Call Me Tita

It finally happened.

Just when I thought my anti-aging creams were working, someone called me Tita. Not once, but twice.

I had just wrapped up a meeting. The weather was muggy; I was sweating, looking haggard, and starving. So, I walked into a Filipino restaurant to grab some lunch.

Then came the moment.

The waitress smiled and said, "Tita, kunin ko na ‘yung plato mo." (Translation: Auntie, I’ll take your empty plate.)

Tita—a Filipino term for auntie. But the meaning has evolved contextually, so Tita could also mean childless, conservative middle-aged woman.

I’m 36.

While there’s nothing offensive about the word. It’s just… was I ready? Had my anti-aging rituals failed me? Or was this the moment I officially crossed over?

Physically, sure—I might look like a Tita. But let’s get one thing straight: I love my age. And I’m not just saying that to sound evolved. I actually love it.

Because with age comes wisdom. And when I look back at my 20s, those were my lost years—floating through life with no clear direction, just vibes.

Now? I know what I want. And I will work hard to f*cking get it.

So maybe being a Tita isn’t something to dread. Maybe it’s a title earned. A quiet recognition of resilience, experience, and growth.

Titas have seen things. Felt things. Survived things.

Ageing doesn’t diminish us—it sharpens us. And that? That’s power.