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.