The Happiest Hobbits

Truly, a gathering of grace — and the wedding of a lifetime. My Heart Is Overflowing These past few days have been a beautiful kind of whirlwind — the kind that leaves you breathless, grateful, and quietly in awe that so much love could fit inside such a short span of time. My youngest sister got married (yes – our Amazonian warrior, spoiled softie bunso!) and while part of me itched to immortalise it into words immediately, God was just unfolding blessings faster than I could catch them. . . . Filipino by heritage. UAE by childhood. Family forever. Right before and right after the wedding, the very people who witnessed my beginning — my Bestest and childhood friends, including my cousins who had moved to the USA — returned to my world once more. Full or mixed in heritage, we were kids of Filipino expats – born and raised in the UAE, growing up side by side, and united in memory. Seeing them again, some with their parents and spouses and children too, felt like time exhaled and wrapped...

Today, on my beloved father's birthday, I wanted to honour him in the most honest way I know: through story. This is the fuller version of my tribute: a journey through childhood, healing, faith, and grace…  and the story of how God brought both of us home to each other. Below is the full reflection — the one too long, too emotional, and too deeply personal for posting anywhere — but perfect for this quiet corner of my writing world. Growing up, I was the apple of my Daddy’s eye — until suddenly, I wasn’t. From being an only child, I became the eldest of four daughters – each new baby sister softer, sweeter, and easier to adore than the last. Our youngest especially — His perfect little photocopy. His face. His charm. His tiny twin. Naturally, she was extra special. And slowly, I faded. Or at least, that was how it felt in my sensitive child-heart. Daddy was not unloving. He was a doting father, a devoted husband, a public servant, and a humble man of great integrity an...

Tonight, we ended the day with something special – a gentle ritual of love that has become part of our family’s rhythm every year. With my parents and sisters, we have a family tradition we call a birthday salubong . No matter where we are in the world – Dubai, Dublin, Batangas, or travelling – five minutes before midnight in the Philippines, everyone jumps onto a virtual call. At exactly 12 midnight, we gently wake the celebrant, who sees us through groggy eyes as we all burst into birthday song with our own cakes from our own corners of the world, glowing with love. Because of the UAE-PH time difference, this happens at 7 PM Dubai time. We greet, we laugh, we send our love, enjoy a slice of cake, and then we let the celebrant go back to sleep. But tonight we added something new. I always read the girls a bedtime story; and this time I wanted to prepare our hearts to celebrate our birthday star more deeply the next day. We’ll honour him again tomorrow – in church, over a...

A reflection written from a Catholic heart ~ inspired by a quiet afternoon talk with my daughter about myths, motherhood, and how even the oldest stories can lead us back to God’s light . One lazy afternoon, my daughter and I were talking. Ate’s seven, and like me at this age, somehow already fluent in Greek mythology – their tangled loves, rivalries and family trees. I'd been quietly impressed and decided to challenge her. “Does Aphrodite have any children?” I asked, pretending not to know. She thought for a moment. “She does," she said finally, “but I just can’t remember the names.” Almost at the same time, I name the most well-known of the goddess' spawn, “Cupid,” while Ate blurted out, “Eros.” We laughed. Then I launched into explanation mode: “They’re the same: one Greek, one Roman.” That led to a guessing game (Zeus and Jupiter, Aphrodite and Venus, Ares and Mars!) and finally, her brow furrowed as she asked, “But why do they have different names if they’re the same?...

We never met, yet your light reaches us all the same.  Somehow, I know you through the people you loved... in the laughter you passed on, the love you built, and the stories that still make their way to our dinner table. Happy birthday in heaven, Papa.  We celebrate you, dili sa luha, but with gratitude – for a love that outlived time. This one’s for you. A Letter to Papa in Heaven Dear Papa, I never had the honour of meeting you, but I’ve come to know you — in stories, in laughter, and in the way your love continues to live through your family. They say you were palabiro , masayahin , makulit...  the kind of father who brought joy wherever you went. You had a gift for turning ordinary moments into memories, for bringing lightness to the heaviest days. Mamila, they say, was the strict and serious disciplinarian — though now she’s known as our living beacon of calmness, generosity and grace. I imagine how perfectly you must have complemented each other: your la...

I still remember the last time I was heartbroken and  painfully  single. It was an ordinary Sunday in our small parish in Fujairah – a humble, one-story building that’s been home to our local Catholic community for years. The place was packed as always, with familiar faces in familiar pews; mostly families I’d grown up seeing every week.  At the altar, the priest lifted the Heavenly Host as he had done countless times before. He broke it in two, then into smaller pieces – the sound barely audible over his words echoing Jesus’ blessing from the Last Supper, yet somehow resounding through the soul. A soft, sacred crack that lingered in the air like a prayer. Then I was standing in line for the Holy Eucharist, facing the priest as he held up a fragment – uneven, imperfect, yet utterly holy. I said the only word that could hold all that moment meant: “Amen.” It means  so be it . It means  I believe . It means  even this – even...

I grew up on a farm in Fujairah, with a private beach at the end of it. For me, nature was never a luxury — it was simply my normal. The sound of the waves, the rustle of palm leaves, the sight of birds overhead... these were part of the rhythm of life. I learnt early that the Earth is a companion, a teacher, and a refuge. That conviction found its first outlet in school, when I was appalled to notice no one was writing about the environment in our school newsletter. My very first article carried the striking title:   “Save Planet Earth… Or else!”   It was bold, maybe even a little dramatic, but it captured exactly how I felt: that the Earth could not speak for itself, and we had a responsibility to give it a voice. By the time I entered high school, I rallied my classmates and launched Cloud No. 7, a wall magazine dedicated to environmental and social issues. To my surprise, it lived on long after I graduated. That was my first glimpse of what legacy means: when you plan...

Some men are more than brothers — they are blessings. There are people whose lives shine so brightly that you cannot help but be moved by their love, their faith, and their strength. They do not ask for recognition, yet their quiet sacrifices become the very foundation on which others stand. They are the steady presence that holds a family together, the unseen anchor, the living proof of God’s grace at work. For my husband’s side of the family, that person is Kuya Nanan . I rarely write about my husband’s side of the family, since they are very low-key and private. But today, I make an exception — because if there is anyone whose life deserves to be honoured out loud, it's our very own Kuya Nanan. Kuya is a façade engineer based in Singapore, but beyond his profession, he is the pillar of the family. From the time he was still in college, when their beloved Papa passed away, Kuya became both kuya and tatay — pouring out everything he had to make sure Mamila and the whol...

The Goodbye My sister just flew back to Dublin after her holiday with my parents. She was home for a wedding, for laughter, for meals shared side by side. And now the house feels quieter. Not empty — my parents still have each other, and my youngest sister is there — but different.  The silence after goodbye is always heavy. . . . Growing Up With Goodbyes This rhythm isn’t new to me. I grew up with it. My parents were Overseas Filipino Workers (OFW) too. I remember the cycle: pasalubong carefully packed in suitcases, jeepneys loaded with grandparents and relatives excited to welcome us back, the distribution of Toblerone and Marlboro and Johnny Walker (or Jack Daniels) and designer shoes... long waves and tearful goodbyes at the airport when vacation ended. Every holiday was overflowing with joy — and every departure left a hole behind. That pattern shaped my childhood, and now, as a second-generation expat in Dubai, it continues. My parents have retired to the Philippi...

A birthday post, and a quiet rebellion Today I turn a year older. And instead of a party post or a list of lessons learned, I’m giving myself this space to return to the roots of who I am: A writer. A woman. A wife and mother. A soul quietly pushing back against the noise, reclaiming what matters. . . . I’ve always been writing. As a child, it was in perfumed diaries – unfiltered, emotional, sometimes messy, always honest. Sometimes dad would let me use his typewriter and I loved it even more. Later it was the now defunct Xanga and Angelfire , then Blogspot as She Who Wears the Crooked Halo and now The Happiest Hobbits . Over the years I wrote because it helped me breathe and understand what I was feeling before I could name it.  Then life changed. It got full, and fast. I stopped sharing, took a long hiatus, turned inward. I wanted to be more private, and I still do. But the words never stopped coming. Somehow, when I write, I feel more truly myself. And when I don’t – when life ...

 Thoughts and highlights while reading on holiday I brought Good Inside by Dr Becky Kennedy with me on holiday, thinking I’d skim through a chapter here and there between outings and downtime with the kids. But just a few pages in, I found myself underlining nearly every sentence. I’ve learned over time that I remember better when I write. There’s something about putting thoughts into words that helps me process what I’m reading – and come back to it when I need it most. So here I am with a new series, jotting down some of the ideas and lines that struck me the hardest. These are my personal notes and reflections, written more for memory than mastery. Maybe they’ll speak to you too. * * * * * Big Ideas That Hit Me: 🌱 “Your child is good inside.” This isn’t just a nice thing to believe – it’s the foundation of everything Dr Becky teaches. She invites us to shift from seeing our child’s behaviour as bad to seeing it as a signal. Instead of thinking, “Why is my kid acting like this...

Posted for International ADHD Awareness Day, 13 July You might hear it from classmates, teachers, strangers... Even from people who love you, but don’t understand: “Why can’t you just sit still?” “Why are you always talking?” “Why don’t you try harder?” “You’ll grow out of it.” “It’s not even real.” But I’m here to tell you, loudly and clearly: You are not broken. You are beautifully wired. . . . You are not alone ADHD is real.  It is how your brain is wired to process the world – sometimes louder, faster, more intensely. It means your thoughts might sparkle and scatter like fireworks.  It means you might feel everything – joy, anger, wonder, frustration –  big and fast . It means that school might be harder sometimes. That forgetting things, starting things, or stopping things can be exhausting. But it doesn’t mean you’re lazy. It doesn’t mean you’re bad. It means your brain works differently. And different is not less . . . . You are capable Your brain is a storm of po...

This is part of my blog series,  Uyayi: A Lullaby Across Generations  — an homage to our roots started from the month we mark  Araw ng Kalayaan  [Philippine Independence Day]. Each post explores the title of four picture books we brought home after our last visit to the motherland; Filipino words I didn’t grow up using, but now read aloud with love and intention: Inip. Gigil. Hiya. Sabik.  I gift these words to my children, one page at a time. . . . There’s a special kind of ache  that comes not from pain,  but from yearning .  That’s sabik . It’s my toddler squealing when she hears the key turning in the lock. It’s my seven-year-old counting down the days until the weekend. It’s my husband who watches me rush around and jokes that someday, when the children are grown, he’ll finally have me to himself again. I laugh and roll my eyes, but I know exactly what he means. Many times in my life, it was me too: The child who couldn’t wait to leave her ...