WHEN ALL ELSE FAILS WOULD YOU BE THERE TO SEE RIGHT THROUGH ME?

I just finished reading Metamorphosis, and it left me with some realizations. The story of Gregor hits painfully close to realities we often ignore. What struck me most wasn’t just his transformation (metaphorical) but how quickly his family distanced themselves when he was no longer useful to them.

It made me think about times in my life when I felt unseen, especially when I wasn’t at my “best” or most productive. In a world that often measures our value by our output, this story is a reminder of how fragile human connection can be. Many of us bend over backwards for others, but when we finally need support, we’re met with silence, or worse, rejection.

Let’s not lose ourselves trying to meet everyone’s expectations. Let’s surround ourselves with people who love us for who we are, not just what we can give.

May we also reflect on how we treat others when their “shine” fades. Do we stay, or do we turn away? #SugarQuoted

Hapy Father's Day, Jani Kins!

You may not know it, but I'll always be the lucky one. You always claim to be the lucky one for having me as your wife, but I believe otherwise. Thank you for being my calm, my nourishment, my everything. I can't imagine life without you, and I always say this: if it's not you, wala na lang.

Thank you for your life. I wish for nothing more but to journey through this life with you 'til the end. Happy Father's Day, Daddy Kins.

A Memory I Wasn't Supposed to Have

Today marks the 33rd death anniversary of my Lolo. And as strange as it sounds, I feel like I remember him vividly.

I was born in July 1991. By the time my Lolo passed away, I wasn’t even a year old. A baby. Not even talking, walking, or forming memories, at least according to science.

But somehow, I have this scene in my mind.

I’m on his lap. We’re sitting in an open kubo right in front of our old house. It’s a quiet day. The air feels soft and warm. I can see the sidewalk just infront of us, and out of nowhere, a couple of pigs are being transported  from a house on our left to the exit alley of our Purok. The pigs are loud and I remember being startled, but safe. Because I was in my Lolo’s arms.

Now, every logical part of me knows I shouldn't remember this. Scientists call it infantile amnesia where babies don't form clear, retrievable memories before the age of two. But this one… this one has been with me for as long as I can remember. Not a dream. Not a story someone told me. Just… mine. Stored somewhere deep in the folds of my being.

Maybe it’s just a constructed image built from old family photos, but as far as I can recall, we didn’t have many, given our financial situation. Or maybe it came from stories told over meals and family gatherings. But when I asked my mom and grandmother about it, they said they had no idea about the specific memory. What they did confirm was the kubo I described. There really was a small structure like that in front of our old house. And the pigs? Our neighbor used to raise them as a business, and it was common to see pigs being transported when someone bought from them.

Or maybe just maybe it’s a spiritual memory. Something my soul tucked away before my brain had the ability to label it.

But I like to believe this: that in those few short months we had together, he made me feel so loved, so held, so safe that even if the memory itself wasn't meant to stay, the feeling did.

And maybe that's the kind of legacy we hope to leave behind, not grand stories or loud legacies, but the small, quiet comforts that last long after we're gone.

To my Lolo, whose arms I barely knew but somehow still remember, I carry you in me, even if I never got the chance to truly know you. Your lap was the first seat of safety I ever knew, and I’ll always be grateful for that single, sacred moment... real or not.

What You Don’t See

Tagaytay 06/2025

Sometimes people look at me and say,

"Ang swerte mo."
"Buti ka pa... blah blah blah"
"SANA ALL!"

I never really know how to respond.
Because how do you explain that the life they see
is built on sacrifices that didn’t always make sense while I was making them?

I’m grateful. I truly am.
But behind everything I’ve built… are parts of me I’ve buried.

I grew up without a father.
That absence shaped me more than I can ever explain.
I was raised by my grandmother with all the love she had, but not much else.
We didn’t have the means. We just survived.

And while others were out being carefree teenagers,
I was already trying to figure out earn,
how to study with an empty stomach, 
how to stretch coins to last until Friday.

I was a working student.
I swept floors. I ran office errands.
I walked into class with worn-out shoes and a worn-out spirit, and still pushed to be a Dean's Listee.
I didn’t have a backup plan.
No safety net. 

You didn’t grow up with my quiet fears,
or carry the long-term effects of a head injury from 2010
that changed the way I remember, think, and live.

You didn’t feel the weight of trying to be strong
as a mom, a wife, a career woman
while sometimes wishing I could just pause and be held.

You didn’t see me whisper to my husband, “Dad, I want to cry,”and not even know why.

Quarter-life crisis hit me like a truck.
Everyone around me seemed to have found their rhythm.
I was still trying to find mine
trying to prove that I belonged in rooms where I always felt like an outsider.

I’m 70% introvert.
I build walls naturally out of protection.
Because when you grow up with only yourself to depend on,
you learn to survive in silence.
You learn to observe, to overthink, to hide your softness.

And people… didn’t like that.
I had bullies, not the childhood kind,
but the adult kind: the ones who smiled at me then questioned my worth behind my back.
They called me hard to approach, too guarded.
They didn’t know how hard it was just to show up,
to speak, to try to be present.

So if there’s something I wish people knew, it’s this:

    Don’t reduce anyone’s life to a headline.
    Don’t box up someone’s growth into a single quote or caption.
    Because behind every “Sana all,”
    is a story you haven’t heard.

And behind mine,
are pieces of me I’ve had to lose
and rebuild over and over again.

People look at me now and see someone who’s “made it.”
In real estate, in family, in life.
But I didn’t magically arrive here.
I crawled here.
Sometimes in silence, sometimes in pain,
sometimes with nothing but faith and one last option left.

And every step forward came with a price
my time, my peace, my health, my past self.

So instead of comparing your journey to mine,
honor your own.

Because this...
this life of mine that looks “put together” from the outside
isn’t perfect.
It’s patched, scarred, healing, honest.
And very much real.

So now when people say, “Sana all,”
I just breathe.

Because no one saw the nights I cried quietly,
wondering if I’d ever be enough for myself, let alone anyone else.

You see the strength now.
You see the wins.
But you didn’t see what it cost to get here.

I am proud of what I’ve become,
Because it was painful...
And I survived it anyway.

So instead of wishing you had someone else’s story,
hold your own a little closer.
It’s valid.
It’s beautiful.
And it's yours.

PS:

If you're also building a life from scratch,
If you’ve been your own hero more times than you can count,
Just drop me a “Still rising.”
We don’t need to explain. We’ll know.

Stopped Scrolling and Started Truly Living

Stopped Scrolling and Started Truly Living

I didn’t realize how much life I was missing… until I paused.

It just happened one day... I reached for my phone, as usual, ready to scroll through updates, memes, and noise. But for once, I stopped. I asked myself: "What am I really looking for here?"

I couldn’t answer.
So, I put the phone down.

And suddenly, I was HERE.
In my own life.

My scented candles smelled more fragrant. The air felt cooler. The comforter felt comforting. The silence wasn’t empty, it was calming. I looked at my son’s sleepy and drooling face and realized this... this is what I’ve been longing for. Not curated, not filtered. Just real.

I went outside to the balcony. Listened to the wind and the rain. Stretched my legs. Breathed deeper. Felt lighter.

No dopamine hit from hearts and likes or congratulatory messages. Just presence. And it was enough. Actually, it was more than enough.

It’s not that I’ll never scroll again (I still love cat videos and Zack D. Films, and I have to, for work). But I want to scroll LESS and live MORE.

I want to be HERE fully and honestly. With my people. With myself.

To small shifts.
To reclaiming our time and attention.
To putting down the phone… and choosing life.
<3

I’m No Longer in the Race, and That’s a Good Thing

I’m No Longer in the Race (and that’s a good thing, right?)

There was a time when I measured my worth against other people’s timelines.

Who got promoted first.
Who bought a car earlier.
Who traveled more.
Who seemed happier, richer, more loved, more put together.

I was unknowingly caught in a loop. A quiet competition with people who were, honestly, just living their own lives.
And I was too.
But mine felt slower. Smaller. Less exciting.

Until one day, I paused and asked myself: "For whom am I rushing?"
What am I trying to prove? And to whom?

I’m not here to outpace anyone.
I’m not in a race.
I’m in a journey.
A very personal, very human journey.

Comparison Is a Thief, But Only If You Let It In

It’s easy to feel behind in this age of curated timelines and filtered success stories.
We scroll through highlight reels and start questioning the value of our quiet wins.

But here's what I’ve learned in my 30s:
The real measure of growth isn't about how fast you achieve things,
it's about how aligned your life feels with who you truly are.

Are you at peace?
Are you growing, even slowly?
Are you waking up to a life that feels more and more like your own?

If yes, then you are not behind.
You’re right where you need to be.

I Celebrate You and Me

So if you feel like you’re ahead, I sincerely celebrate you.
If you think you're doing better, that’s beautiful.
I’m not bitter, and I’m not competing.

Because on my end, things are unfolding in their own rhythm.
There’s a quiet kind of joy in not rushing.
In growing slowly but deeply.
In finally feeling okay with where I am.

My life is getting better not louder, not flashier but better.
And that’s what truly matters.

To Anyone Who Feels Left Behind

You’re not late.
You're not a failure.
You're simply living a story with a different timeline.
And believe me, it’s still a good one.

#PersonalGrowth #MindfulLiving #QuarterLifeReflections #LiveAtYourOwnPace #SlowSuccess #AuthenticLiving #SugarQuoted

This Morning’s Wake-Up Call Wasn’t From My Alarm

Earlier today, I was jolted awake, not by my alarm, but by a barrage of loud notifications. Turns out, my family group chat was already buzzing with frustration. There had been a misunderstanding between one of our subdivision guards and my uncle, who was supposed to drop by for some errands.

Still half-asleep, I scrolled through the long thread of messages, and just like that, my good morning soured into a heavy disappointment. From what I gathered, the guard denied my uncle entry because he didn’t have an ID, and apparently, our contact number wasn’t saved in their phonebook.

Without much pause, I jumped straight into our HOA’s group chat and started typing an incident report. It was long, detailed, and emotionally charged. I was ready to hit send. But then, something in me hesitated.

I stopped.

I re-read what I had written. Then I scrolled back to the earlier messages. I took a breath.

And I deleted the whole thing.

In that moment, clarity washed over me. The guard wasn’t being rude or unreasonable at all. They were just doing their job, protecting the community. Ours is an exclusive subdivision, and protocol matters.

I’m glad I paused. 

It's so easy to let frustration lead the way and fire off words you can’t take back. But reacting from emotion rarely leads to resolution. Most of the time, it just escalates things, and sometimes, unfairly hurts others.

So next time you feel that rush of heat, the urge to lash out, to defend, to be right ---pause. Breathe. Think it through. Consider the ripple effect of your words. Will they cost someone their job? Will they stain your reputation? Will they solve anything at all?

Respond only when your thoughts are clear and your emotions steady.

This morning, I was spared from saying something I might have regretted. The guards were spared from unnecessary blame. 

A few hours later, I met with them calmly, offered a solution, and asked them to save my number in their phonebook. I also reintroduced myself, realizing they were new and unfamiliar with the household.

A small misunderstanding turned into a shared lesson.

Sometimes, restraint is the most powerful reaction. 

Stay stoic.

I Don’t Want to Be BESHIES with Someone Who Doesn’t Read

There, I said it. It’s not a job requirement. It’s not an official rule. But it’s a quiet filter I carry, like a bookmark tucked in my soul.

It’s not that I’m a literary snob. I don’t sit around analyzing postmodern existentialism over red wine. I just need to know you’ve been cracked open by a paragraph before. That a story once rearranged your insides without asking permission. That you’ve disappeared into pages, resurfaced with a lump in your throat, or questioned the world because a single sentence hit too close to home.

See, the people I hold closest, the friends I call mine --- are all readers. Not all of them are bookworms with shelves that groan under the weight of novels. But they all read. They devour stories, inhale poems, chew on essays, and quietly nurse grief over endings that weren’t theirs. We exchange books the way others exchange secrets. 

It’s not about taste. You could read romance, self-help, crime, memoirs, philosophy, manga, or even the back of shampoo bottles. What matters is: you read. You care. You’ve made room in your life for other people’s voices.

I want friends who understand that some silences are sacred--- because we’re both nose-deep in separate worlds, occasionally sipping tea or coffee, letting our fingertips flirt with pages instead of phones.

I want friends who flinch at typos and know the ache of a good ending. Friends who understand why bookstores feel like churches and why lending a book is more intimate than a hug.

If you don’t read, I won’t know what shaped your inner world, because books shape mine. Without that, it feels like we’re walking on different timelines.

I’m not saying you’re less human if you don’t read. I’m saying our rhythms might be too different. I live in underlined sentences and dog-eared pages. I collect quotes like seashells. 

I want to be friends with people who’ve been moved by invisible ink. 

I want friends who have stood in front of bookshelves and felt the world expand. I want the kind of connection that understands silence, subtext, and the weight of a well-written sentence.

It’s not about thinking we're better than anyone. It’s emotional alignment. -sugarquoted

Reading Between the Blurs

I've carried this hunch with me for quite some time~ something unspoken, unconfirmed, but persistent. The signs were never subtle. E-books lose me after twenty minutes; the text swims, blurs, and my concentration slips. Even paperbacks demand a spotlight, literally. Without a bold, almost theatrical kind of lighting, my eyes ache as if they're punishing me for turning another page.

A year ago, I had them checked. The verdict? Astigmatism. No grade, no prescription. Just a vague reassurance to "monitor it" and so I did...by enduring. Quietly.

Today, I visited clinic again, this time as my mom's errand buddy-turned-patient. Since I was already there, I decided to finally face it. Another eye exam. Another chance at knowing. This time, it wasn't just astigmatism. My right eye now grade 100, the left at 75.

Disorienting. Almost like I was seasick without being at sea.

And now that the truth is staring back at me, ironically clearer than ever, I find myself stalling at the door of acceptance. I’m not ready to join the club of “people with glasses.” I don’t want to be that person squinting at signs or enlarging text on a screen. For the longest time, my 20/20 vision was a quiet little badge of honor. 

But at 33, I’m learning to bow a little. To admit that something small--- but significant ---has shifted.

Maybe this is what growing up really means: surrendering to the changes we can't negotiate, even if it means trading pride for clarity. HAHA /sugarquoted

Book Review: The Tattooist of Auschwitz: 9 Hours of Countless Tears

I didn’t mean to finish it in one sitting. But I did. It's just me, this book, and a growing knot in my chest for 9 hours straight!

Reading The Tattooist of Auschwitz was like holding someone’s pain in your hands. You want to look away, but you can’t. You owe it to them not to.

It follows Lale, a Slovakian Jew, who survives the camp by tattooing numbers on the arms of incoming prisoners. That alone is heavy. But through that job, he meets Gita. And somehow, in the middle of death and decay, something fragile and beautiful blooms.

Love.

Yes, love in Auschwitz. I know how strange that sounds. But I felt kilig. The stolen glances, the whispered promises, the desperate need to hold onto something human. It made my heart twist in two ways~one for the horror around them, and one for the quiet magic between them.

There were moments I had to stop reading just to breathe. Their fear felt too close. Their pain, too familiar. But what struck me most was their WILL. To survive. To believe. To love, against all odds.

Aside from learning more and more about tragic experiences during WWII, It was also a reminder of how strong people can be when they have something...or someone...to live for.

I don’t think I can read it again. It's too heartbreaking. But it’s the kind of story that lingers. The kind you carry long after the last page.

4.8/5. And all the tears I didn’t know I was still holding.

#SugarQuoted #thetattooistofauschwitz #BookReview

Dear John ❤️

Dear John ❤️

There’s so much I want to say, but words always seem to fall short when I try to capture how much you mean to me. Still, here I am, hoping that I can put even a fraction of my heart into this.

You’ve been my loudest cheerleader, even when I couldn’t hear my own voice.

You clapped so loud that I could barely hear the voices within, the doubts, the fears, the endless critics. Every time I was ready to shrink back or give in to self-doubt, you stood there, reminding me of my strengths and anchoring me to my core self. Your love has been my compass, guiding me back whenever I felt lost.

In moments when I questioned my worth, you saw my potential before I even recognized it. You never let me forget who I am, even when I was too tired to see it for myself. You carried me with your trust and belief, giving me the courage to keep moving forward.

You’ve been my safe place. In a world that often feels too loud and demanding, you’ve given me a quiet corner where I CAN JUST BE. You listen when I ramble about my thoughts. You hold space for all the versions of me: the career alpha woman, the fangirl, the emotional thinker, and most importantly, the wife and mom who sometimes just wants to cry for no reason.

You love me in ways I didn’t even know I needed. You show up, not just in the grand gestures but in the everyday moments. From the little things like preparing my favorite food daily, peeling my shrimps and dried fish, to silently staying by my side when I’m overwhelmed, you prove that love is felt most in the quiet, consistent ways.

Our journey hasn’t always been easy, but I wouldn’t trade it for anything. You’ve been my rock through life’s highs and lows. When I was navigating emotional phases, financial challenges, and moments of doubt, you were there, patiently, lovingly, reminding me that I’m not alone.

And when life got chaotic, you didn’t just stand beside me, you carried me. You gave me the space to be vulnerable, the strength to rise, and the courage to dream even bigger.

I’m here today, stronger and more confident, because you’ve never stopped believing in me.

Di, thank you for being my constant. For loving me through every season... when I’m at my best and even when I’m far from it. For being the kind of man who doesn’t just say “I love you,” but lives it in every action, every word, and every sacrifice.

I don’t say this enough, but I’m beyond blessed to do life with you. And if I had to choose a thousand times over, I’d still choose you. Always, you.

I love you more than words can say. ❤️

With all my love,
Your Queen Sugar Bee

ILLUSIONS and MY REALIZATIONS

I’ve always been skeptical of books that sound too dreamy. Maybe it’s the existentialist in me. So when I picked up Illusions by Richard Bach, I didn’t expect much. Just another philosophical read. But page after page, it got under my skin.

Existentialism says life has no set path. We create our own meaning. Illusions leans another way. It says reality bends to belief. That idea bothered me. If belief can change everything, then what about pain? Regret? Loss? I've been through enough to know life isn’t that simple.

Still, it made me think. Maybe control isn’t about changing events. Maybe it’s how we look at them. I’ve spent years trying to make sense of life’s mess. But what if I’m not supposed to fix it... just live it?

One line stayed with me: “Argue for your limitations, and sure enough, they’re yours.”
It hit me. I’ve used labels like “introvert,” “not good at numbers,” or “too emotional” to stay small. I never meant to. But those words became excuses. Beliefs that boxed me in.

And then there’s this: we can’t save everyone. I’ve tried. I’ve poured myself into friends, thinking I could help them see what I see. But growth? It’s personal. You can’t drag someone to their awakening. You just live your truth and let them find theirs.

Illusions didn’t change my life. But it held up a mirror. Reminded me that I can shape my reality, not by pretending bad things didn’t happen, but by choosing what meaning I give them.

That might not be magic. But it’s powerful in its own quiet way.

BREATHTAKING DUBAI DESERT

The moment my foot touched the golden sand of the Dubai desert, I just stood there, overwhelmed, emotional as h*ll. It wasn’t just the breathtaking view or the vastness stretching endlessly before me...it was the weight of everything I had been through to get there. A flood of emotions rushed in, and for a second, I felt like my younger self again - the child they once said would never make it.

Growing up without a father, I heard the whispers, the doubts, the quiet judgments. Society often paints a picture of what success should look like, and according to them, I was at a disadvantage. They said I’d struggle, that I wouldn’t go far. But here I was, standing in a place I once thought I’d only see in pictures. Life has a way of proving people wrong when you choose to believe in yourself.

This journey wasn’t easy. It was built on long nights, sacrifices, setbacks, and the constant battle against self-doubt. But with every challenge, I pushed forward. I worked hard, I failed, I learned, and I kept going. I carved this path with resilience and faith, and stepping onto that desert was proof that I ---  I had made it. Maybe not to the ultimate destination, but to a place I once only dreamed of.

If there’s anything I’ve learned, it’s this: "where you come from doesn’t define where you’re going". People will doubt you, circumstances will test you, and life will challenge you. But at the end of the day, it’s your belief in yourself and your relentless pursuit of your dreams that will take you places.

So, to anyone who’s ever felt like they weren’t enough because of where they started, keep going. The world is big, and your journey is just beginning. Onto the next... /sugarquoted

To Christ Through Mary

Whenever we visit Cebu, we never leave without paying a visit to Mama Mary of Lindogon in Simala. There’s something truly miraculous about being there. It’s a place where I can pour out my heart, shed tears without fear of judgment, and leave feeling relieved, heard, and comforted.

I vividly remember my first visit to Simala, where I prayed fervently for more closed deals, specifically hoping for a sale exceeding 5M. Just a few weeks later, I closed a deal worth 5.4M. Since that moment, visiting Simala has become an annual vow, my "panata." 

Mama Mary of Lindogon has also been a beacon of hope when I sought guidance for my husband’s board exam. I left feeling assured, and soon after, my husband became a licensed real estate broker.

I had promised to visit Mama Mary again after our national convention, but a typhoon disrupted our plans, canceling all boat schedules. We had to reroute through Santander, the southernmost part of Cebu, a 7-hour long drive, followed by a short boat ride to Dumaguete, and another 6-hour drive home. Unfortunately, this unplanned detour meant missing our visit to Simala. I couldn’t shake off the feeling that this misstep affected our business, as we hadn’t closed any deals since.

In December, we returned to Cebu, determined to visit Simala again, but time constraints due to our flight schedule foiled our plans once more. Another failed promise, and December passed without any sales.

Finally, on January 7, we returned to Cebu for a business event and allocated a day to visit Simala. After a nearly three-hour taxi ride, we arrived. It was a relief to be there again and fulfill our promise. We spent several hours at the sanctuary, lifting the weight of guilt off our shoulders. Right after, we headed to the airport. Just a few days later, on January 11, we secured our first sale of the year, a smooth and successful transaction.

I know this was no coincidence. Thank you, Lord God, and thank you, Mama Mary, for interceding for us. To Christ through Mary. 

Day 1 of 365: This Year Is Gonna Be Different

It's been a long time since I last felt this serenity within me. For as long as I can remember, Christmas and New Year's have always been difficult for me. These holidays, meant to be a time of laughter, warmth, and togetherness, have often felt like a mirror reflecting back all the ways I feel lacking. It’s as if there’s a gap I’ve been trying to fill. All I know is that, year after year, these seasons leave me emotionally drained and vulnerable.

The twinkling lights and cheerful carols, ironically, seem to amplify that emptiness. I see families gathered around lavish dinners, friends exchanging thoughtful gifts, and social media flooded with carefully curated snapshots of joy. And yet, there I am, wondering why I can’t feel the same unfiltered happiness. Despite being surrounded by people, there’s always been an unspoken loneliness, a heaviness I couldn’t quite name.

Growing up, the holidays weren’t defined by material abundance or grand celebrations, but they carried a weight I struggled to understand. Perhaps it was the pressure of unspoken expectations, or the realization of what wasn’t there. Each year, I’d replay the "what ifs" and "should haves" in my mind, trying to piece together an elusive sense of wholeness.

But this year feels different. For the first time in a long while, I’m beginning to embrace a quiet kind of peace. Instead of chasing after some ideal version of the holidays, I’ve started to redefine what they mean to me. I’m learning to focus on the small, genuine moments that truly matter: the sound of my son’s laughter, a heartfelt conversation, or the simple act of sitting by the Christmas tree, basking in its soft glow.

I’m also confronting one of my deepest fears---the fear of becoming the person I don’t want to be. For so long, I’ve carried the pressure of not turning into my father. It’s been a constant shadow, an anchor weighing me down. I’ve worked tirelessly to distance myself from the patterns I saw growing up, but in doing so, I’ve realized I was still letting those patterns define me. This year, I’m choosing to let go of that fear. I am not my father’s mistakes, nor am I bound by his shortcomings. I have the power to break cycles, to choose kindness, understanding, and love as my guiding principles.

Letting go of this weight hasn’t been easy. Undoing years of emotional baggage never is. But I’m learning to forgive myself for not having all the answers. I’m learning to release the pressure of making everything perfect. Most importantly, I’m learning to offer myself grace. 

Perhaps the gap I’ve been trying to fill isn’t meant to be patched with grand gestures or external validations. Maybe it’s about sitting with the discomfort, acknowledging its presence, and finding beauty in the imperfect moments. It’s about showing up, even when I feel like retreating. It’s about choosing love---for myself, for the people who truly matter, and for the life I’ve been given.

So this year, I’m letting go. I’m choosing to let this newfound serenity guide me into the new year. For the first time, I’m approaching the holidays not with dread, but with a quiet hope that things can be different. That I can be different. And maybe that’s the real magic of this season---not the gifts, the parties, or the traditions, but the chance to rediscover myself amidst it all.