Somewhere Between Leaving and Arriving.

The first three months on Oahu didn’t feel like the cinematic reset I thought it would be.
It was quieter than that. More contained. Almost like life had softened instead of expanded.
It felt like learning how to exist again in a place that didn’t know me yet. At least not this version of me.

I was 17 when I left Hawaii. I’m 33 now, and everything about being back feels unfamiliar in a way I didn’t expect. Not new exactly. Just distant. Like something I once knew well but can’t fully access anymore.

I remember the first morning in my apartment.

The light came in differently. Softer, but somehow clearer. The air felt warmer, heavier. I sat there longer than I needed to, just listening. No traffic. Just birds, wind, and something steady in the distance that I couldn’t quite name.

And lately, it’s been raining.

Not just passing showers, but steady, lingering rain that settles into the day. The kind that makes everything feel slower. More internal. Like the island is asking you to sit still whether you want to or not.

At the beginning, everything felt provisional.

I went to the store and bought only what I needed. I left boxes unpacked. Told myself I’d get to them later, like I wasn’t fully convinced I was staying.

Even the smallest decisions felt unfamiliar. Where to shop. What to cook. How to move through a place where everything felt just slightly out of sync with who I had become.
People move differently here.

Not slower in a careless way, but in a way that feels deliberate. Like there’s no rush to get anywhere other than where you already are.

There were moments that didn’t feel real.

Driving along the water and having to pull my attention back to the road because it felt too unreal to look at for too long. Watching the sunset and noticing how people stop for it. Not out of obligation, but because they want to be there for it.

And then there were the quiet moments.

Coming home to a space that was still becoming mine. Sitting in the stillness. Cooking for one. Eating without distraction. Letting the day settle on its own.

That was the part that stayed with me.

Because being here wasn’t just about the move. It was about being alone in a way I hadn’t experienced before. No built-in rhythm. No familiar presence. No one to soften the silence when it started to feel too loud.

There were moments I missed people in ways that surprised me.

Not in a heavy or overwhelming way. Just in the small, everyday things. Sharing a meal. Saying something out loud instead of keeping it to myself. Hearing someone else exist in the same space.

And I miss Ryan.

There’s something about knowing he’s in Los Angeles while I’m here that makes the distance feel more real than I expected. Being in a long distance relationship isn’t dramatic in the way people make it seem. It’s quieter than that. It’s in the pauses. In the moments where I instinctively reach for him and remember he’s not here. It’s loving someone fully, while learning how to live a life that doesn’t include their physical presence every day.

But somewhere in all of this, something started to shift.

Life began to fill in around the quiet.

I’ve started meeting people. Slowly at first, then more naturally. The kind of friendships that don’t feel forced, just built over shared time and small moments.
I joined a kickball team. A bowling league.

Things that feel simple on the surface, but somehow became anchors in my week. Spaces where I didn’t have to overthink who I was. Where I could just show up, laugh, move, exist alongside people who were also just trying to find their rhythm.

Friends from other states have already visited.

Seeing them here, in this version of my life, felt surreal. Like two worlds overlapping for a moment. Familiar faces in a place that still feels new to me.

And in those moments, I realized something.

I’m not as alone here as I thought I was.

But I’m also learning how to be.

I started noticing myself again.

Not all at once. Not in some defining, life-changing way. Just small things. Taking walks without needing a reason. Paying attention to how my body felt. Wanting to move. Wanting to take care of myself, not for anyone else, but because I finally had the space to.

I began to build small routines.

Morning coffee at my desk.
Walks before the sun got too high.
Music playing in the background while I cleaned, even if no one else was there to hear it.

And over time, the space started to change.

I unpacked more. Left things out. Let the apartment reflect me instead of feeling like somewhere I was passing through. I stopped questioning whether I’d still be here next week.

At some point, without really noticing when, it stopped feeling temporary.

Not in a way that felt settled.

More like something in between.

I’m not arriving in some big, obvious way.

I’m still figuring it out.

But I am here.

Living a life that still feels unfamiliar, sometimes quiet, sometimes lonely, but fuller than I expected.

And I think that’s what these first three months really were.

Not a transformation. Not a clean beginning.

Just the slow work of trying to find balance.

Figuring out what it means to build something sustainable.

To create routines that can actually hold me.

To invest in a life that feels steady, even if I don’t know how long I’ll be here.

One where the rain comes and stays a little longer.

Where new people slowly become familiar.

Where distance teaches you what matters.

And where I’m learning to stay present, instead of trying to define what this is too quickly.

Because maybe it doesn’t need to be permanent to be real.

Maybe it just needs to be lived.

After Us.

Ive been sitting with my thoughts more lately. And it’s been a while since I’ve written like this, but something about this moment feels worth holding on to. So I’m letting myself slow down to revisit a memory that’s been resurfacing lately as I navigate new friendships and a renewed sense of love. 

—————

It’s strange what time does.

Many years later and I’ve forgotten the small things. 

I don’t remember the exact sound of your laugh anymore.
Or the way your voice changed depending on who you were talking to.
I can’t recall the little habits I used to know so well, the things that once felt permanent, like they were etched into me.

They’ve faded.

Not all at once.

Not in some dramatic, heartbreaking way.
Just slowly. 

Quietly.
Like something being washed away over time until one day you realize it’s gone.

And I think that used to scare me.
The idea that someone who once knew me so deeply, whether as a friend or something more, could become distant like that. 

That memories could blur. 

That details could disappear.

But now it feels different.

Because even though I’ve forgotten the small things,

I remember how it felt.
I remember the closeness.
The way we could talk about anything.
The way, at one point in my life, you were someone I chose and trusted, fully and without hesitation.

And every now and then, you still cross my mind.

Not in a way that pulls me backward.
Not in a way that makes me wish things were different.

But in a quiet, passing thought.
Like wondering what your life looks like now.
If you found the things you were searching for.

If you became the person you were trying to grow into.

I don’t miss you in the way I used to.
But I care in a way that doesn’t need anything in return.
I’ve always said I’d be in your corner.
And even though life took us in completely different directions, even though we don’t speak anymore, I meant that.

I still do.

So wherever you are, whoever you’ve become,
I hope you’re happy.
I hope life has been kind to you.
I hope you’ve found people who understand you in ways that matter.
I hope you’ve built something that feels like peace.

And maybe that’s what time really gives you.
Not forgetting in a painful way,
but in a peaceful one.

Where what once was everything, becomes something softer.
Something distant, but still respected.
Still held with care.
Not love in the way it used to be.
But something close to it. 

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 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." 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. 

Not now. 

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.