What It Means to LIVE (A Return After 2 Years, 9 Months, and 20 Days)

On September 6, 2021, I wrote in my blog: "We discovered that all we ever needed to do was to LIVE."

At the time, I believed I understood what it meant. I thought living was about making the brave decision to move back to the Philippines with Dom after eight years in Singapore. It was about farm life—a simpler rhythm, waking up to our dogs screaming for us to start the day, working on things I love, breathing fresh air, warm mornings filled with purpose. I felt proud of the life we built from scratch. It felt intentional, rooted, joyful. I felt fulfilled.

But life had other plans. Because to truly LIVE is to say yes to the whole of it—even the parts that break you.

My first real lesson in loss came when we said goodbye to Lemon/Lima, our fifth fur baby. That was the moment the dream cracked. That was the first time I realized that living wasn't just about peace and simplicity—it also included pain. It hurt in a way I didn't know how to name.

Then came the heavier waves. Allan, Dom's nephew and our dogs' dearest uncle, died on my birthday. Just less than two months later, my Papa passed. I didn't cry when I first heard it. I was numb. I told myself we had eight good years with him—we had time. But during his eulogy, I crumbled. I broke down. And I don't even remember what I said.

And this year, just a day before my birthday again, my Kuya, Toto, left us. That loss undid me. I didn't just break—I shattered. I lost my centre. My breath. I was doing everything right—being a good daughter, partner, sister, and fur mama. But life still brought me to my knees.

The guilt came crashing in. Why didn't I do more? Why didn't I reach out again? Did he still think of us, even when we had turned away?

I wrote letters to Toto in my grief. I whispered to him at night. I begged for signs. I promised to take care of Mama. I asked the questions no one could answer. There was so much I never got to say, so much love I didn't get to show in those final months. I carried that pain and the guilt quietly.

I kept showing up to life—eating, working, walking—but I felt like a ghost. I was moving without breath, my heart beating without feeling. I tried so hard to keep the dream intact, but it kept falling apart. Our dogs noticed. I think they mourned me, even as I mourned Kuya.

Eventually, I said the words I had avoided: "I need help." And that changed everything.

I reached out to Rachel, my therapist. And in our sessions, I learned something I never gave myself permission to feel before: that it's okay to be soft, weak, and vulnerable. That grief doesn't mean I've failed at life. That to live means to feel it all.

I had always been the one who held everything together. Who carried everyone's weight. Who believed love meant carrying it all. But grief taught me that love also means letting go. That healing begins when I allow myself to rest.

Rachel said, "Your vessel has expanded. You've made space for your Kuya again." And it hit me. I had shut him out because it was too painful. But his place in my heart never left. It was always there. Just waiting.

Kuya is home again. In memories, in signs, in birds, in laughter, in who I am becoming.

I've always lived in overdrive. Constantly chasing, fixing, doing. I thought that was strength. But now I know—true strength is saying, 'I'm tired.' I need rest. I don't have to do it all.

I've started talking to myself in a different way. I now say "well done, Anna" after even the smallest win. I stop to smell the flowers. I walk slowly. I sleep more. I dance again. I've learned to be gentle with myself. I've learned to connect, not compare.

This is the first time I've written something not about our farm or our dogs, but about the messy, sacred work of becoming. Of breaking open. Of softening. Of forgiving myself.

I've learned that life is not about getting it right; it's about learning from our mistakes. It's about being real and slowing down and trusting that the people who love you don't need you to be strong all the time. They just need you to show up.

Mama, this part is for you.

You are the strongest woman I know. And I've spent most of my life trying to be like you. But in doing that, I forgot that I'm allowed to rest. To break. To cry. I wanted to shield you from pain. I tried to carry the weight of our grief so you wouldn't have to. But maybe in trying to be your strength, I forgot how to be mine.

Mama, you don't have to carry this alone. We're here. Your children. Your family. We will hold you the way you've always held us.

You have always been our home, our safety, our heart. Thank you for teaching us what unconditional love looks like. Now it's your turn to rest. To just be. To cry if you need to. We will carry this together.

I know this blog used to be about farm life, and yes, it still will be—because that is part of who I am. But from here on, this space will also be about what's real.

The grief. The growth. The becoming.

Because I'm no longer living a dream—I'm living life. And in doing so, I am discovering joy again. Not the kind that comes from control or perfection, but the type that rises in the middle of brokenness. The kind that reminds you: you're still here. And that's something.

So yes, I'm writing again. And this time, I'm bringing all of me.

Messy. Grieving. Grateful. Soft. Strong. Alive.

Welcome to my new beginning.