Tag: family

A Gentle Strength

Reflections on my mother’s quiet love

Some days bring a gentle pull to the heart, the kind that makes you slow down and think about where you came from. Maybe it’s because today is Mama’s birthday, but I’ve found myself thinking about her more than usual. About the home she created for us, and the quiet strength she carried through so many seasons of her life.

When I look back on my childhood, I remember a warm and steady presence. Mama moving around our house and tending to her small sari-sari store. The familiar smell of food cooking, sometimes for us, sometimes for sale. The way she spoke about her children with quiet pride whenever someone asked how we were doing. At the time, those moments felt ordinary, just part of growing up, but now they rise in my memory as the things that shaped my sense of home.

As the years passed, life began to change her in ways we did not understand then. I was old enough to notice the early shifts. Some days she carried her usual lightness. Other days she grew quieter, more withdrawn, holding her thoughts and her worries close. These changes came in waves. She would find her way back for a while, then slowly slip into a softer, more fragile version of herself. We didn’t have the language for it, but we felt it deeply.

My siblings are younger than I am, so their memories might live in different parts of her life. That’s how families are. We each hold our own version of the same home, shaped by the moments we remember most.

Eventually, all of us began to leave. Not all at once, but slowly, as life pulled us into new directions. Back then, we didn’t have phones, so distance felt even bigger. Letters took time. Visits were rare and treasured. Now that I’m older, I often think about how long those quiet stretches must have felt for her. A mother’s waiting is its own kind of love. Quiet. Constant. Hopeful.

There is something she still does, even now, even if years pass between our visits. She pauses by our beds at night. Just long enough to take a breath and look at us sleeping, the same way she did when we were young. It is such a small gesture, but to me it says everything. Some parts of a mother’s heart never change.

And through all her seasons, one part of her stayed steady. Her tenderness for the child who needed her most. Louie, who has Down Syndrome, has always held a special place in her heart. She understands him instinctively, cares for him patiently, and loves him with a devotion that never wavered. No matter what shifted in her life, that love remained the truest expression of who she is.

As life went on and I became a mother myself, I began to understand her more. I understand what it means to love in different seasons. To give what you can, even when you are not at your strongest. To hold your children in your heart no matter how far they go or how long they stay away. To hope quietly. To worry quietly. And to love through all of it.

So today, in this quiet moment, I honor her.
For the warmth she gave me growing up.
For the ways she tried, even when life made things difficult.
For checking on me at night every time I came home.
For her devotion in all the seasons of her life.
For her strength, soft and steady, even when she carried more than she could say.

For Mama,
in the version of her I knew,
and the love she continues to give in her own gentle way.

Carrying Dreams: A Father’s Legacy


When the river rose, my father didn’t hesitate.

One rainy morning, the river had swallowed the spillway between our village and the town. The current was strong, the water high—but school was open, and I refused to miss it.

My father threw me over his back, grabbed the rope stretched across the rushing water, and stepped in.
One foot, then the next. Slow. Steady. Determined.
That wasn’t a rescue mission. That was my commute to school.

I grew up in a small village in Bulan, Sorsogon. Life was simple—but never lacking in the things that mattered. We didn’t have much, but we had food on the table, a roof over our heads, and the kind of love that made you feel safe even when the world outside was uncertain.

As the eldest, I always felt like my parents carried a quiet hope for me. They believed in who I could become, even before I did. That belief showed up in small sacrifices—like transferring me from our local elementary to central school in town. It was a public school too, but bigger, with more students, more teachers, and more opportunities. I thrived there—always on the honor roll—and I carried that sense of responsibility with me, even when the river threatened to block the way.

At home, we lived simply. We had electricity, but no fridge, no TV, no fan. We cooked in a dirty kitchen outside, using firewood. Eventually, we upgraded to a gas stove, and it felt like a big deal.

We didn’t have phone lines. If we needed to send a message to someone in another barangay, we relied on snail mail—or a trusted neighbor heading that way. It wasn’t fast or convenient, but it worked. People showed up when they said they would.

Water came from a nearby spring, and we fetched it in gallons. We took baths in the river or used water from a manual well in our backyard. Laundry happened by the river too—squatting on smooth rocks, soaping clothes, and letting the suds float downstream. I know it wasn’t eco-friendly, but back then, it was simply what we did to get through the day.

That stormy day—the one with the rope across the river—is a memory that lives in me like a quiet anthem. The rope wasn’t a toy or an adventure—it was a necessity. A lifeline built by the village to make sure children could still go to school and families could still reach the town market. Looking back, I guess you could say that was my first zip line experience—not the fun kind, but the kind built from bamboo, knots, and love.

That’s the kind of place I come from. We didn’t have a lot, but we had enough. We had ingenuity. We had each other. And we had parents like mine—who carried more than just our weight. They carried our dreams too.

I think about those days more often than I admit. Not out of nostalgia, but to remind myself of what shaped me. These stories aren’t just memories. They’re reminders that love, resilience, and community can carry you far—sometimes across rivers, sometimes across a lifetime.

Today would have been my father’s birthday.

He passed away almost 11 years ago, but I still feel the strength of his steps in every challenge I take on. The rope may be gone. The river, too. But his belief in me? That’s still here.
Still holding me.
Still carrying me forward.

Stride by Stride: Finding Balance in Life’s Many Journeys

(A slightly late post from my spring equinox reflection—still timely as I continue to find my rhythm in this new season.)

The spring equinox is nature’s perfect pause—a fleeting moment where day and night stand in balance before the light stretches longer. It’s a quiet reminder that everything moves in cycles, that no season lasts forever, and that balance isn’t a fixed state but something we continually adjust, stride by stride.

I think about this often as I move through my own many journeys—running, teaching, motherhood, marriage, travel, and showing up for friends and community. Some days, I feel strong and steady, hitting my stride effortlessly. Other days, it feels like I’m running uphill, out of breath, just trying to keep pace. But forward is forward, whether the road is smooth or full of detours.

Running has always been my teacher in persistence. Some runs feel light and freeing; others ask for everything I’ve got. But the lesson is always the same—just keep moving. Teaching feels similar. Some lessons spark immediate engagement, while others take time. Some students soar; others need extra space to grow. But learning, like running, happens in motion.

Hiking reminds me to slow down. The best trails aren’t rushed—the magic is in the journey, in the quiet pauses, in looking up and taking it all in. Motherhood has taught me this in the most personal way. My son is carving his own path now, and I’m learning to step back, to trust, to cheer him on from the sidelines. Parenting is its own kind of endurance—one that asks for patience, love, and the ability to let go.

Marriage, too, has its rhythm. My husband and I share miles—on foot, in life, in dreams. We push each other, but we also remind each other to breathe, to laugh, to be present. Like any long-distance journey, love isn’t about speed—it’s about pacing. It’s about knowing when to press on and when to simply walk together.

Then there’s the space in between: the friendships, the community, the celebrations, the responsibilities. The things that don’t show up on to-do lists—but live in the heart. I try to be present, to show up, to care deeply. But I’m learning that balance also means knowing when to rest, when to say no, and when to simply be still.

Life doesn’t ask for perfect balance—it asks for presence. Some seasons are full of motion—races, lesson plans, family commitments, travel. Others are quieter—reflective, slower, softer. And just like the earth tilting toward the sun, I’m learning to trust that I’ll always find my way back to center.

So here’s to the road ahead, to the mountains we climb, to the pauses that give us perspective, and to the people who make every step worthwhile.

Stride by stride, we find our way.