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.