Like the Tide

Confidence isn’t static. It moves. It shifts.

It rolls in and out like the tide.

Some days it crashes against the shore, loud and undeniable,

reminding you that you are more than enough,

that your presence is magnetic,

that your body is power and story.

Other days it recedes so far you’re left staring at the exposed sand,

vulnerable, uncertain if the water will return.

I’ve been learning this through my body, through the mirror,

through the quiet comparisons I make when I don’t mean to.

I have a stocky build.

Legs that prove I’ve pushed forward again and again,

muscles shaped by grit, by impact, by momentum.

But I’m also 5’5”, carrying softness in my belly and face that wasn’t there before.

And next to my partner (tall, six feet, muscular,

the embodiment of daily discipline) 

I can feel the tide shift.

People tell him he’s handsome, fit, striking.

I smile, because it’s true.

But inside, I feel the water pull away,

and the soft sand of my insecurity exposed.

It’s not that I don’t get compliments.

I do. I’m told I’m handsome.

That I have a great smile.

That my energy fills a room and leaves it lighter.

That I’m charming, magnetic, unforgettable.

And I love hearing it.

But the truth is: sometimes those words slip right off me.

Like waves that kiss the shore and vanish back into the sea.

And that’s the part no one talks about.

Confidence isn’t about whether people see your worth.

It’s about whether you let it soak in and stay.

The Ebb: When Confidence Pulls Away

The ebb comes in silence.

It comes when I measure myself against someone else’s “ideal.”

When one too many comments about him echo louder than the compliments sent my way.

It comes when I stand in front of the mirror

and zoom in on the parts that changed,

forgetting the things that never left;

my strength, my humor, my warmth.

The things people actually fall in love with.

The ebb is subtle but heavy.

It convinces me that I’m behind.

That I’m not enough.

That desire is a currency and I’m running out.

The Flow: When Confidence Returns

The flow, though, is what saves me.

It comes in moments that never make it on to Instagram.

Laughing so hard with friends that my cheeks ache.

Hearing someone whisper, “You make me feel safe.”

Watching Nova explode with joy when I walk through the door,

tail wagging like I’m the best thing she’s ever seen.

Feeling my thighs carry me uphill, strong, steady, unshakable.

The flow reminds me that confidence is not about perfection.

It is about presence.

It is the tide returning, slow but certain,

reminding me that I have always been more than

what the mirror decides to highlight.

Learning the Rhythm

Right now, I’m learning to trust the rhythm.

To remember that low tide does not mean the ocean is gone.

It means it is gathering itself to come back in full force.

When the tide pulls away,

I have rituals that help call it home:

• I speak to my body like it is a friend. Thank you, legs, for carrying me through scrums and stairs. Thank you, chest, for housing breath when the day runs long.
• I dress for belonging, not illusion. Clothes that fit the body I have make me feel present. Presence looks better than pretending.
• I choose movement for joy. Dodgeball, a brisk walk, a solo dance in the kitchen. Motion reminds me I am a living thing, not a still image to be judged.
• I gatekeep comparison. Less scrolling, more sunlight. Fewer silent measurements, more real conversations.
• I practice mirror neutrality. Look once, name one thing I like, step away. No trials, no sentences.
• I let compliments land. I say thank you out loud so my brain hears it too.

Confidence, like the tide, doesn’t return

because you shout at the ocean.

It comes back when you learn the moon.

For me, the moon is rest, water, food that feels like home.

It is boundaries, knowing when to leave,

admitting I am in my head,

and still allowing myself to be touched.

Naming What Hurts

It also means honesty.

It’s okay to tell friends that I'm insecure about standing next to my partner sometimes.

It’s okay to say it without making it his fault.

It’s okay to ask for new language,

language that holds us both.

On good days I see a man in the mirror

who is compact and powerful,

a body that plants and pivots,

a face that looks content.

On hard days I see only the softness;

in my belly, in my cheeks.

But even then I remind myself

that tide tables exist for a reason.

Low tide is not failure.

It is the ocean gathering itself to rise.

The Goal

The goal is not to become a different shoreline.

The goal is to know mine so deeply

that I stop being surprised by the water.

If you see me next to someone taller, stronger, leaner

know that I can hold two truths at once.

I can admire him and still love me.

I can feel a pang and still choose kindness.

I can work on my health

and refuse to make shame my coach.

The tide is coming in.

Slow, steady.

Not because anything out there changed,

but because I did.

Because I started building confidence

the way the ocean builds waves

with rhythm, with practice,

with pull and return.

So yes, I am still figuring it out.

Still learning to love myself in every version of it: 

the heavier, the softer, the stocky body

that doesn’t always feel like it belongs in the frame.

But confidence, like the tide, always finds its way back.

And I am learning,

finally,

to trust its movement instead of fighting it.

Where I'm Finding Myself (Again)

I used to find myself in busy inboxes,
in color-coded calendars and back-to-back meetings, 

in the signature at the bottom of my emails, 

in the comfort of always knowing what came next. 

But lately, 

I find myself somewhere else...

Pausing after someone asks, "so what do you do now?"

With a hesitation behind my smile when I answer"I'm figuring it out."

Figuring things out in: 

resumes written like love letters

cover leters drafted trying to convince someone I'm worth choosing

Job applications sent off like bottled messages hoping somone reads between the lines 

I find myself in the middle of the day 

rereading old journal entries, hoping my younger me 

left clues about who I meant to become. 

Reading signs and lingering in grocery stores

and reading labels as if they have answers. 

Sipping coffee in unfamiliar cafes

hoping warmth can fill more than just cups.

Leaving a job feels like leaving a name behind. 

Not the one my family calls me, 

But the one the world seemed to value most. 

Without this, I'm learning to fill the space differently; 

wondering if being present is enough.

There's a sense of loneliness in feeling like you're standing still 

while everyone moves quickly forward. 

Buy maybe stillness isn't failure. 

Maybe this pause is an invitation. 

Kind of like a quiet and gentle homecoming of sorts. 

Lately I've been finding myself in new palces. 

In late night talks/hangouts without deadlines. 

In laughter that fgorgets to mention Linkedin

and hopefully in sunrises I never paused to see. 

In being someone, before proving anything. 

And although I don't have every answer yet, 

I have to remind myself that I have time. 

And for the first time, that feels more like a gift 

and less like a sentence. 

When It Starts to Unravel

There's a moment when the rope you've been gripping, tight, determined, maybe even a little desperate, starts to slip through your hands. Not because you want it to, but because it's fraying. Because you're fraying. 

And so things begin to unravel.

At first, it's subtle. A dropped ball here, a missed email there. You tell yourself it's just a phase. You'll bounce back. You always do. But something feels different this time. Not heavier, exactly, but hollower. Like the thing you built your identity on, your job, your discipline, your sense of being the one who holds it all together, no longer fits.

That was me.
Burnt out.
Not just tired.
Soul-deep weary.

I walked away from a job I once poured myself into. A role built on structure, accountability, and being the calm in the storm. But what happens when the storm moves inside of you? When the calm cracks and suddenly you're the one who can't keep up? When you can't even hold yourself accountable, let alone anyone else?  

It's a strange kind of grief, leaving a version of yourself behind. Not because it didn't serve you once, but because it no longer does. I didn't leave with a grand plan. I left because staying felt like lying. And I'd been lying for too long. Smiling through the fatigue, nodding through misalignment, convincing myself that burnout was just a badge of honor I hadn't yet earned. 

But here's the part I'm still sitting with: 

I'm not proud of how I left. 
I'm not proud of what I avoided. 
I know I took the easier way out. 

And yet, maybe that was the only way I could leave. Maybe the version of me that stayed would've dug in deeper, buried himself beneath more performance, more pleasing, more pretending. 

Sometimes the easy way isn't cowardice. Sometimes it's mercy. 

And now I'm here. In the in-between. 

Not who I was. 

Not yet who I want to be. 

Just...unraveling. 

But unraveling isn't the same as breaking. 

It's the beginning of becoming. 

So, how do I become better? 

Not perfect. 

Not polished. 

Just better. 

So here's what I'm learning (slowly, gently):

1. Better starts with honesty. I can't grow if I'm lying to myself. I have to name the patterns, like avoiding hard conversations, like abandoning myself to keep the peace, people pleasing...Accountability isn't punishment. It's alignment. 
2. better is boring. It's not grand gestures or sudden reinventions. It's a small choices. Getting up when I said I would. Following through on the thing I promised myself. Forgiving myself when I don't and trying again. 
3. Better requires grief. I have to let go of the identity I tied to "being good at my job." To being the strong one. The fixer. I'm not broken without those titles. I'm just...different now. 
4. Better isn't linear. I will fail and will backslide. I'll ghost my own goals. I'll have days where brushing my teeth feels like a win. That doesn't mean I've failed. It means I'm human. 
5. Better needs vision, but not clarity.  I don't need to know what the end looks like. I just need to know what aligned feels like. Peaceful. Clean. Honest. Whole. 

If anyone is here too, in the unraveling, please know this...

You're not weak for letting go. 

You're not selfish for choosing rest. 

You're not a failure for walking away from what no longer fits. 

You're just between chapters. 

And the page is turning. 

Write something new. 

Even if it's slow. 

Even if it's small. 

Even if it scares you. 

Because the you that's waiting on the other side of this unraveling? 

They're worth the work. 

And you're not alone. 

Now not. 

Not ever. 

A return to what I tried to forget

Here’s the thing, the Philippines (specifically Tarlac) isn’t glamorous. There’s no skyline to pose in front of, or a rooftop bar with panoramic views, or a polished tourist path with curated experiences. What you’ll find instead are dirt roads, dogs asleep in the middle of the street, tricycle drivers who wave like they’ve known you for years, and manongs/manangs who greet you with a hug and a comment about your weight.

There’s chaos here.

There’s beauty here.

There’s truth here.

And for a long time, I wanted nothing to do with any of it.

I was born in the Philippines, but I left when I was three. I didn’t grow up with these roads under my feet. I didn’t speak the language fluently. I didn’t know the names of half the people who waved at me when I arrived. I spent most of my life trying to blend in somewhere else, learning how to belong in places that were never truly mine, bending myself to feel “normal,” acceptable, digestible. I distanced myself from anything that felt too raw, too loud, too Filipino.

Because deep down, I carried a quiet kind of shame.

Shame for not knowing enough.

For feeling like a guest in my own story.

For being too American here and too Filipino there.

For not being enough of either.

So I kept my connection to the Philippines at a distance. I’d talk about it in the way you reference an old photograph, nice to look at, but separate. Not part of who I actively was. I thought that was easier. Cleaner.

But this trip… it cracked all of that wide open.

It wasn’t just about eating street food or visiting family or sweating through three outfit changes a day. It was about finally being still long enough to feel something. Something familiar. Something grounding. Something I didn’t have words for until I was back in a place I’d spent years avoiding.

It wasn’t perfect. The power went out for a whole day. I got mosquito bites in places I didn’t know had skin. The heat was aggressive and unapologetic. But amidst the discomfort, something softened. Something healed.

I sat in our family home, sipping coffee with my mom while the rooster crowed outside. I listened to my dad tell stories of his time in the military, laughing about how naughty I was as a kid. I reunited with the women who used to care for me when I was a baby, who greeted me not just with affection but with the brutal honesty only Filipino aunties can deliver:

“Nalukmegka unay!” (“You’ve gained weight!”). And you know what? I laughed.

Because that moment, chaotic, unfiltered, completely sincere, was real. And for once, I wasn’t trying to soften it, filter it, or distance myself from it. I was just… in it. Present. Proud. Home.

For the first time, I didn’t feel like I had to perform my heritage or prove I belonged. I didn’t need to speak perfectly or have all the answers. I just needed to show up as I am. With love. With humility. With honesty.

I’m learning that owning where you come from doesn’t mean checking all the cultural boxes or being fluent in every dialect. It means being honest about your story, the whole story. Even the messy, complicated, in-between parts.

Mayantoc isn’t just where my parents retired. It’s where I remembered who I am.

Not in a grand, dramatic way.

But in small, ordinary moments that whispered, you don’t have to keep running.

So no, it’s not glamorous.

But it’s home.

And I’m done pretending that’s not enough.

I don’t have it all figured out.

There’s still a lot I don’t know.

But I’m learning.

I’m returning.

I’m owning it.

One sweaty, honest, healing visit at a time.

Falling Back in Love with Myself

2024 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 and finally reflect on the past year, I’m faced with the challenge of choosing to honor both the issues of the past year and the potential of the year ahead.

Wading Through Quiet Chaos

Sometimes, life isn’t marked by big events or loud moments - sometimes, it’s a quiet resignation that creeps in, slowly, day by day. Last year, I found myself caught in the undertow of life — 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 also 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.

This type of chaos taught me that what I was going through did not define me, but rather, teach me. Teach me of the cycle I was in, what needed to be changed, where I needed to soften, and what I needed to let go of. 

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 wasn't small. It was not insignificant. It was the foundation upon which I will build the next chapter of my life.

Coming Out Isn’t Just a One-Time Thing

In honor of National Coming Out Day, I wanted to share something that’s been on my mind: coming out isn’t a one-and-done kind of thing. It’s not like you declare it once, drop the mic, and walk off into the sunset. Nope. It’s more like this ongoing, sometimes awkward, sometimes empowering process that happens every time you meet someone new. Every introduction feels like this little mental calculation: “Do I mention it? Should I say it now? Are they going to assume? Should I correct them?”

Even after being out for years, I still feel that pressure like I need to get ahead of people’s assumptions before they start questioning. And for anyone out there who’s still figuring it out, questioning, or maybe too afraid to say it out loud, just know: you’re not alone.

I’m 31 now, and while I’ve technically been “out” for a few years, I’ve realized that the most important part of coming out wasn’t telling other people. It was coming out to myself and learning how to actually accept that. That’s where the real work started.

Here’s how it unfolded for me:

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Stage One: Questioning (aka The Mental Ping-Pong Match)

At first, it was all about questioning, like this non-stop, internal ping-pong match. “Is this a phase? Am I just confused? Why do I feel this way? Wait… do I like them, or do I just think they’re cool? Or both?” Spoiler alert: it was both.

I overanalyzed everything, my friendships, my crushes, my reactions to movie characters. But weirdly, while I was dissecting every part of my life, I somehow managed to avoid directly confronting my sexuality. It’s like I was standing next to a giant, flashing neon sign that said, “Hey, maybe you’re gay!” but I just kept looking everywhere else.

I didn’t talk to anyone about it. Not because I didn’t have people who would’ve listened, but because saying it out loud felt too real. So, I kept it tucked away in this little mental box labeled “Deal with later.”

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Stage Two: Internal Acceptance (aka The “Oh, Sh*t… It’s True” Moment)

Eventually, I hit a point where I couldn’t ignore it anymore. That’s when the real shift happened, not when I told someone else, but when I admitted it to myself: “Yep… I’m gay.”

And let me tell you, that realization was both terrifying and liberating. It’s like ripping off a Band-Aid, but the Band-Aid is your entire identity, and underneath it is this mix of fear, relief, and “Okay… so now what?”

Accepting it didn’t mean I was immediately proud or confident. Honestly, it felt like standing at the edge of a cliff, staring down at all the potential ways life could change. “Will my friends treat me differently? Will my family still love me? What if people don’t get it?” That fear was real. But even with all of that, there was this quiet sense of peace, because at least I wasn’t hiding from myself anymore.

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Stage Three: Finding Support (aka The Scariest, Yet Best Thing I Did)

The first person I came out to wasn’t some big, dramatic moment. No heartfelt speech. No inspirational background music. It was more like blurting it out in a casual conversation because holding it in felt heavier than the fear of saying it.

Choosing who to tell first mattered. I picked someone I trusted, some
one I knew would hold space for me without judgment. Their reaction? “Oh, cool. Thanks for sharing.” That was it. No fireworks. No dramatic pause. Just simple acceptance. And honestly, that was perfect.

From there, it got easier. Not easy, but easier. Each person I told chipped away at the fear until it didn’t feel like this giant secret anymore. It’s wild how much lighter you feel when you stop carrying the weight of hiding.

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Stage Four: Pride (aka Learning to Love That Part of Me)

Pride didn’t happen overnight. For a while, I thought, “Okay, I’m out. That’s enough, right?” But there’s a difference between acknowledging who you are and actually embracing it.

Pride showed up in small moments like not correcting someone when they assumed I was straight, or wearing something that felt more “me,” or talking openly about my life without censoring it. It was in the little things that added up to a big shift: “Yes, I’m gay...and I love that about myself.”

I started to feel this freedom I didn’t even realize I was missing. It’s like I could finally exhale after holding my breath for years.

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Stage Five: Relationships (aka Navigating Love, Awkward First Dates, and All That Jazz)

Dating after coming out felt like stepping into a whole new world. It was exciting and terrifying all at once. I had to unlearn so many things, like how to flirt (still working on that, honestly), how to communicate what I wanted, and how to be vulnerable in ways I’d never been before.

There were awkward first dates, heartbreaks, and lessons learned. But there were also moments of connection that made all the fear worth it. I realized that love doesn’t have to look a certain way to be real. It just has to feel honest.

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Stage Six: Telling Family (aka The Conversation I Rehearsed 1,000 Times in My Head)

Coming out to family was the hardest part. I rehearsed it so many times in my head, imagining every possible reaction, from supportive hugs to dramatic disownment (spoiler: it wasn’t either of those extremes).

When I finally did it, their reactions were mixed. Some were supportive right away; others needed time. And that’s okay. People process things at their own pace. What mattered was that I was honest, and that honesty gave me the space to be my full self around them.

If you’re reading this and you’re not ready to come out to your family yet, that’s okay. Your safety and well-being come first. There’s no deadline. Do it when you’re ready, and not a moment before.

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Stage Seven: Finding Balance (aka Just Living My Life)

Here’s where I’m at now: being gay isn’t the most interesting thing about me. It’s just a part of who I am—like my love for coffee, my terrible sense of direction, or my obsession with ’90s R&B playlists.

Coming out isn’t something I think about every day anymore, but it’s still part of my story. And yeah, there are still moments where I have to “come out” to new people, but it doesn’t feel like this huge announcement anymore. It’s just… me.

Coming out isn’t a straight line (pun intended). It’s messy, beautiful, scary, freeing, and deeply personal. There’s no right way to do it. No perfect timeline. Just your way, in your time.

You deserve that.

Invisible String

I’ve been thinking a lot about the idea of the invisible string. 

That quiet belief that the universe ties certain people together long before they even meet, keeping them apart until the timing is just right. I never really put much thought into it before, but now it feels like this is the only way to explain… this. Whatever this is. 

I’ve never met him in person. Not once. And yet, somehow, he feels more real to me than people I see every day. 

It’s wild, isn’t it? 

How someone can exist in your life without ever physically being there, but still take up so much space in your heart. It’s like there’s this thread stretched between us, unseen, unspoken, but undeniably there.

There’s something about the way he shows up, not just in words, but in the way his words feel. Like he knows exactly when to reach out, exactly when I’m starting to unravel, even when I haven’t said a thing. He holds space for me in a way I didn’t even realize I needed. It’s not just the comfort in what he says; it’s the way he makes me feel seen without having to explain myself. Like he just gets it. Gets me.

His encouragement isn’t performative. It’s not fluff or filler. It’s genuine, heartfelt, and always seems to land exactly where it’s supposed to, right in that part of me I try to hide from everyone else. It’s the kind of support that lingers long after the conversation ends, like a soft echo I carry with me throughout the day.

But here’s the thing about invisible strings, they pull both ways. And that pull? It’s gentle, sure, but it’s constant. There’s this ache woven into it, a longing I can’t really explain. I feel it most when I think about the people who do get to be near him, the ones who hear his laugh without needing to imagine it, who get to exist in the same room, breathe the same air, stand close enough to notice the little things I’ve only guessed at.

And sometimes I have to pull myself back. Check that jealousy before it spirals into something that overshadows what we do have. Because what we have is beautiful, even if it doesn’t come with all the traditional markers of closeness. I wouldn’t trade it for anything.

He’s become this quiet, steady presence in my life. Like a song you didn’t know you needed until you heard it and now you can’t imagine your playlist without it. He’s proof that connection doesn’t need proximity. It doesn’t need to make sense. Sometimes, it just is.

Maybe that’s the whole point of the invisible string, not just tying us to people we’re destined to meet, but reminding us that love, connection, whatever you want to call it, doesn’t always follow the rules we think it should. It can exist in the spaces between words, in the gaps between time zones, in the hearts of people who’ve never even shared the same sky.

I don’t know if we’ll ever meet. Maybe the universe has its own plans for us, keeping us at this beautiful distance, connected but not colliding. Or maybe one day, that string will pull tight enough to close the space between us.

But even if it doesn’t, even if this connection always lives in the “almost,” I’ll carry it with me. Because he’s woven into my story now, stitched into the quiet places I thought would stay empty.

And honestly, I think that’s enough.

Or maybe… it’s just the beginning.