As the sun sets and I walk alone, my thoughts drift to the paths I've walked, mostly by myself. It's not that I don't have people in my life, but when it comes to the significant moments, it's often just me. And, surprisingly, I've come to realize that this is okay.
Life can be incredibly challenging, and there are moments when we must become our own heroes because no one else can step into that role for us. Those times when big decisions land heavily on our shoulders, or when we reach out for support and find only empty air—these moments have taught me the most valuable lesson: I need to plan for myself because I am the one person I can always count on.
At night, the world could feel silent, and in that stillness, I often think of how much strength I have within me. I don’t need to wait for someone to come and rescue me from my doubts and fears. I am always my own rescue. Cliché, “The only person you are destined to become is the person you decide to be”.

This understanding isn't about distancing myself from others or losing trust in them. It's about the comforting knowledge that, at the end of the day, the one who will always be there for me is the person I see in the mirror. Crafting plans that rely on me means setting personal goals, ensuring my financial security, and embracing growth in my quiet, solitary moments.

But this isn't a tale of sadness—it's one of strength and discovery. Each time I've had to stand alone, I've unearthed a little more courage and resilience within myself. I've come to see that self-reliance isn't about being lonely; it's about being empowered. It's the reassuring knowledge that, regardless of what life throws my way, I can handle it.

During my recent solo trip to Andorra, I hiked up a mountain trail, feeling the weight of the world on my shoulders. With each step, I felt more connected to myself, more capable of facing my challenges. By the time I reached the viewpoint, the view was breathtaking—not just because of the landscape, but because I realized I had climbed both the mountain and my inner doubts.
​
I’m not perfect and sometimes, I also feel afraid, being alone in pursuing my dreams. In those moments, I close my eyes and pray for the strength and capability I sometimes doubt I possess. I hold onto the belief that there’s something profoundly beautiful in this realization. Achieving my dreams on my own isn’t just possible—it’s a testament to my incredible resilience and something I can be truly proud of. Every step I take alone is a step towards discovering the extraordinary person I am meant to be.

​Faith has always been a part of my life. Growing up Catholic, my parents encouraged us to be close to God. They believed, as I did, that everything is controlled and managed by one ultimate power. This belief stayed with me, even as my life took me far from my roots.

When I moved to Saudi Arabia, the center of Islam, I worked with a very devout Muslim, our  Director of Pharmacy. Around the same time, I married a converted Muslim man. He was deeply committed to his faith, always going for Umrah, a pilgrimage, and praying regularly. His dedication piqued my curiosity about Islam. I started reading about it, trying to understand why he was so devoted. As I read more, I felt my heart drawing closer to God in a way I hadn’t felt before.

One day, I told my boss that I wanted to go on a pilgrimage. He explained that I needed to be a Muslim to go, so I decided to convert. With the help of a Muslim organization, I went through the conversion process from Catholicism to Islam.

When we were preparing for the pilgrimage, I was unsure how to pray properly. My boss told me that when I reached the holiest place in Islam, I should close my eyes and whisper to God whatever my heart truly desired, and He would listen.

For many years, I had been suffering from uterine bleeding. Doctors told me that having a child would be difficult. I shared this with my husband, and we resigned ourselves to the possibility that it might take years for us to conceive.

Standing in the grand mosque on the last day of Ramadan, surrounded by worshippers, I felt an overwhelming sense of peace and awe. I closed my eyes, and tears streamed down my face. In that powerful moment, I whispered to God, asking for the blessing of a child.

When we returned home, my bleeding continued for a while but then stopped. A few months later, I noticed changes in my body and decided to take a pregnancy test. To my amazement, it was positive. It felt like a miracle. When we saw the doctor for an ultrasound, we realized that the conception likely happened around the time of my heartfelt prayer during the pilgrimage.

This experience deepened my faith and made me realize that everyone has their own unique relationship with God. I am not saying that everyone should convert to Islam; faith is indeed a very personal journey. But I am grateful for my special relationship with God. It has carried me through the hardest times in my life and continues to be a source of strength and comfort.

I may not be religious in the traditional sense, but I know that God loves me deeply. His love has blessed me in ways I never imagined possible. My faith, though unconventional, is profound and unwavering. For this incredible journey and the countless blessings I've received, I am eternally grateful, and I give Him all the glory.

​Today, I read a touching post about a grandma patiently waiting for her grandkids to reach home through the Uber app, and it reminded me deeply of my father. My dad had a unique kind of patience. Every time one of us was late coming home from school or anywhere else, there he was, waiting. He seemed to have a calmness that only dads possess. His excitement for our school events always topped ours—every single time. With our mom working far away, it was always him at our school activities, whether it was recollections, graduations, or anything in between. I remember seeing him in the crowd during processions, his eyes tracking us the whole way.

Some of our relatives used to tease us, saying he was so strict because he didn't want anyone chasing after us. Maybe they were right, but to us, he was just being protective. Every Tuesday and Thursday, like clockwork, he'd wake us up early for holy mass. More than being just a school requirement—it was his way of strengthening our faith, something he valued deeply even though he was born a Seventh-day Adventist but raised us as Catholics.

Despite his tough exterior, he surprised us by quoting Bible verses when we least expected it. Those moments would always make us smile; it was a side of him that didn't match his tough dad image. He called us his princesses, and to us, he was nothing short of a king.

When I moved to Manila for my studies, and later when I started teaching at a university, he’d visit me. He’d bring food, and we’d spend time together after my classes. I could see the pride in his eyes—I was one of the youngest instructors at the university, and he loved telling everyone about it.

My sister wasn't left out of his caring gestures either. Working at a local bank, she'd find our dad waiting with a meal for her, ready to drive her home each afternoon.

Our dad was our biggest fan and supporter, always there, always watching over us. Even now, years after he’s gone, I still feel his presence in those moments of quiet patience and unwavering support. When life gets tough, I close my eyes and remember his calm, steady gaze, his protective embrace, and the way he made us feel like princesses. His memory is always my guiding light, reminding me of the depth of his love and the strength of his spirit. Dad, you were, and always will be, our king.

​Happy Father’s Day, Sarge.

Tuwing madaling araw, habang ang sinag ng araw ay tumatagos sa malayong kalangitan,
Nagtatanong sa sarili, isang tahimik na bulong, 
"Para kanino ako bumabangon?"

Para sa ngiti ng aking mga anak, na ang mga pangarap ay lumulutang sa taas,
Ang kanilang kinabukasan ay unti-unting nabubuksan, sila ang dahilan kung bakit.
Para sa kanila, ako'y bumabangon.

Sa gitna ng kalungkutan kung saan nagtatago ang mga anino,
Kapag ang puso'y mabigat at ang diwa'y umiiyak,
Ako'y patuloy na bumabangon para sa kanila.

Sa bawat tawag sa bahay, kung saan nakasalalay ang aking mga pag-asa,
Sa mga ngiting ibinabahagi at mga kuwentong hindi kailanman nagwawakas,
Para sa pagmamahal ng isang ina, ako'y bumabangon.

Sa mga kalye ng ibang bayan, sa ilalim ng dayuhang kalangitan,
Ako'y humaharap sa bawat araw nang may matatag na tingin.
Pagod, oo—ngunit sumuko? Hindi ko susubukan.

Para sa mga pangakong binitawan, na aking tutuparin,
Para sa mas magandang buhay, doon ako umaasa,
Para sa kanila, ako'y bumabangon.

Sila ang aking lakas, ang hindi binibigkas na ugnayan,
Sa kabila ng mga dagat, kung saan lumilipad ang aking mga pangarap.
Para sa aking puso, para sa kanilang kasiyahan, ako'y bumabangon.

Sa madilim na gabi o malakas na ulan,
Laging nasa isip at puso ko ang layunin
Para sa kanila, para sa kanilang pagmamahal, magpakailanman, ako'y bumabangon.

I remember the day vividly. It was a warm Tuesday afternoon, and tensions were high at work. I had just had a heated argument with a colleague. I was furious, my heart pounding, ready to say things I knew would hurt deeply. Just as I was about to let my anger spill over, my boss, a knowledgeable man whom I respect much, quietly took me aside.
 
He looked at me with a calm, understanding gaze and said something that I will never forget: "Words are like seeds. If you plant kindness, you'll grow happiness. If you plant harshness, you'll grow loneliness."
 
His words stopped me in my tracks. They were a direct reminder of the power our words hold. In that moment, I felt a wave of shame wash over me. I realized how close I was to saying something I would later regret. Anger is a powerful emotion that can cloud our judgment and make us lash out. It's so easy to let it take control and hurt those around us with our words. But once spoken, those words can't be taken back. They can leave scars that last long after the anger has faded.
 
My boss continued, "Never say mean words when you're angry. Your anger will pass, but the hurtful words can scar someone for life. Instead, use kind words or choose to stay silent."
 
His gentle advice touched me deeply. He just didn’t want me to avoid conflict but he was encouraging me to become a better person. I felt a mix of emotions – guilt for my angry outburst, gratitude for his wisdom, and a newfound resolve to be more mindful of my words.