It’s Sunday again.
The kind where I should be cleaning, but instead, I’m sitting in our office — on my husband’s chair because mine refuses to stay up, which honestly feels personal at this point. He’s in the living room, yelling at football players who can’t hear him, fully committed to his fantasy team like it’s the Super Bowl.
Meanwhile, I’m here scrolling my phone, half-working, half-praying for direction — basically arguing with the universe while pretending I’m being productive.
The man gets more emotionally invested in fantasy points than real ones. Meanwhile, I’m over here arguing with the universe.
Football season is long. Marriage to a football fan? Even longer.
Sometimes I think women like me should be called football widows.
The Real Widows of Football — coming soon to whatever land the husbands forget we exist in, filmed live from Laundry Land. 😂
Our husbands vanish into their TVs for hours — and if it’s Sunday, it’s the whole day — while we pick up the socks, the dishes, and the existential dread.
And in between all that noise, I find myself thinking:
Is this still worth it?
The blogging. The books. The online shop that sometimes feels like therapy disguised as business.
Am I building something, or just floating in a sea of half-finished projects and good intentions?
Friday night, it started with a Poshmark notification. I get so many scam call, messages these days — fake buyers on Etsy, random texts that start with “Hello dear” (instant delete). But this one was real.
A buyer for the Allbirds sneakers I listed weeks ago. Cute shoes, wrong size. I bought them back when “retail therapy” meant confidence, not clearance.
I listed them brand new — never worn, still with tags — for $40. She offered $30.
Gurlll. I already went super low. Do you know those retail for $90? But fine, I countered $35.
She pushed back again — $30. Nope. I’m solid.
I went to bed defending my last shred of dignity over ten dollars.
Next morning, she accepted.
I should’ve felt happy.
But instead, I just stared at the notification, thinking, Is this it? Is this all I’ve become?
Selling shoes. Letting go of handbags that once meant promotions. Dresses that once meant date nights. Heels that once clicked across polished floors announcing my purpose.
All this clutter used to mean something.
Now it just whispers: You used to.
And it’s not just the things. It’s the space.
This house is too big for two people. My fault — I said yes when he said small.
Five toilets. 2,800 square feet of tiled proof that I’ve never known moderation.
Every Sunday, I vacuum grout like it’s a moral calling. My daughter once said, “Mom, you only vacuum carpets.”
Like, girl, you think dust politely avoids tiles?
Meanwhile, my husband’s outside smoking like it’s an Olympic sport. (And no, not that kind of smoking.) He’s smoking ribs better than Kansas City’s finest while I play sous chef, chopping coleslaw I won’t get credit for.
If I make it, it’s “too sweet, Pinoy-style.” Honestly, I can cook — I’m a good cook for a Filipino. But my husband can’t (or won’t) eat most of what I make. He’s kind of picky — because he knows how to cook — so I let him.
Because why not? Less work for me. 😂
Sometimes I look at him — this man who gave me a second chance at love — and think, what a miracle that two battle-worn people found peace.
Other times I think, how did I end up married to a man who argues with referees on TV?
Honestly, the NFL should just call him directly for reviews — he clearly knows more than the refs in New York.
But that’s life, isn’t it?
One minute you’re sure of everything, the next you’re standing in a kitchen full of smoke and coleslaw wondering if your dreams got lost in the delivery.
🚗 From Manila to the Mountains (and Everything In Between)
In Manila, driving isn’t a skill — it’s combat training with feelings.
We don’t really follow lanes; we just form new ones when the mood strikes. Six lanes can become nine, and somehow everyone still thinks they have the right of way.
Traffic rules? More like traffic suggestions.
And the horns — oh, the horns!
They’re our national language. We honk to say move, hi, watch out, or I just felt something deeply and needed to express it.
Then came the motorcycles — hundreds of them buzzing through gaps like a swarm of flies on espresso, weaving, building their own mini-lanes between cars. You check your mirrors, and still end up gasping, “Where did that one come from?”
Traffic enforcers stand in the middle of it all, arms flailing like backup dancers in a musical nobody rehearsed.
One once shouted, “Ma’am, you’re stepping on the line!”
And I said, “Huh? What line? Is this basketball now?”
True story.
I drove in that chaos for twenty years.
Jeepneys, tricycles, pedestrians, stray dogs — all crossing wherever their heart desires. I could parallel park between moving buses while a vendor knocked on my window selling boiled corn. That’s not driving; that’s choreography. That’s art.
Then I moved to California.
Land of polite drivers, painted lanes, and people who actually stop at stop signs even when the road is empty.
And yet… I failed my first driving test.
Not the written one — I aced that.
But the actual drive.
The instructor said, “You didn’t stop long enough at the intersection.”
I said, “Sir, that’s called a California roll.”
He didn’t laugh. Guess we won’t be having a sushi date then.
But sir, in Manila, if you stop that long, someone’s already washed your windshield, sold you peanuts, and converted you to a new religion.
I cried after that test. Not because I couldn’t drive — I survived EDSA rush hour! — but because for the first time in years, I felt small. Like I’d been demoted from seasoned driver to confused tourist in my own life.
Eventually, I passed — out of pity? Maybe, lol.
But then came Highway 50 — that winding mountain road between Sacramento and Lake Tahoe that looks beautiful in postcards and terrifying behind a steering wheel.
Locals drive it like Mario Kart.
I drove it like a prayer.
We don’t live there anymore. I’m in Roseville now — flatter, warmer, and blessed with a Walmart and Costco nearby. But sometimes, people here still look at me like I’m dumb. Like I don’t get things.
I want to tell them, “I’m not dumb. I just grew up on the other side of the world.”
You had a head start.
I had to start over — new country, new language, new systems, new rules.
And yes, I speak English — fluently. But it’s not my first language. Sometimes I still say things that make people pause, like the time I said salary instead of wage. That’s what we use back home. I wasn’t being fancy — I just wasn’t used to the idea of being paid by the hour coz I never was an hourly wage earner and Philippines don't have that.
The look on that person’s face said it all — like I was the dumb one.
Moments like that remind me how foreign I still feel, even after all these years.
And for the record, I didn’t cross a border illegally.
There’s no border between the U.S. and the Philippines, my dear — it’s the Pacific Ocean.
I didn’t sneak in; I flew in — legally, jet lagged, and clutching all my documents in a color-coded folder like the good Asian I am.
I came from privilege, yes, but also from grit. My parents built everything from nothing — a real rags-to-riches story I’ll tell someday. They taught me how to rise, how to work, how to create.
Then at 43, I moved here — started over from scratch.
My Philippine career? Impressive but invisible. My achievements? Untranslatable.
Companies here don’t call the Philippines to verify your twenty years of experience — they just smile, nod, and move on.
All those years managing teams, budgets, and egos? Gone. Like a file saved on a USB nobody can open.
And credit? We didn’t even have credit scores back home — at least not like here. You either had cash or utang (that’s Tagalog for “debt”). No number decided your worth. So when I got here, I had nothing to show. No history. No record. It felt like I’d been erased and had to build a new life from zero.
401(k)? We don’t even have that. We have family, food, and faith — but not retirement funds.
And when people here say, “If they can do it, so can you,”
I want to believe them.
But they started on Wi-Fi.
I came from dial-up — slow connection, constant buffering, lots of restarting before it finally sticks.
I’m third world; this is first world.
And most people don’t even realize that difference. They say “first world problems” like it’s a joke, but the gap is real — wide enough to get lost in, if you don’t know how to swim.
You had a system that remembered you.
I had to build one that never even knew my name.
Still… I keep going.
Because even when I doubt myself — when sales are slow, when I’m chasing visibility in a jungle of algorithms, when I feel like I’m shouting into the void — I know this:
I’ve rebuilt before. I’ll rebuild again.
I come from people who turned peanuts into empires.
From a woman who laughs her way through storms.
From a mother who learned to drive mountain roads at fifty and kept going even when the cliffs scared her.
So yes, tonight I’m tired.
I’m overworked, underpaid, under-acknowledged, and emotionally held together by caffeine, garlic rice, and prayer.
But I’m still here. Still writing. Still trying.
Maybe that’s the point — not the perfect comeback, not the viral post, not even the next big sale.
Maybe the point is that even when life feels paused, I’m still available.
Available for new beginnings.
Available for quiet miracles.
Available for whatever this next chapter is trying to teach me.
💭 Reader Reflection:
To my fellow football widows, late bloomers, and women rebuilding their lives — have you ever felt like your old life expired before you figured out the new one?
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