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