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

If you don't know, 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 kind of quiet chaos.

Not the kind of chaos that is loud or dramatic. It was quieter than that. It was the kind that slowly settles into your life until you almost forget what it feels like to not be tired. The kind that tells you to just keep going, even when you have no idea where you’re actually going.

There were a lot of days when I felt like a stranger in my own life. I was doing what I needed to do. I was going to work. I was showing up for people. I was getting through the day. But I wasn't really there for any of it.

I was just moving through it.

Now that I finally have some distance from the year, I’ve been thinking a lot about what it taught me. I want to be honest about the parts that hurt, but I also want to leave room for what comes next.

Wading Through Quiet Chaos

Sometimes life doesn't fall apart all at once. Sometimes nothing particularly terrible happens. You just slowly start feeling less like yourself.

That was 2024 for me.

I found myself caught somewhere between being okay and not being okay. I wasn't necessarily unhappy, but I wasn't fulfilled either. I was treading water. Doing enough to stay afloat, but rarely feeling like I was actually moving forward.

Work was a big part of that.

I experiencd a kind of disappointment in myself that was difficult to explain. I wasn't failing. I was still doing my job. I was still showing up. But I knew I wasn't giving it everything I had.

And that was hard, especially when I was trying to encourage the people around me to bring their best.

How do you tell other people to find their spark when yours feels like it's barely there?

Outside of work, that exhaustion followed me home.

There were so many times I wanted to go out. I wanted to see my friends, grab a drink, go somewhere new, laugh, be around people. I wanted to feel like I was participating in my own life again.

But a lot of the time, I stayed home.

Not because I didn't want to go. I just couldn't seem to get myself to go.

I'd sit in my apartment and scroll through pictures and stories of people out doing things, living their lives, and I'd feel this weird combination of happiness for them and sadness for myself.

I wanted to be out there too.

I just didn't know how to get there.

And then there was the mirror.

The mirror became less about seeing myself and more about finding everything I thought was wrong with me.

I would look at my body and immediately start picking it apart. I would think about the workouts I hadn't done, the meals I hadn't prepared, the days when I didn't have the energy to take care of myself the way I thought I should.

I was incredibly hard on myself.

Harder than I would ever be with anyone else.

That's probably one of the things that stands out to me most when I look back. I had somehow become someone I was constantly trying to correct instead of someone I was trying to understand.

That's what made the chaos so difficult.

It wasn't loud. It didn't demand my attention.

It just slowly made everything feel heavier.

I was functioning, but I wasn't really living.

And somewhere underneath all of that, there was still a part of me asking for something very simple.

Rest.

Space.

Connection.

A little kindness.

When I finally slowed down enough to hear it, I realized I didn't need to become someone else. I needed to come back to myself.

Maybe that's what this season was really trying to teach me.

That what I was going through didn't define me. It was showing me something.

It showed me the cycles I had gotten comfortable living in. It showed me what needed to change. It showed me where I needed to soften. And maybe most importantly, it showed me what I needed to let go of.

Looking back now, I can see that I was still moving forward.

It just didn't always look like it.

Sometimes progress is obvious. Sometimes it's getting out of bed. Sometimes it's going to work when you really don't want to. Sometimes it's answering the phone. Sometimes it's taking a shower, making yourself eat, or simply deciding to try again tomorrow.

I didn't win every battle that year.
But I showed up for every single one of them.
I didn't move mountains.
Sometimes getting out of bed 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.
I don't think survival should ever be dismissed as something small.

Sometimes survival is the beginning of everything else.