Here, at Last

The story of coming home, not to a place—but to myself.

A few months ago, my best girlfriends, Kate and Niki, invited me to guest on their podcast. The episode was called “Finding Home (and Yourself)” in their show called “You’re Here.”

At the time, I was searching—unmoored and uncertain, standing in the soft rubble of a life I had just left behind. I had uprooted myself from the Philippines, walked away from a decade-long marketing career that felt like family, and recently earned my master’s in an art and design school in New York. I was on the cusp of another big move—this time to Los Angeles. It came out of nowhere, a surprising yes that I didn’t fully understand yet, but felt right.

“Home” felt like a puzzle I couldn’t solve. Was it where my family lived (Vegas)? Where I grew up (but somehow felt so far from)? Was it New York, with its intensity and relentless pace? I felt like an alien—open, hopeful, and overwhelmed.

I came to the quiet realization that I didn’t know what home meant. Not really.

I knew only that I needed to start over.

I isolated myself—not out of fear, but because I had outgrown who I had been. I was shedding layers, while simultaneously trying on new ones. I wore success like a well-cut coat. But underneath, something was quietly unraveling. Something wanted to be seen.

Three failed relationships later, business prospects that did not fully bloom, I began noticing a pattern: I was always chasing. I believed—deeply, subconsciously—that I had to suffer to earn what I wanted. That rushing meant I was worthy. That being in constant crisis and solving it meant I was useful.

And I didn’t know where that belief came from.

But I was ready to find out. That time of isolation wasn’t punishment—it was sacred. A pause between lives. A reset. A coming home to the truth under all the performance.

On the podcast, I said this:

“Home is where I belong.

It’s not a place anymore; it’s a state of being—a state of safety.

It’s a place for you to cry, to laugh, to bond.

Whatever that place is, that is home.”

Since then, I’ve cycled through different hats—consulting, coaching, designing, launching. Nothing fully stuck. Nothing felt whole. I was chasing doing, hoping it would lead to being.

But here’s what I’ve realized:

I wasn’t home in myself. I did not belong to myself.

I was hiding behind the brands I was building. Behind the titles, the projects, the vision of others. Who am I without the title, the brand, the doing? I could get to the heart of anyone else’s story. But I hadn’t asked myself for mine.

“If you knew everything would work in your favor, how would you live your life?”

Each heartbreak, each coaching program, each stretch of uncertainty peeled off a layer. What felt like stalling was actually a sacred spiral—a slow, spiraling return to truth.

And so, I turned to what I knew.

As a brand builder, I began to treat myself like a brand in need of a turnaround—not one to be marketed, but one to be met. I stepped into the role I had always played for others: custodian of essence.

“If this were your biggest turnaround yet,

How would you begin?”

That question cracked something open.

Because this turnaround wasn’t about reinvention. It was about remembering what made me come alive.

It’s the breath that slows. The shoulders that soften. The feet that feel the ground. It’s eating with awareness. Hearing the hidden crunch beneath the melody. Learning the difference between noise and signal. Being in the present but also remembering history.

It’s the moment when body, heart, and spirit all arrive at once. When the mask falls and the soul steps forward.

This here—this is home.

It’s not a place (Hi Kate). It’s a return. A reckoning. A new renaissance. A romanticizing of your own presence in the world. In a culture addicted to rushing, where power is performative and loneliness is epidemic, this is my quiet protest:

I will measure success not by status, but by alignment.

Not by metrics, but by aliveness.

Not by output, but by impact.

I hope that by choosing to be fully alive—by being here—I invite you to be here, too.

I’m here.

You’re here.

We’re here.

And for the first time in a long while,

I am home.

Special thanks to Niki, Kate, and Kat. You know why.