It didn't feel like luck

Someone I look up to told me something recently that stayed with me.

He said you only really need two things: competence and opportunity.

At first, it sounded simple. But the more I sat with it, the more it started to feel familiar, like it was putting words to something I had been living through for a long time without really naming it.

For the longest time, I was just working. Not thinking too much about whether it would pay off right away, and not always seeing results. I just kept showing up, figuring things out as I went, and saying yes even when I felt unsure. There were moments I questioned if any of it was leading somewhere, or if I was just doing things because that was what I knew how to do.

Looking back now, that season feels different.

Because when the opportunity finally came, at a time when I needed it the most, it didn’t feel like something foreign. It felt like something I already knew how to carry. Not perfectly, but enough to step into it without feeling lost.

That was new for me.

I expected to feel unprepared. Instead, I felt familiar with the weight of it. And that’s when I started to understand what competence really looks like. It’s not loud. It builds quietly, in the background, in the days when nothing feels like it’s changing.

That realization made me think about where that kind of mindset started.

I remember being young and wanting things I couldn’t always have. Not big things, just the kind you needed for school or saw on a grocery shelf and quietly hoped you could bring home. I remember standing beside my mom in the aisle, watching her compare prices between brands like Lucky Me and Payless, sometimes picking the one that would stretch a little further, even if it wasn’t what we wanted.

There were days I needed art paper or paste for school, and we didn’t always have money for it. So I learned to make do. I’d use rice as glue, sometimes wood glue if there was any at home, just to make sure I had something to submit. It didn’t always look right, but it was enough.

At home, meals were stretched the same way. I remember mom cooking instant noodles and adding more water than she should, just so it could feed all seven of us. The taste would be thinner, but no one complained. There were also days when it was just rice and salt, and that was already enough to get through the day.

At that age, I didn’t think of it as sacrifice or hardship. It was just how things were. But without realizing it, I was learning how to adjust, how to be resourceful, how to work with what was available instead of waiting for things to be ideal.

Those moments stay with you.

Even now, when I walk through a grocery store, I still catch myself checking prices out of habit. I still compare, still pause, still think twice. The difference now is that I don’t always have to hold myself back the same way. There’s more room to choose, but the awareness never really leaves.

And in a strange way, that awareness feels like its own kind of grounding.

I think about travel the same way.

In 2017, I went to Taiwan for the first time. I didn’t have much then. I had around Php 20,000 in my bank account, and I remember stretching every part of that budget just to make the trip happen.

Everything had to be planned.

I had an itinerary down to the details, where I would go, how much each train ride would cost, where I could eat cheaply, how much I could spend in a day. I kept reminding myself that if I veered away from it too much, if I got careless even for a moment, I might not have enough to get home.

So I followed it closely.

I couchsurfed because that was the only way I could afford to stay longer. It wasn’t always comfortable, staying in unfamiliar spaces, adjusting to different people, but I made it work because I really wanted to be there.

And I remember enjoying it. Really enjoying it. Walking through night markets, taking in places I had only seen online, sitting on trains and just looking out the window. But even in those moments, there was always a quiet awareness in the background. A constant check of how much I had left, what I could still afford, what I needed to hold back.

It was freedom, but a careful kind.

And I think that’s why that trip stayed with me. Not just because it was my first, but because it showed me how far I was willing to go just to experience something I wanted, even when the odds didn’t fully make sense.

Not just because it was my first time experiencing something like that, but because it showed me what I was willing to do just to make something happen. I kept going back to Taiwan after that, and every visit felt different, but I never forgot what it took the first time.

Now, travel doesn’t feel as distant as it used to.

There’s still planning involved, but it no longer feels out of reach in the same way. And sometimes, in the middle of a trip, I still think about that version of me, figuring things out with limited resources, trying to make the most out of what was available.

Even the smaller, everyday things carry that same shift.

There was a time when eating out meant thinking about how much it would cost before even looking at the menu. When staying too long in a café felt like something you had to justify. When buying something you liked came with hesitation, because practicality always came first.

Now, those decisions feel lighter.

Not careless, just lighter. There’s more room to choose without the same pressure sitting in the background. And I don’t take that lightly, because I know exactly what it felt like when those choices were limited.

When I think about all of this together, it starts to make sense.

None of these changes came from one big turning point. They came from years of just working, even when it didn’t feel like anything was happening. Years of learning, adjusting, and figuring things out without calling it anything special.

That was competence being built.

So when the opportunity came, it didn’t have to change who I was. It simply met me where I already was.

And maybe that’s why those words stayed with me.

Because they explain something I didn’t fully understand before. That the quiet seasons, the ones where you feel like you’re just getting by or just doing your best, are not empty. They are building something in you that you will only recognize later.

And when the timing is right, it shows up not just in the opportunities you receive, but in how your life begins to feel different in ways that are easy to overlook, but impossible to ignore once you see them.

Nine years, still choosing you

Nine years ago, we met as two people with separate lives, uncertain paths, and dreams that felt bigger than what we thought we could reach. Back then, everything was still forming: our identities, our direction, even our understanding of love. We were hopeful, but we were also figuring things out as we went along. We were just trying to live, to get by, to make things work with what we had.

And while today marks nine years since our paths first crossed, our real anniversary—the one I hold closest—is on June 1. The day I said yes to you. The day “us” truly began.

Today, I look at us and see something steady, something grounded. We are in a good place, one that feels earned, not accidental. It’s the kind of peace that comes from years of choosing each other, even when it wasn’t always easy. And I hold onto that with both gratitude and intention. I hope we continue to protect what we have, that no distractions, no outside noise, no fleeting experiences ever take away from what we’ve built together.

Because what we’ve built is real.

We’ve grown individually and as partners. The versions of ourselves from 2017 would probably be amazed at where we are now. Back then, our dreams felt distant, almost abstract. We talked about them like “someday” plans. But slowly, together, we turned those dreams into reality. And in doing so, we gave ourselves permission to dream even bigger.

We’ve traveled to places that once felt out of reach. Places we used to only imagine visiting, places that felt like they belonged to a different life. And yet, step by step, we found ourselves there, living those moments we once only talked about. From just trying to get by, we reached a point where life became a little more comfortable. And in that comfort, we learned how to share it. Not just with each other, but with our families. To give them experiences, to create memories together, to let them be part of the life we worked so hard to build.

Because loving you also meant loving your family.

Somewhere along the way, your family became mine, and mine became yours. It never felt forced. It just happened naturally, as if it was always meant to be that way. We learned to show up not just for each other, but for the people who raised us, shaped us, and continue to support us. And that kind of love, the kind that extends beyond just the two of us, makes what we have even more meaningful.

We’ve seen each other at our best and at our most uncertain. We’ve witnessed growth, change, setbacks, and breakthroughs. And through all of it, we stayed. We adapted. We matured. Not just in age, but in how we love, how we understand, and how we show up for each other.

Now, our hopes feel clearer.

We talk about marriage not just as a milestone, but as a continuation of everything we’ve already started. We imagine building a life somewhere new, a place we can call our own, shaped by shared dreams and quiet routines. We look forward to still growing, still evolving, still choosing each other through every new version of ourselves.

Nine years since we met, and still counting toward every year we get to celebrate.

Nine years in, and I still choose you.

And I hope, no matter what comes our way, we keep choosing each other. Protecting what we have, nurturing it, and never letting anything or anyone take away from the life we’re building together.

Because if there’s one thing these nine years have taught me, it’s this: 

What we have is not something temporary.

It’s something we’ve built, something we’ve grown into, something we continue to choose.

And I will keep choosing you, again and again.

The Quiet Work of a Storyteller

 I’ve learned that quiet doesn’t always mean silence.

Sometimes, quiet is full.

Full of noticing. Full of listening. Full of moments waiting to be understood.

I’ve often been told that I don’t fully participate, not because I’m disengaged, but because I don’t speak unless my thoughts are ready. In rooms filled with fast talkers and confident voices, there’s an unspoken pressure to respond quickly, to fill the silence, to prove presence through immediacy. I learned early on that speaking too soon often meant saying less than I intended.

So I wait.

I listen long enough for my thoughts to settle, for ideas to become coherent, sound, and logical. To some, that waiting can look like absence. Like hesitation. Like not doing enough to be seen. But what it really is, is care — for clarity, for meaning, for words that hold their weight once they’re released.

And over time, I realized something important: my quiet was never empty.

It was observant.

While others spoke, I watched how conversations shifted. I noticed who leaned forward when something mattered, who withdrew when it didn’t. I paid attention to the pauses — the unsaid thoughts that hovered between sentences. These were the moments that stayed with me long after the noise faded.

This is where my storytelling begins.

Being a storyteller, for me, isn’t about commanding attention. It’s about earning it through patience. It’s about understanding that not every story announces itself loudly. Some stories whisper. Some sit quietly beside you until you’re ready to listen.

I write because I notice.

Because there are experiences that deserve more than a passing thought.

Because there are moments, small, human, fleeting, that shape us in ways we don’t always immediately recognize.

The pen becomes a way of recording these moments. Of slowing time just enough to examine it. Writing allows me to return to a feeling, a conversation, an experience, and ask: Why did this stay with me? What is this trying to teach me?

In many ways, writing has always been my way of understanding the world — and myself. When things feel too big to say out loud, I write them down. When emotions don’t yet have names, I provide them sentences. Through writing, I find clarity not by rushing, but by sitting with uncertainty.

And yet, like many things we love, I drifted away from it.

Life got louder. Responsibilities grew. The pressure to be productive, visible, and constantly “on” took up space where reflection once lived.

I never stopped writing—but I stopped writing for myself.

Words became deliverables. Sentences were measured by deadlines, briefs, and revisions. Writing was no longer a place to pause; it was something to complete, something to submit, something that needed to be done quickly and efficiently. The rush left little room for wondering, for sitting with a thought long enough to understand it.

Somewhere along the way, writing turned into a routine.

And while I’m grateful that storytelling is part of what I do professionally, there was a quiet loss in that shift. The kind of writing that once helped me make sense of experiences, the kind that asked questions instead of answering them, was pushed aside. I kept telling myself I’d return to it when things slowed down, when deadlines loosened their grip, when life felt quieter.

But writing for yourself requires a different kind of time.

Not scheduled time — but intentional time.

But life rarely gets quieter on its own.

So this year, I’m choosing to return to writing anyway.

Not because I have everything figured out.

Not because I suddenly have more time.

But because I’ve realized that storytelling is not something I do after life happens. It’s how I process life as it unfolds.

This blog is my way of coming back to that practice.

I want to write about experiences as they are: unfinished, imperfect, still forming. I want to tell stories that don’t rush to conclusions, stories that allow space for reflection. Stories about growth, change, faith, work, people, and the in-between moments that often go unnoticed.

This isn’t about writing for attention or validation. It’s about honoring the quiet work: the observing, the recording, the remembering. It’s about trusting that there is value in paying attention, even when the world moves quickly past it.

If you’re reading this and you’ve ever felt like your quiet was mistaken for absence, I hope you know this: there is power in observing. There is strength in listening deeply. There is meaning in taking your time.

And sometimes, the most important stories aren’t the ones we shout. They’re the ones we write down, carefully, honestly, and with intention.

This is me returning to the page.

Pen in hand.

Quiet, but paying attention. 

2025: On Trust, Timing, and Letting Go

 

The year began with renewed optimism, the quiet declaration that 2025 would be the year we bounce back. The past two years had weighed heavily on us, especially financially. While we were still making ends meet, there was no room for flexibility, no buffer when life demanded more. That kind of pressure seeps into everything: how you plan, how you dream, and how you breathe.

Then January brought good news. JD was accepted to YSEALI. We had prayed for this: for him to experience the U.S., to broaden his horizons, to grow beyond what was familiar. I was genuinely happy for him. Truly. And I remember telling myself, my time will come too. The anticipation is just part of the waiting.

And it did come. Quietly, unexpectedly.

At the start of April, right when we needed it most, a new opportunity arrived. The timing felt almost unreal. I had just borrowed money from a friend to get by, and the very next day, the prayer I had been carrying was answered. I said yes to the hustle. It was demanding, but it was rewarding. For a moment, it felt like the breakthrough I had been holding my breath for. This was my first lesson of the year: breakthroughs don’t always arrive with confetti and certainty. Sometimes, they come disguised as urgency, risk, and the need to say yes before you feel fully ready.

But breakthroughs, I learned, often come with heartbreak.

This year, I parted ways with an organization I had consulted for over four years. It wasn’t easy. There was grief in letting go. Of familiarity, of stability, of something I had poured myself into for so long. Yet in that loss, I was reminded that letting go is not the same as failing. Sometimes, it is an act of trust. Making space can hurt, but it creates room for things that are more aligned with who you are becoming.

And almost immediately, that space was filled.

Another consultancy came in, this time with better pay, yes, but more importantly, with trust. Trust in my ideas. Trust in my voice. Trust that what I bring to the table matters. I realized that compensation is only one part of the equation; being seen, respected, and believed in carries a weight of its own. This year taught me that I am allowed to take up space, and that doing so is not arrogance, but self-respect.

That came with a tradeoff.

The days blurred into constant work. I woke up thinking about it, spent my days consumed by it, and even carried it into my dreams. I rarely paused long enough to celebrate my wins. Somewhere along the way, I found myself asking a question I never thought I would ask: How can you finally earn enough, yet still feel like you don’t have the time to live? I learned that financial stability does not automatically lead to fulfillment, and that busyness, no matter how productive, can quietly cost you joy, rest, and presence.

In the middle of all that motion, the year asked us to slow down in the most painful way. After months of fighting for his health, we lost Charlie. His passing didn’t arrive loudly. It came quietly, and it changed the rhythm of our days. He had been part of our everyday life, woven into routines we didn’t realize were sacred until they were gone. Grieving him while life continued to move forward taught me something difficult and tender: that love doesn’t disappear when someone rests. It simply changes form. Grief, I learned, is love with nowhere to go, and honoring it meant allowing myself to feel, even when it was inconvenient.

After that, something in me softened, and something in me grew heavier.

Alongside the busyness were quieter, heavier battles. I wrestled with doubt. Watching others achieve what they set out to do made me question my own path, my worth, my direction. I wondered if my role was simply to cheer from the sidelines, to do the work expected of me, nothing more. The feeling lingered longer than I wanted it to. Days became weeks. Weeks became months. And what this season taught me was that comparison is subtle but relentless. It doesn’t shout, it whispers, until you begin to doubt everything you once believed about yourself.

I once said, in my 2024 yearender, that I loved mundane days: the slowness, the stillness, the quiet. But this year showed me that silence feels different when it’s filled with self-doubt. Stillness can be peaceful, but it can also be loud when your mind is crowded with thoughts of not being enough. I learned that inner work cannot be postponed; unanswered questions will always find their way into the quiet.

Still, I know I have much to be grateful for.

New hustles. The chance to return to school and pursue a Master’s degree (officially enrolled for 2nd sem yay!). The fact that, despite everything, we did not face a major financial crisis. This year taught me that gratitude does not cancel out struggle. You can be deeply blessed and still feel lost. You can be thankful and tired at the same time. Both truths are allowed to exist without invalidating each other.

As the year began to wind down, we made another quiet but meaningful decision. We moved out of our apartment of four years. This time, it wasn’t driven by urgency or lack, but by intention. The place we moved into was smaller, but it was nicer, calmer, and felt more aligned with the life we were trying to build. By then, I had learned that growth doesn’t always look like upgrading or expanding. Sometimes it looks like choosing what supports your peace. Letting go of that space felt less like loss and more like affirmation: that after all the striving, it was okay to choose ease, clarity, and comfort.

I know that comparison steals joy. I know I don’t need to measure my life against the victories of others. I know these things intellectually, but belief is a practice, not a switch. It takes time. It takes intention. It takes choosing, again and again, to trust your own timeline. What I know for sure is that my feelings were real. They were valid. And even if others don’t fully understand them, honoring them is already an act of healing.

If 2025 taught me anything, it’s that growth isn’t always loud or obvious. It doesn’t always look like dramatic wins, public milestones, or moments that feel instantly satisfying. Sometimes growth is quiet and uncomfortable. It looks like holding on when everything feels uncertain, when faith has to work overtime, when patience is tested, and when the outcome isn’t clear. It also looks like letting go when it hurts: releasing people, roles, and versions of yourself that once felt safe but no longer fit who you are becoming. This year taught me that progress is not always about moving faster or achieving more; sometimes it’s about staying when you want to run, and walking away when you want to hold on. It’s about trusting that even the unseen, uncelebrated choices are shaping you into someone stronger, wiser, and more grounded than before.

And maybe growth, in its truest form, isn’t about arriving at a destination at all. Maybe it’s about learning how to remain whole while you’re still on the way.