Hello 🤍 I’m Grace—a Kindergarten teacher by trade and a mother by heart, grounded in my faith and led by His grace. My world is choreographed by the laughter of my two little ballerinas, who turn every ordinary day into a performance of love and a bit of beautiful chaos.
This blog is my digital scrapbook: a space to honor the fleeting light of childhood and the simple artistry of a table filled with good food. Life often throws experiences my way like tangerines—bright, unexpected, and sometimes a little tart—but I find sweetness in every season through God's strength.
Whether I’m flouring the counter for a baking session, reflecting on the lessons of marriage and career, or reviewing a story that moved me, I am always searching for everything beautiful. Join me as I navigate the dance of who I am and who I am becoming.
No matter what has or hasn’t happened in your life or how many questions you have about it, know this: you are still perfectly loved by the Most High God.
Everything about God is about His love for you! It was His love that caused Him to plan our redemption. It was because of love that Jesus came to the earth to die a horrible death and pay the price for our sin.
The Bible doesn’t say God sent Jesus because He was angry with mankind. John 3:16 says He came for you and for me because He loves us. Never doubt it!
It is the kind of love that does what is best for you at every turn, whether that means correcting you or bestowing a blessing on you.
Some days, being a working mom feels heavier than I expected.
It has only been one week since I started working onsite again, but my heart already misses the little routines I used to have with my kids so much. I miss waking up beside them every morning, hearing their voices first thing in the day, preparing everything for them, hugging them whenever I want, and simply being there for all the small moments that used to fill our days.
I never realized how much those ordinary routines would become the very things I’d cry over at night.
And the hardest part is… I am genuinely grateful for this job. I know I’m doing this for them. I know I’m working hard so I can help give them a better future, a more comfortable life, and opportunities I never had. But if I’m being honest as a mom, there’s still a quiet part of me wishing life were easier financially, so I could stay home longer and take care of them myself every day.
I also can’t deny that sometimes, I feel jealous of moms who still get to stay at home with their children or work from home while being present for every little moment. I know every mom has her own struggles, and I truly respect that, but there are days when I wish I could still have that kind of time with my babies too.
Motherhood is such a beautiful but painful kind of love. You carry so much guilt even when you know you’re doing your best. You miss them while you work, and you work because you love them.
To all the moms out there trying to balance everything while silently missing their babies every day… I see you. This season may be hard, but it doesn’t make us less of a mother. If anything, it shows just how deep a mother’s love can go. ❤️
Missing those baby days—crying, staying at home, and simply being with my kids all day.
Soon, my season as a stay-at-home mom will come to an end. After years of waiting, I finally got a permanent job. I am truly happy… and I’m also proud that I can now help provide for them. Ayokong maranasan nila yung mga pinagdaanan namin.
I prayed for this work, and for this life.
But even with all this joy, there’s a quiet sadness in my heart. It feels like I’m closing a chapter I’m not quite ready to let go of.
For almost four years, I’ve been a stay-at-home mom—and that season became my whole world. And now, I’m about to step into something new.
Uuwi naman ako in the afternoon after class… pero iba pa rin talaga when you’re there the whole day.
They’re my lucky charm, my reason for everything. And I hold on to this truth—everything I’m doing now is for them. 🥺🤍
Still… I know I’m going to miss this version of me so much.
Tonight was one of those small, ordinary moments that quietly turned into something unforgettable.
It came to us as a bit of a surprise. We’ve been gently teaching our 2-year-old daughter to say “sorry” whenever she hurts someone—even when it’s unintentional. You know, the usual parenting routine… repeating, reminding, modeling, hoping someday it sticks.
And then tonight happened.
The kids weren’t asleep yet, but we were already lying in bed, trying to rest. Our 8-month-old baby was crawling around, curious as always, slowly making her way toward her ate. Her ate, on the other hand, was busy exploring a mini cabinet—opening and closing it like it was the most interesting thing in the world.
Then in just a second, it happened.
She opened the cabinet door, and a cup fell—straight onto the baby’s head.
My heart jumped.
I immediately got up and carried the baby away, just to prevent anything else from happening. She cried so hard, the kind of cry that makes you question everything. I wasn’t even sure—was she crying because of the impact of the cup, or because I suddenly pulled her away?
Everything felt a bit overwhelming in that moment.
But then… something soft, something unexpected, happened.
Our toddler walked closer to her baby sister. No prompting. No reminder. No “what do you say?” from us.
And in her small, gentle voice, she said,
“Sorry, baby.”
I froze for a second.
Then I looked at my husband—and we both just smiled. That kind of smile that says, “Did you hear that too?”
Before we could even react, she hugged her little sister and gave her a kiss.
And just like that… the crying slowly faded.
Baby calmed down in her ate’s arms.
And my heart? Completely full.
In that quiet moment, I realized something important.
All those times we thought she wasn’t listening…
All those times we kept repeating simple lessons…
All those little efforts we made every single day…
They were sinking in.
Not perfectly. Not instantly. But deeply.
Because empathy can’t be rushed.
Kindness can’t be forced.
But when it grows—it shows up in the most unexpected, beautiful ways.
Tonight, I didn’t just see my toddler say “sorry.”
I saw her feel it.
I saw her care.
I saw the beginning of a sister who will protect, comfort, and love.
It was a fine but heavy day. Busyness has a way of creeping in, and there was already so much to do. I’ve been completing my pre-employment requirements, preparing myself to return to work, and it was only 7:00 in the morning. I left my kids with their grandma for a while. My husband and I decided to have a quick breakfast at Jollibee before continuing with our errands.
As I sat down and waited for our order, I suddenly felt weak and drained. Matamlay. I wasn’t in the mood, and I couldn’t explain why. It felt like something inside me wasn’t okay, but I couldn’t quite understand what it was. I knew I should be happy. After all, this is a new chapter for me—something I’ve worked hard and prayed for. But the worries quietly filled my mind, and I couldn’t push them away.
When our order arrived, we started eating. I tried to act normal. I tried to convince myself that everything was fine. But as we sat there, with food in front of us and people around us lining up to order, I couldn’t hold it in anymore.
I cried.
I cried quietly in front of my husband, right there at the table. No dramatic scene, no loud sobs—just silent tears falling while I tried to compose myself. In that moment, I wasn’t thinking about work, requirements, or errands. I was thinking about my children.
I was worried about who would take care of them now that I’m about to pursue my career again. I’m doing this for their future, for our family, yet my heart felt heavy with guilt and uncertainty. How am I supposed to balance everything? How do working mothers do this without feeling like they are leaving a part of themselves behind?
I realized that this is something I have to endure. I need to be strong. I need to sacrifice and be patient for their future and for us as a family. This is a stepping stone toward what is right, toward the life I want to build for my children. Even when it hurts. Even when it feels overwhelming.
I felt weak in that moment—overwhelmed, torn between being a mother and becoming the professional woman I also want to be.
Maybe it’s the weight of responsibility. Maybe it’s the quiet fear of change. Maybe it’s the realization that life is about to shift in a big way. Whatever it was, it caught me off guard.
So I cried.
And in those silent tears, I prayed. I continue to pray. I ask God for strength, for wisdom, and for peace in my heart. Because deep inside, I know this is part of the journey too—the messy, emotional, uncertain part that no one really talks about. The part where a mother’s love wrestles with her dreams, and both are equally important.
And somehow, I believe that one day, my children will understand why I had to be brave today.
The Two-Story Brain: Why My Toddler "Flips Her Lid"
If you have a toddler, you know the "barbaric growl."
It’s the sound that happens when a tower of blocks falls, when the "wrong" color cup is served, or when it’s time to leave the park. For my two-year-old, it feels like a switch flips, and suddenly, my sweet girl is replaced by a storm of "No!" and tears.
I used to wonder why logic didn't work. "It’s just blocks," I’d say. But as I've been reading The Whole-Brain Child, I’ve realized I was talking to a room where no one was home.
The House Inside the Head
Imagine your child’s brain is like a two-story house:
1. The Downstairs Brain (The First Floor)
This is the survival center. It’s responsible for basic things like breathing and blinking, but it’s also the home of big emotions—anger, fear, and those lightning-fast impulses. When my daughter is screaming, her downstairs brain is in total control.
2. The Upstairs Brain (The Second Floor)
This is the "library" of the mind. This is where logic, empathy, self-understanding, and "good decisions" live. It’s the part of the brain that should be saying, "It’s okay, I can build the tower again."
The "Construction Zone" Reality
Here is the lightbulb moment: The upstairs brain is under construction until a person is in their mid-twenties.
For our little ones, the second floor is still just a frame. More importantly, the staircase connecting the two floors is very shaky. When she is mid-meltdown, she is literally trapped downstairs. The "baby gate" at the top of the stairs is locked tight. She cannot access her logic because she physically cannot get up the stairs in that moment.
Building the Staircase Together
As parents, we are the architects. Our job isn't to shout from the second floor, telling them to "calm down." Our job is to help them build the staircase:
Connect Before You Direct: We have to go downstairs to meet them. A hug, a quiet voice, or saying, "You’re so frustrated that those blocks fell," helps unlock the gate.
Name It to Tame It: By naming the feeling, we help them use a little bit of that upstairs logic to label the downstairs storm.
The Power of the Nap: I’ve realized that a 30-minute nap with my girls isn't just a break—it’s a construction crew for my own brain, too!
It’s a long process—one that involves a lot of patience and many, many "staircase" moments. But every time we help them navigate a tantrum with empathy, we are laying another brick in that upstairs library they will use for the rest of their lives.
As a mom of two and a preschool teacher, I’ve been seeing comments lately about how some people openly dislike noisy kids in public—and even go as far as body shaming them. Honestly, it’s frustrating.
I understand that not everyone enjoys noise or chaos. That’s valid. But openly expressing hate toward children—who are still learning how to behave, regulate emotions, and understand the world—feels misplaced.
Children are not mini adults. Their brains are still developing. Noise, meltdowns, and big reactions are part of that growth. They are not trying to inconvenience anyone—they are simply learning.
What’s more concerning is when adults respond with harshness instead of restraint. We can feel annoyed without being unkind. We can choose silence over hurtful words.
Not all children are the same. Some may have developmental differences. Some are overstimulated. And some are simply being kids—figuring things out one moment at a time.
We don’t live in a child-free world—and we shouldn’t want to. Children belong in public spaces, too.
A little patience and empathy can make a big difference—not just for the child, but for the kind of society we choose to be. 🤍
Tonight, I found myself smiling over the simplest, sweetest moment.
My toddler picked up a banana and turned it into her “baby.” Then she started doing everything I usually do—heling it gently, pretending to feed it, covering it with an imaginary kumot, and giving it little hugs and kisses before “bedtime.” I didn’t expect it, but there it was—a tiny reflection of me in her.
I looked at her and couldn’t help but laugh with my husband. It was such a light and happy moment, the kind that quietly reminds you why all the pagod is worth it.
But more than being cute, it felt deeply meaningful. She’s watching. She’s learning. She’s feeling. In her own little way, she’s trying to understand what it means to care, to comfort, and to love someone smaller than her.
And somehow, through a simple banana, she showed me that she sees me.
Motherhood has been exhausting lately—taking care of two little ones, hearing them cry at the same time, going through sleepless nights, and feeling overwhelmed. There are moments when I question myself, wondering if I’m doing enough or if I’m doing things right. But tonight felt like a gentle answer from God.
A quiet reminder that love doesn’t have to be perfect to be felt.
Because my daughter… she is full of it.
And I realized—this is what motherhood is. Not in the big or perfect moments, but in the small, ordinary ones where love is shown every single day.
Ang sarap sa puso. Yung tipong kahit pagod na pagod ka, bigla kang mapapangiti at maiiyak ng konti—good tears. The kind that softly whispers, “You’re doing okay, mama.”
I will remember this night—the laughter, the innocence, and the quiet proof that love is being planted in her heart every single day.
And maybe, just maybe… I’m becoming the kind of mom I’ve always prayed to be.
