going through something." nor "It's not personal." I gave them the benefit of the doubt so many times that I forgot to give myself the same kindness.

Because the truth is, it is personal in the sense that you're allowing yourself to be placed in a role you never deserved. 

A convenience. A backup. A temporary solution.

And the hardest part?? Realizing that I participated in my own exhaustion. Not because I am weak but because I was sincere in a world that sometimes treats sincerity as something to use, not to value. 

There comes a moment, though, when your heart gets tired of explaining what your silence finally understands. 

You deserved to be remembered even when you have nothing to give.

Not just when you're needed. Not just when you're available. Not just when you're useful.

But when you're simply you.

So maybe, I will start to choose differently. Not out of anger nor revenge but out of respect for myself. I learned that stepping back is not losing people; sometimes it's losing the version of yourself that kept settling for less than you deserved.

If they only remember you when they need something, let them.

But don't forget yourself in the process.

Because the right people won't treat your presence like a resource.

They will treat it like a gift.

Unclenching My Fist

I have been struggling emotionally lately with someone. Not the kind of good feeling, but more of an abhorrence. Days turned into weeks, then months, until it became a year. Him being a bully and arrogant, I sometimes describe him as if he's possessed by some kind of an evil deity. It makes me feel like I always want to punch his face every time he does something so bad that it pulls my emotional strength down into the pit. 

And honestly, it is exhausting to keep carrying this kind of feeling for so long. Until the time came when silence was no longer peace, but rather a form of restraint.

I remember carrying words I never said, responses I rehearsed in my head, and pain I quietly nurtured like it was something I had to protect. I told myself I was just being strong, that walking away made me the bigger person. 

But deep inside, I was not at peace. I was just waiting for the right moment to feel justified.

Then just this night, while reading the Bible, I came across this verse:

"Dearly beloved, avenge not yourselves, but rather give place unto wrath: for it is written, Vengeance is mine; I will repay, saith the Lord." Romans 12:19 (KJV)

At first, I did not like it.

Because If I am being honest, a part of me wanted justice on my terms. I wanted him to feel exactly what he made me feel. I wanted answers. I wanted balance. I wanted closure that looked like accountability. Immediate and visible.

But God's words didn't negotiate with my emotions. They gently, but firmly, redirected them.

"Give place unto wrath."

That line stayed with me.

It did not say deny the anger. It did not say pretend it doesn't hurt. It didn't say forget. It said make room, not for revenge, but for God to step in where I am tempted to take control.

And that is when I realized...holding onto anger was never giving me power. It was quietly consuming me.

Letting go of revenge did not mean what happened was okay. It didn't mean my pain was invalid. It meant I was choosing to trust that God sees everything I cannot explain, hears everything I never said, and understand every tear I tried to hide. 

There is something humbling about stepping back and saying, "Lord God, I won't fight this battle the way I want to. I will let You handle it."

Because truthfully, my version of justice is often fueled by emotion. But His? It is perfect, complete, and never ever late.

I am still learning this.

Sure, there will be days when these old feelings will resurface, or when memories knock like they still have access to my heart. But now, I think, instead of entertaining them, I surrender them.

Not because I am weak, but because I finally understand that I don't have to carry what God already claimed as His responsibility. 

"Vengeance is mine; I will repay."

That's not just a warning. It's a promise.

And for the first time, I feel free not needing to prove anything, not needing to get even, and not needing to win.

Just...trusting. 

And somehow, that feels like the greatest victory of all.

For Zenai, With Love

There are people you meet for the first time, yet somehow, it feels like your souls skipped the introduction and went straight to familiarity. Like you've known each other in another lifetime, or at least in a group chat you forgot about.

Once upon a time, I met a girl.

She's the kind of person you notice immediately because she's very noisy, bubbly, kind, effortlessly beautiful and overflowing with joy. The type who can walk into a room and without trying too hard, make it feel lighter. She laughs easily, talks warmly, and makes friendship look so natural, as if she's been practicing it her whole life.

But like most beautiful stories, hers has depth.

Behind that cheerful facade is a quiet battle she fought, darkness that once lingered, waiting for the right (or wrong) moment to surface. Yet somehow, she chose differently. She chose to fight. She chose to heal. And most importantly, she chose God and herself. Not perfectly, not all at once, but faithfully.

And maybe, that's why we connected.

Because in so many ways, she is like me. She loves God deeply, above all else. Her faith is unshaken. She's loyal, strong, and surprisingly...a cry-baby. Give her a slight sad ending, and booom! Tears. Honestly, I've never met someone who can cry that fast. It's almost a talent at this point.

Today, April 26, 2026, I celebrate her life.

Zen, 

I thank Jesus Christ for you. I thank God for bringing someone so genuine into my life. Someone beautiful not just in appearance, but in heart and spirit. They say it's hard to find true friends when you're far from home, living abroad, trying to build a life from scratch. But I've always held on to God and in His perfect timing, He brought you to me, because He knew I needed someone like you.

And I really did.

Thank you for being unapologetically you. Thank you for your kindness, your strength, your faith, even on days when it feels like you're still healing. Because yes, you may not be 100% there yet (who is, really?), but I believe with all my heart that God is preparing a kind of happiness for you that will make every past pain make sense.

A thousand folds, just like I always say..

And listen, our friendship? It's not the kind that fades with distance or time. Whether we see each other every day or not at all, that doesn't change a thing. Once you're my friend, you're my friend for life. No returns, no exchanges. So sorry, you're stuck with me.

And even if one day we're no longer physically in the same place, remember this: we are sisters at heart. And anyway, we have social media. You're not escaping me that easily.

So today, laugh a little louder, smile a little brighter, and maybe cry just a tiny bit less (no promises, I know).

Happy, happy birthday, Zen 💛

You are loved, you are seen, and you are deeply blessed.

A Kindness I Kept

I had just finished my 7-3 shift that day, the kind that leaves you kinda drained in some way. I remember checking my pocket and realizing I did not even have a single 20 peso bill left. Nothing. It was one of those brutally hot afternoons too! The kind where the air itself feels heavy. And having experienced heat stroke before, back when I was still working in Saudi Arabia, I knew better than to rush out into it. So I stayed for a while, waiting for the heat to ease, trying to steady myself.

While standing in front of the hospital's entrance, I saw one of my colleagues (we were still quite new to each other at the time). She had just arrived, driving her mum to the hospital's dialysis centre. Her mum had been a dialysis patient for quite a few years. I walked over, and that's when I had the chance to meet her, such a lovely, gentle woman. You could immediately see where my colleague got her beauty from.

We spoke for a bit, and i'll admit, I hesitated for a long time...but eventually, I gathered the courage to ask if I could borrow some money. I just wanted to get home. But she didn't have anything to spare that day either. So I nodded, smiled it off, and made my way to the hospital canteen instead, thinking I'd just sit there until the sun wasn't so unforgiving, and before deciding to walk home. 

I tried to distract myself, scrolling through my phone, pretending I wasn't worried about how I'd get home. Then suddenly, I felt a tap on my shoulder.

I turned around and there she was.

She looked at me and said, "Ate, I found 50 pesos. You can use it to go home."

I don't think I'll ever forget that moment.

It wasn't the money that broke me. It was the thought behind it. The fact that she remembered. That she cared enough to come back for me. That somewhere in her mind, she was worried about me walking home alone in that heat.

Something in my heart just...stopped.

We weren't even close yet, but in that small, quiet act, she showed me a kindness that felt so rare, so genuine. The kind that doesn't ask for recognition. The kind that just is. 

When I finally got into the cab, I waved goodbye to her...and then I cried.

Not because she helped me financially, but because, in that moment, she touched my life in a way I knew I would never forget. I remember thinking to myself, this is someone I want to keep in my life forever.

And as time went on, I got to know her more. I learned about her strength, how her father had passed away from cardiac arrest, and how her mum continued to fight through kidney failure, going through dialysis week after week. And yet, despite everything she carried, she remained one of the kindest, most selfless people I had ever met. 

We grew close. Really close. Not just colleagues, but sisters at heart. And I was lucky enough to work alongside her for a while...until life took me abroad again.

Then one day, while I was away, I received the news. Her mum had suffered cardiac arrest and was admitted to the ICU. I prayed so hard for her, asking God to give her strength...to carry her through something so heavy.

But then...her mum passed away.

And I wasn't there.

That's something I still carry with me. That quiet regret. That wish that, somehow, I could have been by her side when she needed someone the most.

Even now, I include her in my prayers every single day. I pray for her full healing, for her peace. And I miss her.. more than words can ever fully explain.

And every time I think back to that hot afternoon, to that simple act of kindness...I can't help but feel everything all over again.

If you're reading this, you know who you are.

I just want you to know that I miss you. Deeply. And I hold onto the hope that we'll see each other again soon. 

I'm sorry I wasn't there when you needed me the most. Truly.

But please never forget this: God loves you. And you are, without a doubt, one of the strongest women I have ever known, not just in body, but in heart, in spirit, in everything that you are.

I cannot wait to see you again.

A Conclusion, Not a Debate

Luke 10:16 states;

"He that heareth you heareth Me; and he that despiseth you despiseth Me; and he that despiseth Me despiseth Him that sent Me."

This verse holds a very special place in my heart because it is not just merely a line of scripture to me. It marked a moment of interruption, a decisive point when I was close to giving up.

At that time, I was so overwhelmed with emotions I can no longer contain. Anger, resentment, and a profound sense of loneliness had accumulated to the point where everything felt final. I genuinely believed that time that I had reached the end of myself. 

I found myself weeping in a public place, surrounded by strangers, yet entirely alone in what I was carrying. 

But even if I was in that state, I opened my Bible app without expectation. And this verse appeared. There was no build-up, no searching. Just...this. And it was enough to stop me.

Luke 10:16 is often understood as Jesus speaking to His disciples, affirming that those who receive them receive Him, and in turn, receive the One who sent Him. But in that moment, it was not theology I encountered. It was His presence. 

I wept even more, but this time not out of despair. What become undeniable to me is this: Jesus is not distant. He speaks, and He is heard. He knows not in a general sense, but in precision. Every thought, or hidden weight, nor every unspoken struggle, nothing escapes Him.

And more than that, His authority is not independent. He made it clear Himself: He and the Father are one in purpose and will. To reject Him is to reject the One who sent Him.

This is where my position becomes firm.

I do not understand why, even now, there remains persistent insistence that Jesus Christ is merely an ordinary man. I am not concerned with the variety of sources or interpretations that lead to that conclusion. What I know is grounded not only in scripture, but in encounter.

I suddenly recall a conversation at Souq Waqif. A woman asked me directly about my faith specifically, who is Jesus to me. My answer was straightforward. He is the Son of God. She responded with a spit to my answer. She insisted that He was simply born as a human being, nothing more.

I was prepared to respond. However, language stood between us. The conversation ended there, not because there was nothing to say, but because there was no shared means to say it.

So, I WILL STATE IT HERE WITHOUT AMBIGUITY:

Jesus Christ is the Son of God. If you hold a different view, you are entitled to it. But understand this. My conviction is not casual, nor borrowed. It is formed through experience, through scripture, and through moments like the one I have described. 

If you intend to challenging that, then do so with clarity, substance, and understanding. NOT ASSUMPTION. 

Because this is NOT A DEBATE. It is A CONCLUSION.