Every Friday night, we scream.

Not because we’re angry—though sometimes we are. Not because we’re drunk—though we usually are. But because screaming “Alone” by Heart at the top of your lungs in a neon-lit karaoke room in Quezon City is the closest thing to therapy we can afford.

We call it K Sessions. No one’s a professional singer. One of us is a visual artist. Another works in customer support. I’m somewhere in between gigs, freelancing when I can. Most of us are queer. All of us are tired.

Tired of inflation and unpaid internships. Tired of hiding from family. Tired of pretending we’re okay when we’re not.

So we rent the same room at the same no-frills karaoke joint every week. We bring snacks, sometimes cheap soju, sometimes homemade lumpia. We take turns queuing songs, passing the mic like communion.

But somewhere between Britney and Bituin Escalante, it starts to become something else—a kind of ritual.

Singing as Survival

In a country where therapy is still a luxury and mental health is rarely discussed at family dinners, these karaoke nights have become a lifeline. The music is loud enough to drown out shame. The room is dark enough to cry in.

We joke that it’s group therapy, only louder. But really, it is.

We don’t start by talking about our problems. We start by singing.

By the third or fourth round—after someone’s slayed a Moira song or massacred a Mariah one—the real talk begins.

“I told my mom I was gay this week.”

“I ghosted my therapist.”

“I don’t think I like my body anymore.”

“I feel nothing. That scares me.”

No one judges. We just nod, queue up another song, and scream with them.

The Mic as Confession Booth

For us, the karaoke room is the safest place in Manila. It’s cheaper than a psychiatrist, more consistent than any partner, and asks nothing of us but to sing—badly, if we need to.

And we do. We sing out grief and guilt and gender dysphoria. We sing out childhood trauma and adulthood burnout. Some nights, it’s “Bohemian Rhapsody.” Other nights, it’s Sarah Geronimo. But every night, we leave a little lighter.

Not cured. Not fixed. But heard.

A Different Kind of Wellness

This is what wellness looks like for us—not green smoothies or yoga retreats. Just a sticky table, broken tambourine, cheap echo mic, and a room full of people who get it.

There’s a freedom in being too loud for the world outside. In taking up space. In letting your voice crack and knowing someone will harmonize with you anyway.

Final Thought:

We may not have mental health coverage or stable jobs or family acceptance. But on Friday nights, for three glorious hours, we have each other—and the courage to scream.

By a contributor in Manila who wishes their name not be used