I’ve been in what I call my “Build Everything, Sell Nothing” era. Blog? Check. Substack? Check. Medium? Check. Etsy, KDP, Gumroad — and probably a future Stan Store if I ever stop making my banners look like digital garage sales.
Basically, I’m one strong Wi-Fi signal away from becoming a startup no one invested in.
You know how Filipino men are raised to believe they’re the kings of the house?
Not partners. Not equals. Kings.
I grew up around that kind of machismo — the kind where “head of the family” means “I get the final say, even when I don’t know what we’re talking about.”
It means “I have opinions about everything, including your silence.”
It means “You’re lucky I let you speak at all.”
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.
We got married on a cruise ship ten years ago — just the two of us, the officiant, and a few crew members as witnesses. Quiet, intimate, and exactly how we liked it.
If I could change one thing though, I wish my kids had been there. But maybe next time, when we renew our vows, I’ll make sure they’re front row with tissues and cocktails in hand.
And now, we’re about to sail again — hopefully this time with fewer arguments about my overpacking.
You ever get to that point where “hosting” starts to feel like a job you didn’t apply for, with no paycheck and way too much emotional overtime?
Yeah. That’s me. Every year.
The faces change. The menu shifts. But the expectation? That stays the same. Somehow, we’re always the ones who host — which apparently means we fund it, prep it, cook it (well, he cooks it — and he is really amazing), serve it, clean it, and smile through it while people show up empty-handed and full of opinions. They sit around talking about themselves over stuffing like it’s a TED Talk. (Stuffing is divine, by the way. His recipe. I’ll share it if you ask nicely.)
It’s not even the work that drains me anymore. It’s the assumption. That we’ll do it. That we’re available. That we’re the reliable ones.
And that word — available — I’ve started to hate it.
Because what it really means is:
You don’t get to have plans.
You don’t get to have boundaries.
You don’t get to say no — not without being called selfish, dramatic, ungrateful, or my personal favorite: “different now.”
Different? You mean healed?
What the hell were these so-called travel “experts” thinking?
I read an article — yes, from a very popular travel site that shall remain nameless (let’s just say it rhymes with Ravel & Leisure) — that said:
“Put your luggage in the bathtub when you arrive at your hotel.
Rip off the sheets.
Look behind the frames.
Inspect the seams of chairs, cushions, cracks, and crevices.
Check the lamps.
Crawl around with a flashlight like CSI: Marriott Edition.
Buy a thermal bug killer.
Basically, turn your vacation into pest control training.”
Excuse me… what?
Gurl, why do you even travel if you’re going to spend the first hour of your trip checking for microscopic roommates?
I didn’t come to Bali to wrestle with a bedspread.
I came to sip mango juice and pretend my problems can’t reach international waters.
Long-haul flights already drain the life out of me — even when I fly flat, eat with real cutlery, and pretend I’m rich.
The only thing I want when I land is a shower, a little exploring, and a Mi Goreng I don’t have to share.
But apparently, I should start my vacation like I’m starring in Law & Order: Hotel Victims Unit or The Walking Dread: Pest Edition. 😂
Flashlight. Gloves. Lysol (spray or wipes — choose your weapon). Fear.
Why stop there? Should I bring pepper spray, door chains, and a portable bug crematorium too?
Also, no — I’m not replacing my favorite makeup palette just to pack a gadget that burns invisible bugs.
That palette is my emotional support shimmer, thank you very much.
It’s not vanity. It’s therapy.
I travel to relax.
I travel to forget that adulting is a full-time crisis.
If I wanted anxiety, I’d just check my email… or my credit card bill.
And yes, I understand being cautious.
But can we stop posting these things in an authoritative tone like they’re the ten commandments from Mount Marriott?
There’s a difference between being prepared and being paralyzed.
And I guess some of these writers are backpackers turned digital nomads. You just gotta choose who you listen to.
Some of them forgot that travel is supposed to make you lighter, not load you with new fears.
If I’m paying for a beautiful hotel room, I’m not going to rip it apart like a forensic intern on their first day.
Clutter creates chaos, and chaos eats away at peace faster than any bug ever could.
Do I put my luggage on the bed? No — because it’s been through more public spaces than my social life.
And honestly, I like to keep my bed pristine — that’s my sacred recovery zone.
Bad feng shui, bad vibes, and bad sleep if I start mixing airport germs with pillow energy.
But a bug surviving a luggage conveyor belt?
That’s not a bed bug. That’s a Marvel villain. Not Ant-man. 😎
I love hotels with luggage racks.
I hang my clothes. I unpack. I use the dresser.
Because living out of a suitcase feels like living half a life — and I’m too old for half-measures. And too old to go walking out with more wrinkles than my skin.
I’ll admit, I sometimes still live out of my suitcase when it’s just a quick weekend in Lake Tahoe to keep my Caesars Rewards points alive.
But that’s strategy, not neurosis. 😂
And for the record — if there’s ever a fire and your suitcase is in the bathtub?
Congratulations, genius. You’re now hotel rotisserie.
(And look, I get the paranoia - my 93-year-old MIL still blocks her door with a chair, so grandma paranoia runs deep. Maybe it’s genetic.)
#HotTakes #HotTubs
I travel for peace, not paranoia.
If bed bugs are my destiny, I’ll deal with it — after crying, scratching, and Googling how much Benadryl I can legally take. Until then, I’m staying exfoliated, hydrated, and blissfully in denial.
This one’s straight from the heart.
I wasn’t planning to share it yet, but sometimes a story needs to be told while it’s still fresh in your chest.
I grew up more on books, art lessons, and baking than on cars — but life, in its strange way, taught me torque, gears, and how to import heavy equipment and vehicles from Japan, then convert them from right-hand drive to left.
Or was it left to right? I still can’t tell my left from my right sometimes — but I figured it out. Eventually. 😅
So now, whenever I go to NASCAR with my husband, I’m not just the woman cheering because it’s fun (and because I love overpriced caramel popcorn and cinnamon-sugar walnuts — insert heaven-on-earth face). I actually know my engines. I can talk about horsepower, modifications, and race lines.
I learned because someone once told me I couldn’t — and nothing fuels a woman quite like that.
My husband and I have season tickets to the NASCAR races in Las Vegas.
He’s the sports guy. I’m the one yelling beside him — part fan, part proud survivor of everything I had to outdrive in life — and because apparently, my midlife crisis smells like gasoline and SPF 50.
Last Saturday, we brought my grandson, Gav, to the shorter race. He’s eight.
Yes, I bring an eight-year-old to NASCAR, and no, I’m not sorry. He loves it. I’ve got earplugs for him — responsible chaos.
The first time we took him, we toured the pits. A mechanic handed him a few lug nuts, and my husband was practically glowing. Gav held them up like, “What’s this, Lola?” (“grandma” in Tagalog).
I laughed. Oh, sweetheart — your Lola can explain carburetors, gear ratios, and yes, lug nuts. And then I watched him clutch those shiny little things like treasure, and I thought — that’s the magic right there: finding joy in the small stuff.
Let me backtrack.
I have two grandbabies. Gav came first — my Vegas boy.
When he was born, everything in my life shifted. It’s hard to explain, but he gave me purpose in a time when I was still piecing myself back together.
Then came Zeke, my little dino in the Philippines. Three years old now, full of life. He’s the inspiration behind my Dino Zeke books. I try to visit him once a year, and we do video calls in between. But when I see his face on that tiny screen, I feel the distance. I remember the day he was born — and how I wasn’t there.
I chose work over being present for his birth.
I told myself it was “for stability,” “for the promotion,” “for the family.”
And yes, I got the promotion — but I also got a hole in my heart, a wound that never fully healed, that still whispers, you missed it.
If I could go back, I’d choose hugs over deadlines.
But life doesn’t give refunds — just reminders.
That was one of my biggest regrets.
Not because my daughter blamed me — she understood. But because I couldn’t forgive myself.
I have five kids — four girls and one boy, my only rose among the thorns.
They were from my first marriage. It wasn’t a good one.
My kids and I are survivors — of domestic violence, of drug abuse, of silence.
Things people didn’t talk about before. Maybe I’ll tell that story in full another day, because it matters. Too many of us survived quietly.
Being a single mom of five was chaos wrapped in caffeine. I missed a lot — birthdays, school events, bedtimes. I was strict, sometimes too strict, because the world already assumed my kids would end up like their father’s story. I refused to let that happen. I fought hard to prove every single one of them wrong.
So I worked, hustled, survived. But surviving isn’t the same as living.
I still carry the regret — every award ceremony I skipped, every school pickup I couldn’t make, every quiet “It’s okay, Mom,” that probably wasn’t okay.
That look on their faces when they just wanted me there — that one still finds me sometimes, even in my happiest moments.
And now, when I look at my grandkids, I feel it all over again — that ache of time you can’t get back.
When Gav was born, he was my wake-up call.
I told myself, this time, be present. Don’t just send love — live it.
Then when Zeke was born, his mom showed me something over a video call. Every night after he went to sleep, she’d draw activity sheets for him — coloring, counting, tracing — anything to keep him learning while she worked.
He finished them so fast that she couldn’t keep up.
And something inside me clicked.
I thought, Okay, I can help with this.
If I can’t hold him, I can still reach him.
So I started learning everything I could: Canva, KDP, formatting, illustrations, publishing.
I poured into those pages everything I wanted to say but couldn’t in person — the Filipino myths I grew up with, the lessons, the lullabies, the silly rhymes.
What started as one book turned into four children’s books (some bilingual — Tagalog and English) and four adult coloring-journal-ish hybrids.
And somehow, this once-tired single mom became a published author. It still feels unreal. I never expected to be a published author. But then again, I never expected to survive half the things I did.
Fast-forward to this weekend.
We were in the hotel in Las Vegas. Gav was still damp from the pool — my husband (I call him Aquaman because he’s happiest in the water; he grew up surfing in Surf City, USA) had been teaching him how to swim, dive, and touch the pool floor.
He couldn’t do it at first. Tried again and again. No tantrums. Just quiet determination.
“Next time, Lola,” he said. “I’ll get it next time.”
That alone made me proud. But then — he picked up one of my books.
He flipped through the pages. His big eyes widened.
“Lola, how did you do this?”
And that was it. I felt something rise in my throat — that mix of pride, love, and all the years I spent thinking I wasn’t enough.
Because no polite “good job” from anyone will ever compare to the look on your grandchild’s face when they see you as someone who made magic.
He read every page. Laughed at the Tagalog words he understood but couldn't pronounce.
And for the first time, he set his iPad aside without me asking.
That was my miracle.
For a few minutes, it was just us.
No screens, no distractions.
Just the sound of pages turning and his little voice saying, “Wow, Lola.”
And in that moment, I thought about every choice I made — even the wrong ones.
The wrong partner who dragged me through years of pain.
The wrong jobs I took trying to make ends meet.
The wrong times I told myself work was more important than being there.
If I could go back, I’d choose differently. I’d hold more babies. Bake more cookies. Sleep less, hug more.
But here’s what life taught me — sometimes you can’t undo the pain, but you can redeem it.
And that’s what I’m doing, one page at a time.
No, the other man doesn’t get called “grandpa.” He doesn’t deserve the title.
He was the warning.
This — my husband now — the one who teaches, who cooks, who cheers — he’s the reward. He’s Grandpa. Period.
So when Gav asked how I did it, I wanted to say: Because I had to. Because I refused to let someone who once tried to break me be the end of my story.
But I didn’t.
I just smiled and said,
“One page at a time.”
And maybe that’s what second chances look like — not rewriting the past, just turning it into something beautiful and showing up again, better this time.
Even if it’s made of lug nuts and children’s books.
If you’re curious about the books that made an eight-year-old choose paper over iPad (yes, miracles happen), they’re all up now — bilingual stories, activity books, and little life lessons drawn from love, late nights, and the kind of stubbornness that runs deep in this family.
📚 Amazon Author Page
🛒 Gumroad
The digital versions and extras aren’t all there yet — this one-woman-band Lola is working hard behind the scenes (and probably bribing herself with cookies to finish). 😅
Read them. Gift them. Laugh at the Taglish (Tagalog-English) rhymes.
And if you’ve ever learned something the hard way and want to share — I’d love to hear your story too.
Every click, every kind word, every share — thank you.
Maraming salamat (thank you so much), always. 💛
If you’ve made it this far, thank you for reading my heart.
Sometimes I write to remember, sometimes to release — and sometimes because the story just refuses to wait.
This one reminded me that life isn’t about getting it perfect; it’s about showing up, even when you’ve stumbled, spilled, or switched the wrong gear.
If you’re out there trying to rebuild something — a dream, a family, yourself — I hope this reminds you that it’s never too late to start again.
One page at a time, one small act of courage, one stubborn heartbeat that says, “Not today, I’m not giving up.”
So here’s to all of us still learning, still fighting, still finding joy where it sneaks in — even if it smells like gasoline, sunscreen, and a little bit of redemption. 🖤