Falling Back in Love with Myself: A Birthday Reflection for the New Year

This past year felt like wading through a quiet chaos. Not the kind that shouts or demands attention, but the kind that whispers, just keep going, even when you don’t know where you’re headed. There were days I felt like a stranger in my own life, stuck in the motions, barely skimming the surface of the deeper connection I craved with myself.

As I sit here in 2025, I’m choosing to honor both the challenges of the past year and the potential of the year ahead. This is the year I stop standing still. This is the year of action.

Wading Through Quiet Chaos

Sometimes, life isn’t marked by big events or loud moments. Sometimes, it’s a quiet resignation that creeps in, day by day. Last year, I found myself caught in the undertow of a life that felt stagnant—not terrible, but not fulfilling either.

At work, I experienced a kind of disappointment that was hard to name. I wasn’t failing, but I wasn’t excelling either. Each day felt like treading water—doing enough to stay afloat, but never enough to feel proud. It was especially defeating to try and inspire my team to bring their best when I knew I wasn’t at mine. How could I tell others to find their spark when my own felt dim?

Outside of work, the exhaustion followed me. I wanted to go out, to laugh with friends, to reconnect with the people who bring me joy. But more often than not, I stayed in. The idea of leaving the apartment felt overwhelming—not because I didn’t want to, but because I didn’t have the energy to push past the inertia. I’d sit in my space, scrolling through photos of people out living their lives, feeling a pang of longing that I couldn’t quite translate into action.

And then, there was the mirror. It became a place of judgment rather than reflection. I’d look at my body, picking apart what I saw, criticizing myself for the workouts I didn’t do, the meals I didn’t prepare, the energy I didn’t have. I was hard on myself in a way I would never be with someone else, as though I had become a stranger whose flaws were too obvious to ignore.

This quiet chaos was insidious. It didn’t scream or demand my attention; it just settled in, dulling the edges of my joy and making everything feel heavier than it should. I was surviving, yes—but barely. And even though I could see what was happening, I didn’t know how to stop it.

I let the noise of daily life drown out the voice within me that was begging for rest, for reflection, for love. And when I looked at myself—really looked—I saw someone who needed a soft place to land.

And here’s what I’ve learned: chaos doesn’t have to define you. It can teach you. It can show you what needs to change, where you need to soften, and what you need to let go of. It’s not easy work, but it’s the work that brings you back to yourself.

As I reflect on last year, I see now that even in the midst of the chaos, I was still moving forward. Maybe not in leaps, but in small, quiet steps. And sometimes, that’s enough. Sometimes, just surviving is its own kind of triumph.

I didn’t win every battle this year,

But I did show up for every single one of them.

I didn’t move mountains, but sometimes getting out of bed and going to work was the mountain.

Nobody knew how many times I had to pull myself together,

But I woke up on the hard days;

And I survived.

This survival is not small. It is not insignificant. It is the foundation upon which I will build the next chapter of my life.

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The Journey Back

Falling back in love with yourself is not about fixing what’s wrong; it’s about rediscovering what’s already there. This year, I began the slow, deliberate work of finding my way back to myself.

1. Embracing the Quiet

In a world that glorifies noise and constant productivity, it wasn’t just about staying busy—it was about keeping up appearances, too. I felt the pressure to seem like I had it all together, like I was thriving even when I was barely holding on. This illusion of perfection was exhausting. I began carving out moments of quiet not just to escape the noise, but to drop the mask I wore for others. It wasn’t easy at first; silence can be uncomfortable when you’ve been running from yourself. But in those still moments, I started hearing the whispers of my own heart. I also made a promise to myself: to intentionally step outside my comfort zone and explore the world around me. Whether it’s discovering a new coffee shop, trying a restaurant I’ve never been to, or hiking a new trail, I’ve committed to doing this at least once a month. These small acts of exploration are about more than just seeing new places—they’re about putting myself out there, creating joy, and reminding myself that life is meant to be lived fully.

2. Choosing Grace

There were days I didn’t meet my own expectations—not just the real ones, but the ones I imagined others had for me. I placed so much pressure on myself to be everything I thought people wanted: the dependable friend, the high performer at work, the person who always had it together. And when I inevitably fell short of those self-imposed standards, I felt like I was letting everyone down.

Choosing grace meant letting go of that imagined audience. It meant learning to forgive myself for not checking every box or meeting every expectation, real or imagined. Grace is realizing that I don’t have to prove my worth to anyone, not even myself. Some days, choosing grace was as simple as saying, “You did enough today,” and letting that be enough. It’s about allowing myself to rest without guilt, to make mistakes without shame, and to embrace the imperfect, messy version of me that’s still worthy of love.

3. Reclaiming the Mirror

The mirror is no longer my enemy. It’s a reflection, yes, but not just of my physical self. It’s a reminder of my resilience and an invitation to embrace every part of me, just as I am. This year, I’ve committed to a modified 75 Hard challenge, not as a punishment or a way to fix what I once saw as flaws, but as a way to honor my body and mind.

It’s about learning to love the person staring back at me—the one with thighs that jiggle, a laugh that fills a room, and a heart that feels deeply. It’s about appreciating my strength, even when it looks different from what I thought it should. Through this challenge, I’m not just building discipline; I’m rewriting the story I tell myself when I look in the mirror. I’m choosing to see a person who is whole, worthy, and deserving of care. The mirror reflects not just where I’ve been, but the future I’m hoping to step into.

Excitement for the New Year

Birthdays have a way of aligning perfectly with the energy of a new year. It feels like a double invitation to begin again, to step into a season of growth and possibility.

If last year was about survival, 2025 is about momentum. This is the year I step off the sidelines of my own life and fully engage. I’m done with complacency and avoidance. I’m ready to take intentional, meaningful action—not to prove anything to anyone else, but to honor myself and the life I want to create.

This year, I’m not just surviving. I’m thriving. I’m taking ownership of my choices, my energy, and my joy. I’m saying yes to what aligns with my goals and no to what drains me. I’m building routines that nourish me, relationships that uplift me, and habits that push me closer to the person I want to be.

2025 is personal. It’s the year I stop waiting for change to happen and start creating it.

Here’s what I’m carrying into the new year:

• The understanding that surviving is a triumph in itself.
• The courage to say no to what drains me and yes to what nourishes me.
• The commitment to treat myself like someone I love.

This is not the year of settling. It’s the year of knowing my worth and standing firmly in it.

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A Final Thought

To anyone reading this who has felt stuck in the quiet chaos of life, know this: You are not alone. Falling in love with yourself again is not a grand leap—it’s a series of small, tender steps. It’s waking up on the hard days, pulling yourself together when it feels impossible, and choosing, again and again, to keep going.

This past week, I celebrated the person I am and the person I am becoming. And as the new year unfolds, I’m walking forward with a heart full of hope, ready to embrace every lesson, every joy, and every piece of love that comes my way.

Thank you 2024. You weren't easy, but you were necessary.

Here’s to surviving. Here’s to thriving. Here’s to falling in love with yourself, over and over again.

Island Echoes: Navigating Home, Identity, and the Heart's Tug of War

During this past trip, I found myself wandering familiar shores of Ala Moana Beach and Lanikai, embracing the salty breeze, with a rush of nostalgia and a deep sense of belonging sweeping over me with every step. When I stepped off the plane, the first breath filled my lungs, warm and heavy like memories that never really left. Oahu greeted me like an old friend, like family—familiar but always holding something new, like each sunrise over the Koʻolau mountain range, each wave whispering secrets along the shore. This island,  pulled me back, making it hard to imagine returning to Los Angeles, to the place that doesn't speak the language of home.

Growing up in Kalihi taught me resilience and what it meant to hustle. We made do with what we had, found strength in each other, made ohana from neighbors, turned scraps into something precious. From crowded multi-family homes, to early mornings and late nights, we carved out joy wherever we could. We knew that wealth was found in people, not paychecks, that pride was earned by standing next to one another during difficult times and times of joy, not by climbing ladders in polished offices.

After nearly 15 years away and working in a professional career, I see things differently now. Surrounded by "suits" and strategic plans, I felt a long way from where I started. In the mainland, success looked like promotions, titles, the right connections. But the climb is steep and lonely, filled with invisible barriers and unspoken rules. The higher I went, the more it felt like I was moving away from what truly mattered—the aloha that flowed freely back home, the spirit that had shaped me.

California—and the mainland in general—called for upward climbs, for relentless pursuits, for forgetting where you came from to reach where “they” thought you should go. But Oahu, Oahu said to stay grounded, to stay connected. Every visit pulled at me, a tug-of-war between two worlds—one that pushed me forward, and one that held me close, that reminded me I was part of something bigger than ambition, that I was part of āina, of land, of community.

Being back on the island, I remembered what it meant to breathe easy, to feel grounded. Driving through Kalihi, feeling the grit of the roads that had shaped me, smelling the familiar mix of fried food and ocean air, I saw the faces that raised me, the resilience that built me. 

This place reminded me that upward mobility didn’t always mean climbing higher; sometimes it meant deepening roots, finding strength in the soil beneath, not the clouds above.

Everything on the island felt brighter, warmer—the sun, the laughter, the memories with people who knew me down to my roots. The gentle lull of the ocean waves reminded me of the countless afternoons I spent swimming, building sandcastles, catching waves and chasing the sun as it dipped below the horizon. Each grain of sand beneath my feet holds fragments of cherished memories, a testament to a childhood filled with boundless laughter and carefree adventures.

Spending time with my family, watching them grow into their own and just having drinks and laughs with them, felt like a balm to my soul. My cousins, with their newborns, brought a kind of joy that made everything feel new, fresh, as if I were seeing the island through their young eyes. Friends who had become family over the years gathered together, sharing stories and food like we always had, like nothing had changed, even though life had taken us all on different paths.

And being able to give back to my parents—taking them shopping, watching them pick things they’d never buy for themselves, paying them back, even if it was just a little, for their endless love and sacrifices—that filled me with a quiet gratitude. The roles shifted when you grew older, and suddenly, I found myself telling them not to worry about the cost, wanting to give them the same reassurance they had always given me.

But then, like clouds rolling over the mountains, the conversations shifted. Politics, a topic I wished we could avoid, crept in, and the warmth cooled just a bit. The political climate felt like a shifting tide, pulling some up while leaving others stuck, no matter how hard they paddled. Navigating those waters meant learning to balance who I was and what the world expected me to become—a constant negotiation, a push and pull between loyalty to my roots and the ambition that everyone told me I should chase. I wondered if those in power understood what it was like to struggle, if they had ever tasted sacrifice, if they grasped the weight of carrying the hopes of a community, not just personal dreams. The recent election had intensified our family hangouts, altering the dynamics of what “family” had meant for so long. On one hand, there was love; on the other, there was a deepening divide over values and political allegiances.

My heart ached as I listened, hearing their support for Trump, feeling a gap widen between us in ways that no ocean could match. It was a clash of worlds—of the values I grew up with and the beliefs I had developed on my own. Frustration bubbled up, making it hard to bridge that distance. It was painful, this tug-of-war between love and disagreement, between wanting to understand and feeling that understanding slipping further away. The island taught patience, though; the waves came and went, erasing footprints in the sand, as if to remind me that some things are temporary, transient. I held onto that, even as we disagree, because family was like the tide—always returning, no matter how far it drifted.

These moments were the push and pull of coming home—the laughter and the lightness, mixed with the heaviness of words left unsaid, of trying to find peace in shared space when perspectives didn’t align. But even in those moments, Oahu gave me the strength to stay grounded, to find beauty in the struggle, to hold tight to the love that bound us, even when we saw the world differently.

For now, I bridge those worlds. I carried Kalihi with me in my work, letting its values shape who I was, even far from home. I brought the lessons of resilience, of people first, of staying true to roots even in a system that often seemed to forget the human at the center of every policy, every rule. Maybe one day, the island’s pull would bring me back for good, and I could plant myself fully in the place that felt most like home. But until then, I carry  Kalihi in my heart, its voice guiding my steps, reminding me to move not just forward but with purpose, with pride, with the strength of everyone who had made me who I was.

The island waits, like a memory on the edge of consciousness, a heartbeat I’d never lose. And I answered its call in every way I could—through my work, my words, my way of living in a world that sometimes forgot the power of community, the values of connection. Oahu whispered, and I was always listening.

This is why I keep coming back, keep holding space for the joy, for the frustrations, for everything that made the island and my family feel like home, even when it is complicated. Because that’s what home is—a place that loves you, challenges you, makes you laugh, and tests your patience. A place that reminds you of where you come from, even as you grow into who you are becoming.

This trip made me wonder what it would truly be like to come home for good. It forced me to question whether the transition would feel seamless or if it would bring the pressures of colliding worlds—of who I used to be and who I am now. What would it mean to shape an identity that bridged those gaps? And was I ready for it?

Just eight days at home had stirred up all these questions, reminding me of the deep pull to return to the āina, but also, in other ways, of why I sometimes felt the urge to run from it. The real question hung there, like an echo: What’s next?

Chasing the moon

For some time now, I've been lost in darkness. Afraid of doing anything. Feeling stuck and stagnant and on nights like tonight, I find myself staring out into the sky, looking for a gentle reminder that amidst all the chaos and uncertainty, there is purpose. I gaze into the openness and am reminded that I am but a tiny speck in the universe; that there is something much larger than myself. 

Looking at the sky on a nightly basis can develop into a habit. I would like nothing more than having something apart from me to become a part of me. 

During my childhood, I believed that the moon was following me while I sat in the backseat of the car. As I grew older, I passed it off as a product of my imagination. Unbeknownst to me, the moon has actually been following me my entire life. And in thinking about it now, I am comforted whenever I see the moon - often times chasing it's moonlight myself. 

Whenever I look out of the car window, there's a certain feeling that occurs deep within me as the clouds recede in the light of the moon and stars start to take shape. Yes, they are a little different. The moon rises and falls over a different set of trees or mountains. It's beauty illuminating the darkness, as if showing you what could be. 

And some nights I can't even spot the moon. Once full and bright and close, could easily become enveloped in the darkness as the sun no longer can touch it and you are left with a sky that is incomplete, seemingly, yet, like a reliable friend, it is still there, hidden in the shadow - but still there, nonetheless. 

In all its phases, in all its glory and all its shortcomings, the moon represents change and the phases of it. The moon, like the literature, waxes and wanes, and lifts you up to heights unbeknownst to you, and casts you down to depths just the same. There is good and bad; there is good in the bad; there is a dark element to every ray of light, and vice versa, there is light in even the most inhumane, the most mundane, and the downright miserable. 

Even now as I write this, I am reminded that without darkness, you cannot see the light. And through the darkness and uncertainty, there are friends along the way that will help guide us through. 

What I Wish I could tell you

Tonight we had a conversation and caught up with one another. And as much as I would like to say that it was great - I can't. And I think back of the memories we had - the good, the bad, and the ugly.

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I honestly thought I had mistakenly fallen in love with you. When I ended us, I thought I was dodging a bullet. But it's been 7 months and I still find memories of you everywhere I go and I still look for pieces of you in people that I date. I still remember our first date talking about being the best side stepper there could be and I also remember the first time saying "I love you" to one another. I loved the feeling of having butterflies in my stomach and the thought of endless possibilities with you. I definitely miss those moments of comfort and that energy we had when we first met.

I didn't dodge a bullet when I ended us. I think I might have lost someone really special to me. I think I might have ruined the happiness that I long for these days.
You made me smile and you made me happy; but all I could focus on were the times when you made me cry, angry, or when I felt lonely being next to you - I think that was the most unbearable part - to physically feel so close to you but yet emotionally and mentally oceans apart.
But 7 months of reflection and I've realized that the good outweighs the bad. It always has and I was just too stupid to realize it.

I thought I had mistakenly fallen in love with you; but there are moments where I miss the idea of us so intensely that I've realized that falling for you wasn't a mistake. In fact, I purposefully fell in love with you.

And knowing this gives me hope that I can choose to fall in love with someone else - someone just as special and just as exciting as you were.

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After our conversation, we went our separate ways, I started realizing that I wasn't necessarily over the idea of 'us.' It was great seeing you and doing so made me think of how I am dating to get over the relationship we had and that's never a nice thing to put another person through. As difficult as it is, I'm starting to realize that I am in fact, not ready to date. The residual impact that our relationship had continues to follow me.

I would never tell you this in person - so writing it may make it easier to own. I have actively avoided all of the places we created memories in - City park, the swings, Horsetooth Reservoir, coffee shops we used to visit, Jim's Wings - these places remind me of us and it sometimes feels like opening up a flesh wound and having to experience the loss of a friend - and that has been enough for me to avoid those places. More recently, I've been revisiting those places again...and they still hurt but it's starting to feel like I could make new memories there. But truth be told, there's a part of me that wants to leave Fort Collins because I don't want to go through this process of going to places where we've created memories. Maybe I don't want to forget them or maybe I don't want to feel the sadness in my heart again. It's not because I started talking to someone new... far from it actually.


Whatever the reason, I hope you know how much you've changed my perspective of love and what it means to be in a relationship. I know that we won't be getting back together AND wouldn't be amazing if we found a better, much more fulfilled love than we had? I guess that's what I want to find and it's definitely much harder knowing that my favorite places are also places you and I have had special moments in.

Remembering Wonderful

I'm starting to forget certain things. The way you laughed, the way you smiled, the way you smelled - it's all becoming a blur. I can't feel your presence nor can I hear your voice. It's almost as if you are gone or never existed at all. 

However, the one thing I'll always remember clearly are the nights you fell asleep early to wake up at 6 in the morning, get ready for work, and you kiss me goodbye. ~6 AM is my favorite time, and honestly, I think I fell in love with it more because of you. 

It's been a while since we've spoken, and truthfully, if I have to be honest with myself, right here, right now, I don't think we'll ever have another one of those moments. Maybe somewhere deep in my fantasy or a dream, but in this universe, I know that I won't hear your laugh or voice or see your name on my phone again. A part of me dies every time I tell myself this and another part of me survives while knowing it.

Please do me a favor though; whoever you do decide to wake up next to at 6 AM, I hope they know how wonderful you are. And I hope you'll think of me too, and remember me. Please remember the boy you once met and fell for. And I hope you wonder about the man he has become. 

He is just as wonderful as you are. 

Acceptance

There's this feeling within me that I can't quite understand. It's a feeling of overwhelming sadness. Yet there is peace and acceptance. Some call this grief. In the Japanese language, this feeling is known as:

mono no aware (物の哀れ). 

In translation it means the pathos or deep feeling of things and the acceptance of transience and impermanence - a beautiful sadness of appreciating what once was and is no more - like the colors of autumn leaves right before they fall, the changes of the moon, or the absence of family, friends, and lovers. 

This term stresses the impermanence of life and that we should willingly and gracefully let go of our attachments to transient things. Mono no aware recognizes that the beauty of something (whether a person, an object, or even a moment in time) is dependent on its transiency, in a way that would be missing if we knew that it would last forever, similarly to how we often take for granted the mountains or the oceans in front of us. 

My new tattoo is a representation of this phrase. It is the appreciation of an experience, the acceptance of loss, and the excitement of whats to come. In my own processing, I've realized that there is great romance in walking away from something - the passage of time; in death, and in loss.

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When I was four years old, I said goodbye to my home in the Philippines. Though my heart was weary and fearful at the same time, I was also excited for a new life in Hawaii. At eight years old, I moved again and said goodbye to a home, a feeling of familiarity, a place where I learned to ride a bike and where I found my first friend.

When I was 17, I said goodbye to my family as I flew out to Denver for college, leaving behind the comfort and safety of a community. At first, the nights were cold, my heart felt empty, and my bones felt hallow.

At age 23, I fell in love with a boy who sheepishly fell in love with me too. And at age 25, I said goodbye to that lover, and as I protected my heart, I encased it with sleepless nights, empty kisses from strangers, and drunken stupors, but yet, there was room in my bed to feel his absence.  

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Months later and here I am. In reflection, I've learned to accept my relationship for what it was and move forward. I am still processing and healing, and I am sitting in the pain and sadness of this recent loss - but most importantly, I am okay. 

Unfortunately, there are nights where I still think about the love and the life I had with him. But not in a heartbreaking, head turning, bed tossing, aching kind of way. It's more of an acceptance, a closure - of where we happened and how real it felt in that moment. But now we no longer are.

I am sad but also grateful for the experience - the essence of mono no aware. Like shattered glass, I pick up the pieces of my life and move forward. As my tattoo depicts, I, similarly to a lotus, grew from hardship and murky waters. At the same time, I am like a bud, willing to grow, learn, and experience. The owl is of a different story - it signifies knowledge and a way forward. It is unfinished...like myself.

And during each moment of my life, when I had to say goodbye to each phase or experience, their absence gave me more substance than they ever had. So to anyone reading this who may need to hear it. Sit through the pain because there is beauty in accepting transience and impermanence.

I'm still figuring this out for myself, but this process, although difficult, has only made me realize to be grateful for the moments I can call my own. 

My silence is my departure

I could write about many things today from being in an open relationship, to the shame of emasculation, or the pain of emotional investment, or even the feeling of obligation within a relationship, etc. But today, I choose to write about what silence means to me. 

In the past, I've yelled and I blamed you for many things. I've thrown tantrums and sent you long text messages and emails explaining my pain and anger. There were times I would leave to the other room in the middle of the night because I was hurting. I also cried countless of times because of something you said or done. But you shouldn't have worried about any of those things. They were all displays of my imperfect love. They were all cries for your attention and they were all exhibits of how much I love you. 

What you should worry about is when my responses become one word answers, worry when I no longer fight with you about what you say, and worry when I stop crying, when I stop talking and when I stop reacting. Because this means you’re no longer worth the fight, you’re no longer worth the anger and your flames that used to burn my passion have now turned to ash.

Please know, that my silence is more dangerous than my words, my silence can hurt much more than my words ever will. My silence means you’re no longer the one who’s occupying my thoughts and you’re no longer worth the noise. Because, you see, I love the written word, I live for words, I can keep writing words for the rest of my life because they describe my emotions, because they come from my heart, because they represent my depth and because they’re honest.

But I hate silence. I’m not comfortable with the words left unsaid, with feelings left unattended and hearts being neglected.

My words are my love, my silence is my departure, it’s the beginning of the end. My silence means I stopped caring, my silence means you don’t deserve my words and that I’m giving up the fight for us and on you. My silence is a response to your silence. It’s how I get even with you. So no, this is not a sign of weakness, it's a sign of my strength because this will force me to sit in the silence and process. 

With that, you shouldn’t have feared our heated arguments, the ways I tried to show you who I am, the tears I couldn’t hold back because you meant the world to me. You shouldn’t have feared them, instead, you should have appreciated them, they’re all the ways I wanted this to work, they’re all the ways I tried to fight with you because I wanted to fight for you.

But the day it all stops; the day when everything goes quiet; the night you hurt me and I smile; the night you annoy me and I don’t respond, these are the moments when I'll know that my silence was becoming less and less bearable. Because it means I’m ready to go, it means I’m ready to leave and it means I’m ready to disappear. 

Sadly, this is the case now. I had told you once that my time is the most valuable gift I could give someone and now I have to give myself that time. The worst part of this is, regardless of my silence, I still have to be okay with the fact that you've begun talking to someone new.