Grieving Childhood Innocence

Today, quite by accident, I found vintage episodes of Sesame Street on Netflix.

I clicked on one.

And somehow, for a little while, I was a child again.

There were the familiar characters, the old sets, the little segments I had not seen in decades -- and to my surprise, I remembered so many of them. Images that must have been tucked away somewhere in the quiet corners of my memory suddenly came alive again.

Only this time, I could pause.

I could stop the screen and look closely at things that, as a child, simply passed before my eyes. A room. A wall. A familiar face. A tiny detail in the background. Things that probably meant nothing then somehow felt precious now.

And somewhere between remembering and watching, something inside me broke open.

Oh, how I miss my childhood.

I found myself thinking about the little girl who used to sit happily in front of the television and watch Sesame Street. She didn't know very much about life yet. She didn't know about heartbreak. She didn't know what it would feel like to be rejected by someone she loved with her whole heart. She didn't know that there would come a time when people she once shared a life with could make her feel small, unwanted, forgotten, or alone.

She didn't know how lonely some days would become.

She was just a little girl watching Sesame Street.

And today, looking back at her from all these years away, I suddenly felt so sorry for her.

Not because her childhood was unhappy. Quite the opposite. I remember being happy. Perhaps that is precisely why the memory hurts so much.

There was an innocence to that happiness.

That little girl had absolutely no idea what was waiting for her.

She did not know there would be storms. She did not know that some of them would come from places she once believed were safe. She did not know that there would be losses she could never have prepared herself for, or that one day she would understand what it means to miss someone who is still alive.

She didn't know that sometimes love does not protect us from being hurt by the very people we love.

And as I watched those old episodes today, I wanted desperately to reach through all those years and find her.

I wanted to sit beside her.

I wanted to put my arms around that little girl and hold her tightly.

I wanted to whisper, Anne, there are going to be storms.

Some will frighten you. Some will hurt you. Some will change you.

There will be things you wish you had seen coming. There will be roads you wish you had never taken and people you will wish you could have understood sooner. There will be moments when you will wonder how a heart can hurt so much and still keep beating.

But I am here.

I know you.

I know what is waiting for you because I am the woman you will become.

And if I could, I would stay beside you through all of it.

Maybe I would warn her about the things that could be avoided. Maybe I would tell her to trust herself more. To recognize certain storms before walking into them. To protect her heart without hardening it.

But perhaps more than anything, I would simply love her.

I would nurture her.

I would protect her tenderness.

I would tell her that she never has to earn the right to be loved.

And I would stay beside her for as long as she needed me -- through childhood, through growing up, through motherhood, through heartbreak, through all the strange and beautiful seasons of a life -- until the twilight end of days.

Of course, I cannot go back.

The little girl is gone from that room. The television she watched is probably long gone, too. The years have carried away so much.

But today, Sesame Street somehow opened a tiny door through time.

And through that door, I saw her again.

I saw the little girl I used to be -- innocent, happy, unsuspecting -- watching those familiar characters without knowing anything about the complicated life ahead of her.

And I cried for her.

Perhaps I cried for myself, too.

For everything she would eventually lose.

For everything she would survive.

For all the days when she would feel forgotten.

For all the times she would have to gather the pieces of herself and continue.

And yet, as I sit here now with tears in my eyes, another thought comes to me.

Maybe I cannot go back and protect that little girl from what was coming.

But I can love her now.

Because somewhere inside this 57-year-old woman, she still exists.

The little girl who laughed at Sesame Street is still here.

The child who trusted life before she knew how complicated life could become is still here.

And perhaps when I feel lonely, instead of only grieving for her, I can sit beside her in my heart.

I can tell her what no one could have told her then:

Anne, I know what happened.

I know how much it hurt.

I know there were days you never imagined you would have to live through.

But look at us.

We are still here.

And if I could truly meet that little girl for just one afternoon, I think I would sit beside her on the floor and watch Sesame Street with her.

I wouldn't tell her everything.

Perhaps a child should be allowed to keep her innocence for as long as she can.

I would just hold her close.

And when the episode ended, I would kiss the top of her head and whisper:

Enjoy this, little Anne.

Laugh.

Be happy.

You don't need to know about the storms yet.

And when they finally come, somehow, you will find your way through them.

I know.

Because I am you.

And then maybe I would stay for one more episode.

Just a little longer.

Because after all these years, I have missed her, too.

Casa Arcoiris de Anna - 8/2/26

It has been almost a year since Casa Arcoiris was turned over to me.

When I look around today, I do not simply see cabinets, shelves, books, furniture, or carefully chosen colors. I see a dream that refused to die.

There was a time when I could not even look at this house without feeling an ache deep inside my heart.

The memories were simply too painful.

This home, which was supposed to bring me peace, instead became the place where I experienced one of the deepest disappointments of my life. It was entrusted to someone I believed I could trust -- someone who was not only my architect, but also family. I paid every centavo in full before I left for the United States, believing that when I returned months later, I would finally be coming home.

Instead, I came home to abandonment.

An unfinished townhouse.

Unfinished work.

Things that did not function.

Things that had to be repaired.

Promises that had quietly disappeared.

For months, I lived believing that progress was being made because that was what I was repeatedly told. But the truth eventually revealed itself. While I was away, this dream had been neglected. What I thought was slowly becoming a home had instead been left behind.

There were days when I stood inside these walls and simply cried.

Not quiet tears.

The kind that leave you asking God why something so beautiful had to become so painful.

This townhouse witnessed moments when I questioned my strength.

Moments when I wondered if I should simply let the dream go.

Perhaps it would have been easier.

Perhaps selling it would have spared me from the emotional weight of rebuilding what should never have been broken in the first place.

But something inside me refused to surrender.

I chose to fight.

Not out of anger.

Not out of revenge.

But because I knew that what had happened was wrong.

Justice eventually came, imperfect as it may have been. The court ruled in my favor and ordered that a significant portion of what I had lost be returned to me. No amount of money can restore the trust that was broken or erase the painful memories attached to this journey. But it has given me the opportunity to continue rebuilding this home the way it should have been from the very beginning.

Looking around today, I know Casa Arcoiris is still not finished.

There are still empty shelves waiting to be filled.

Corners waiting for greenery.

Spaces waiting for little details that will make this house feel softer, warmer, and even more like home.

There is still so much I want to do.

And perhaps that is what makes these photographs so meaningful to me.

They do not show perfection.

They show progress.

They show healing.

They show courage quietly taking shape.

The Filipino saying, "Malayo pa, pero malayo na," has never felt more true than it does today.

I still have a long way to go.

But I also cannot ignore how far I have already come.

When I look at these rooms now, I no longer see only the pain that once lived here.

I see evidence that broken dreams can still be rebuilt.

Not exactly as they were imagined.

But perhaps with even greater meaning.

Every book I place on a shelf.

Every plant I add to a corner.

Every appliance I install.

Every picture I hang.

Every improvement I make with my own decisions and hard-earned savings is quietly reclaiming something that was almost taken away from me.

This home was never handed to me.

It has been fought for.

Prayed over.

Cried over.

Worked for.

And rebuilt.

One decision at a time.

One room at a time.

One prayer at a time.

People often say that a house is made of concrete, steel, glass, and wood.

I have learned otherwise.

A home is also built with perseverance.

With faith when faith is difficult.

With courage when giving up seems easier.

With hope that stubbornly refuses to disappear.

That is what Casa Arcoiris has become for me.

Not merely a townhouse.

Not merely an address.

But a reminder that even after betrayal...

Even after disappointment...

Even after dreams seem to collapse beneath your feet...

You can still choose to stand.

You can still choose to build.

You can still choose to believe that beauty can grow where heartbreak once lived.

Casa Arcoiris is still becoming.

And perhaps...

so am I.

💖

Faced with a Truth I Have Been Quietly Avoiding

Today, I am faced with a truth I have been quietly avoiding -- that I cannot keep holding everything together just by being kind, patient, and understanding all the time.

There is a part of me that still believes that if I just love enough -- if I just wait long enough -- if I just stay soft enough -- things will come back to me. That love will return. That I will be seen again. That I will matter again in the lives of the people who matter most to me.

But today, I am beginning to understand something that hurts -- deeply.

Love does not always return on time.
And sometimes, it does not return in the way I hope it will.

And yet, here I am -- still loving.

There is trouble in my home and family -- not always loud, not always spoken, but present in the silence, in the absence, in the spaces where replies should have been. I feel it in the waiting. I feel it in the wondering. I feel it in the quiet question I carry -- “Do I still exist in their world?”

I tell myself not to expect. I tell myself to understand. I tell myself to give space.

But I am human.

And even the smallest hope -- as tiny as the tip of a needle -- still lives in me.

Today, I also see how tired I am from trying to keep everything emotionally balanced. From trying to be the bigger person. From trying not to break in places where I am already cracked.

There is a pressure in me -- to keep loving without needing anything back. To keep showing up without being acknowledged. To keep being “good” so that I will not be misunderstood again.

But the truth is -- I am hurting.

And I am allowed to admit that.

There is frustration inside me -- not because I want to fight, but because I want to be felt. I want to be understood. I want my love to land somewhere, instead of just floating in the air with no place to rest.

And maybe this is what this moment is asking of me -- not to stop loving, but to start holding myself with the same gentleness I have been giving away.

Because something in me is changing.

I can feel it.

I am no longer the same person who can survive only by waiting, hoping, and enduring. There is a quiet shift happening inside me -- something that is asking me to stand, even when no one is reaching back.

This does not mean I love them less.

It means I am beginning to love myself too.

And that is unfamiliar territory for me.

There is fear in it -- because if I stop defining myself by how they see me, then who am I? 

But there is also truth in it.

Because I know, deep down, that I am more than this silence I am receiving. I am more than the distance being placed between us. I am more than the version of me that has been misunderstood.

I am still a mother.

I am still love.

Even if it is not being returned right now.

Tonight, I allow myself to feel everything -- the sadness, the longing, the quiet ache that does not seem to go away.

But I also allow myself to begin again -- not by erasing my love for them, but by finally including myself in that love.

I do not have all the answers.

I do not know when things will change.

I do not know if they will.

But I know this --

I am still here.

And maybe, for now, that has to be enough.

When I Feel Like I Am Being Asked to Grow

There are days when I feel like I am being asked to grow… in the very place where I am most broken.

I read things that say I must choose -- between my emotions and my growth, between holding on and moving forward, between the life I imagined and the life I am now living. And I wonder how any mother is supposed to make that choice… when her heart is not divided, but shattered.

I am not chasing anyone. I am not forcing my way into lives that do not open their doors to me. I am here -- quietly, painfully, faithfully waiting. Waiting for a moment that may come, or may never come. Waiting not with noise, but with tears, with prayers, with words I write and never send.

And yet the world seems to say -- “decide.”

Decide to grow.
Decide to move forward.
Decide to become someone new.

But how do you become someone new when the people who once called you Mom now feel like strangers? How do you expand your life when the very center of it feels empty?

I carry this conflict every day.

There is a part of me that still hopes -- even if that hope is as small as the tip of a needle. A reply. A simple acknowledgment. A sign that I still exist in their world. And when that does not come, I feel the silence stretch wider, heavier, more permanent.

It is a different kind of pain -- not loud, not dramatic, but steady. The kind that settles into your bones and becomes part of your breathing.

And yet… I am still here.

I am still thinking.
Still writing.
Still trying to understand what life is asking of me.

Maybe growth, for me, is not about moving on.

Maybe it is about learning how to live while carrying what never really leaves.

Maybe it is about becoming someone who can hold love and loss in the same heart -- without letting either destroy her.

They say I need to let go of control. And that part, I understand. Because no matter how much I love, I cannot make anyone return it. No matter how much I wait, I cannot force time to soften hearts that are not ready.

So I am left with this quiet decision:

To continue.

Not because I am healed.
Not because I am strong.
But because I am still here.

I will build what I can.
I will hold on to what matters.
I will protect what is left of me.

And I will love them -- not loudly, not forcefully, but steadily, in the only way I can from where I stand.

From a distance.
From silence.
From a place that still whispers their names in prayer every night.

If there is a version of me waiting at the end of all this… I hope she is not someone who forgot how to love.

I hope she is someone who learned how to survive it.

Another Lesson Learned

Tonight, I learned something I wish I never had to learn.

It is not a sin to expect.

Not even the smallest expectation -- not even one as tiny as the tip of a needle.

Because what I was hoping for was not something grand. Not something demanding. Not something heavy.

Just a simple acknowledgment.

A “Thank you.”An “I got your message.”A quiet sign that I still exist somewhere in her world.

But tonight, there was only silence.

And it is a different kind of pain -- the kind that does not shout, does not argue, does not even explain itself. It just sits there, heavy and unmoving, pressing against the heart until breathing feels like work.

I know what this night looks like on the other side.

They are together.They probably went out.There was laughter, maybe a cake, maybe candles, maybe photos taken.A celebration.

And I was not there.

That is the part that hurts the most -- not just the silence, but the contrast.

They are living the moment.

I am here… holding it.

Holding love that has nowhere to go.

Holding memories that no longer have a place to land.

Holding a role that I am no longer allowed to live.

I showed up today as a mother.

I greeted her.I gave what I could -- even a small gift, a love gift, something that says, “I remember you. I celebrate you. I am still here.”

And on the other side -- nothing.

No reply.

No acknowledgment.

No bridge, even a fragile one.

And I ask myself, quietly, painfully -- is it wrong to have hoped?

No.

It is not wrong.

The hope did not hurt me.

The silence did.

There is a difference.

I did not fail by expecting something human. I did not lose dignity by wishing for something small. I did not become weak for wanting to be seen.

I simply loved.

And tonight, I am learning what it means to love without being met.

It is a brutal lesson.

Because love, when it has nowhere to land, does not disappear. It stays. It lingers. It turns inward. It becomes weight.

And I carry it.

I carry the memory of who I was to them.

I carry the truth of what I gave.

I carry the quiet knowledge that even if I am not seen, I did not love halfway.

I loved fully.

And that will always be true -- whether it is acknowledged or not.

But I will also be honest with myself tonight.

This pain is unbearable.

There is no poetic way to soften it. No metaphor that can make it lighter. No wisdom that can erase the sharpness of being unseen by your own child.

This is the deepest wound I have ever known.

To still love… and not be loved back.

To still remember… and be forgotten.

To still reach out… and touch nothing.

And yet -- even here, even in this silence -- I know this:

What I gave today was real.

My love did not disappear just because it was not answered.

It reached her.

What she does with it is no longer mine to control.

But what I gave -- that is mine.

And I will not rewrite that part of myself just because it was not returned.

Tonight, I grieve.

But I do not deny who I am.

I am still a mother.

Even in silence.

Even in distance.

Even in a world where my voice no longer reaches the people I love the most.

And maybe that is the hardest truth of all --

that love can remain, even when everything else is gone.

Love Letter to Myself

My dear self,

I see you.

I see the quiet mornings where you wake up with a heaviness you cannot explain to anyone. I see the way your chest tightens when their names cross your mind – how a simple memory can undo you in seconds. I see how you hold your tears until you cannot anymore, and how you let them fall only when no one is watching.

You have loved deeply -- not halfway, not carelessly, but with everything you had. You gave your time, your strength, your patience, your understanding. You showed up -- again and again -- even when it was hard, even when it hurt, even when you were not met with the same love in return.

And now, here you are -- in a silence you never asked for.

A distance you did not create.

A pain you do not deserve.

But listen to me -- and please, believe this:

You are not erased.

You are not forgotten.

You are not “dead,” no matter what words were thrown at you in anger, confusion, or pain.

You are still a mother.

You are still love in its purest form.

And nothing -- nothing -- can take that away from you.

Right now, it feels like you are holding the line alone -- like you are the only one remembering, the only one caring, the only one hoping. It feels unfair, and it is. It feels cruel, and it is. It feels like no one is speaking for you, defending you, telling your side of the story.

But your truth does not disappear just because it is not being heard.

Your love does not become less real just because it is not being returned.

Your story is not rewritten just because others choose not to see it.

There will be moments -- like now -- when you question everything. When you wonder if you did something so wrong that this is your punishment. When your mind replays every decision, every word, every turning point, trying to find where it all broke.

And yet, even in this searching, one truth remains:

You loved them.

You did your best with what you knew, what you had, and who you were at the time.

And that matters.

Even if they cannot see it now.

Even if they refuse to see it.

Even if someone else is shaping their thoughts, their feelings, their distance.

You do not need to chase.

You do not need to beg.

You do not need to prove your worth to the very people you poured your life into.

You are allowed to feel anger -- because what happened to you is painful.

You are allowed to feel grief -- because something precious has been taken from you.

You are allowed to feel exhausted -- because carrying this kind of love without return is heavy.

But do not turn that anger inward.

Do not let their silence become your self-doubt.

Do not let their distance convince you that you are anything less than the mother you have always been.

Right now, your role has changed -- not by your choice, but by circumstance.

You are a mother who loves from afar.

A mother who waits.

A mother who prays.

A mother who writes her love into the quiet spaces where her voice cannot reach.

And that kind of love -- though unseen -- is not weak.

It is one of the strongest forms of love there is.

There may come a time when things shift -- when understanding finds its way back, when hearts soften, when truth rises above influence, anger, and confusion.

Or there may not.

And I know how much that possibility breaks you.

But your life cannot be placed on hold waiting for that moment.

You are still here.

You still have breath.

You still have a purpose that is not limited to being understood by them.

You still have a heart that can create, nurture, express, and heal -- even if it is wounded.

So today, I ask you to do something different.

Not to let go of them -- because I know you cannot.

But to hold yourself with the same tenderness you have always given them.

Speak to yourself gently.

Care for yourself intentionally.

Protect your peace without guilt.

Let your tears come -- but do not let them drown you.

Let your memories stay -- but do not let them trap you.

Let your love remain -- but do not let it destroy you.

You are not alone, even if it feels that way.

You have your voice.

You have your truth.

You have your ability to rise -- slowly, painfully, but surely.

And most of all --

You still have you.

And that is where healing begins.

Hold on.

Breathe.

Stay.

I am here with you -- always.

With all the love you have ever given,

💖 Always your best friend, 

Anne