The Happiest Hobbits

A love letter to my children. A lantern for Filipino parents raising roots far from home. I didn’t grow up knowing the words inip , gigil , sabik , or hiya . I didn’t grow up knowing the lullabies of my mother and lola . And until recently, I didn’t even know all the words to Bahay Kubo . But now, I do. And now, I sing them. Not perfectly — but purposefully. June is Filipino Heritage Month in our home — not because anyone told us to, but because I chose to make it so. It’s the month of our independence, and it’s when I pause to be more deliberate about reconnecting with a history I wasn’t raised to fully know — but which I now long to pass on. I was raised in a tiny village in Fujairah, in a warm Filipino home where English was our first language. I learned Arabic and French in school. Filipino? That came much later. I didn’t truly embrace it until adulthood — when I was already a college student living in the Philippines, feeling like a foreigner in a place that was supposed to be “h...

We live in an age obsessed with brevity. In my work as a communications and crisis expert, I am trained to sharpen, shorten, and deliver — fast. The goal is not to make people dwell, but to make them act. Every word is measured for its power to cut through noise and land. And yet, there’s a longing inside me that refuses to be silenced. It’s a love for long-form. Not the indulgent, self-important kind — but the kind that invites you to linger. The kind that makes you slow down, sit with an idea, turn it over, let it seep into your bones. The kind that reminds you that being human is not just about doing; it’s about being. . . . Why long-form matters (even when the world says it doesn’t) Some will argue long-form has no place in today’s workplace or on today’s social media. We don’t have time. Attention spans are short. We need punchy messages, sharp headlines, instant reactions. But here’s the quiet truth: when we abandon long-form entirely, we risk abandoning a part of our...

An open letter of love, advocacy, and divine design — for every parent, especially those raising a wonderfully wired, neurounique child. To every mother who feels deeply — and to every father learning to honour that kind of strength — this is for you. For the parents raising radiant, sensitive, wonderfully wired children in a world that doesn’t always understand them. I hope these words meet you where you are, and remind you: you’re not alone. . . . "They don't warn you that their losses are your losses too. They don't tell you their tears are also yours, their hurts are also yours..." The words jumped off the page and settled deep in my soul — words from a collection of essays on motherhood  I've been reading. They speak truth for every mother and spark a quiet storm of realisations within me. That explains a lot. How I watch my daughter trying her best, stumbling more than occasionally. How her struggle wraps itself around my heart until I can barely breathe. Ho...

I’ve been mothered in more ways than I can count. By my mum, who first taught me faith and trust. By my mother-in-law, who shows love in quiet, steady ways. By my titas, my ninangs, my friends, my mentors, and every woman whose words — or simply their presence — have shaped me. This Mother’s Day, I honour you all: the women who loved me, prayed for me, and guided me. You raised me up — with your strength, your faith, your grace. And I carry you with me, every single day. --- Each one of these women — mothers in their own way — has poured something into me that I now pour into my own children. Their words, their love, their example — they’re stitched into the way I mother, pray, love, and hope. Here’s some of the best and the beautiful that I’ve carried from them: From my mum: “ Obedience precedes blessing. ” “ When you say 'yes' to the Lord, there’s no end to the blessings He pours out—for you, for your children, for generations to come. ” Her words have guided me through every...