I’m not coming on here with a list of things that I’ll be doing to get out of this rut, but rather sharing in real time how exhausting it is to operate in survival mode, especially as a creative entrepreneur.

While I do have different sources of income, working in video production has been the main source of income for me since it does pay the most and it’s one that I built my career around for the last 7 years.

I shared on notes when I was in the process of pitching a few big projects, one that felt like the one. You know, the one that feels like it’s been waiting for you and you only. Because it ticked every box: I had a direct referral, I had projects I’ve worked on that matched the experience they were looking for, and the conversations leading up to the interview felt aligned.

I even had great feedback during the interview, and it felt like a no-brainer that we would get this project. I already blocked the time for production off my calendar, I kept talking to the crew we would work with like it was already ours, and manifested my ass off and kept wishing for the best because it truly felt like ours. Until that is, we received our rejection email (not to mention, this rejection letter came on the heels of receiving a few other rejection letters and ghosted opportunities).

And that’s when it hit me like a freight train. That all this work in putting together a proposal, this work of researching the company’s past work and seeing where we align and how we can work together, and all this time and energy in preparing for every scenario of getting this project (aside from the alternate of not getting it at all), came to a complete halt. And ultimately led to me being in this space.

A space of not feeling good enough. A space of doubting my decisions during the making of the proposal and interview to begin with—did I aim too high with the budget? Did I say the wrong thing during the interview? Maybe I should’ve smiled more?

I am processing this rejection while also experiencing so much grief. A loss of the life I thought I was going to have as I imagined working on this project. A loss of the opportunities to create impact in this way. And it’s a lot. And while typically I move on pretty quickly and treat rejections as redirections, I’m sitting with this one and contemplating everything to the point where I feel like I’m not just grieving this project, I’m also grieving this version of myself I thought I would become.

I admit—I do feel lost. And that doesn’t feel very good to say as someone in her mid-30s. And while I have spent the last handful of days grieving and processing, I’ve also spent this time considering what I can do.

Truthfully, being in this industry and freelancing for 7 years has been exhausting. While it has been rewarding, in the best ways, I’m also exhausted not just from this work, but the world, and everything as a whole. It gets incredibly difficult when you don’t have predictable income coming in, and I feel like I’m being stretched thin to the point where I feel like I’m pouring from a nearly empty cup every time.

So I am considering looking for other opportunities. Is it a full-time job? Maybe. Is it reconsidering my personal offerings for video and social media content? Could be. At this point, I am ready to try new things. I feel a big pivot and a need for a big change afoot. What I am doing differently this time than what I did in the past when looking for full-time roles is that I am looking for an opportunity to expand. I want to be in different rooms than the container I’ve been imagining, and I have this desire to create projects that not just align, but expand my whole being along with my career. I did sit with it, and while I did not imagine myself searching for another full-time role, I am willing to give it a shot for the right role. I can envision a role that will truly create more impact in a way that feels expansive mentally, spiritually, and physically. I don’t exactly know what that looks like, but I want to expand my surface area for luck.

And who’s to say it's even a full-time W-2 role? It could also be something completely different. Now that I’ve been dabbling more in event production and hosting community gatherings, helping other people with storytelling tips and how to show up online authentically, and creating more intentional pottery collections, it could continue to be a combination of all of these things in a new way. A pushing of the gas pedal, if you will.

I’m still processing this grief. This grief of who I imagined myself to be as I get closer to becoming another year older this September.

This life—choosing to be a multi-passionate/multi-hyphenate creative, and one who is trying to do it all—is not easy by any means. It’s truly cracked me open in so many ways, and while my heart is still a bit shattered, I’m starting to see the light shine through, even if only for a few moments each day, as I continue to pick myself back up from the puzzle pieces of the life I once imagined for myself. Now I see the pieces changing and rearranging themselves in a way I know will be completely different from what I once imagined for myself. It’s terrifying, but this fear is helping me get closer and closer to myself, even if it’s still unclear.

We had a great past. Back in the 20teens, I loved social media so much I nearly became an influencer (I had a sunglass haul that a lot of people saw and I also got paid to be a part of a Palm Springs tourism campaign, IYKYK). But around 2019, I realized how much of my attention was being stolen. That’s when the relationship shifted.

Now I have this push-pull dynamic with Instagram, especially. I want to show up. But I also know how much time and energy get robbed from me the second I open the app and start doomscrolling. Which is why I’ve never downloaded TikTok (and likely never will).

Which brings me to today—a relationship that hasn’t improved, but one where I understand my counterpart a little better.

In March, I gave myself a challenge. To post on Instagram every single day.

Don’t get me wrong—I was excited. I had so many ideas buzzing through my mind. I kept asking myself, how can I use these tools that are designed to be distracting in a way that feels good for me?

So I committed. Every single day. Reel or carousel, didn’t matter. I just had to post.

And I did.

The thing is, I want to show up online, but in intentional ways. Which is why I favor writing on this platform and love the long-form nature of YouTube.

What I do enjoy about Instagram is how creative people can get in a short-form medium. And in the beginning of this challenge, I had so many ideas. I even launched a little series called “Building Without a Blueprint.” I had a whole list—talking to the camera, filming B-roll, the whole shebang.

And for the first couple of weeks, I showed up in ways that felt good. Aligned. Exciting. But after a few weeks, my energy dwindled. I noticed I was immediately sucked into my phone after posting. Hours in my day disappeared because I felt like I had to engage—because duh, that’s what you’re supposed to do, right?

And then, in the last two weeks of the month, I started posting later and later in the day just to meet my quota. Not because I wanted to, but because the excitement had faded. It started feeling like an obligation. (Yes, I’m aware I put this on myself.)

I would scramble for ideas. I’d put so much pressure on myself to edit perfectly or create the best carousel. But the payoff? Posting closer to midnight just to meet a deadline I created and not posting something I was 100% in love with.

Social media isn’t my full-time job. So I had to balance real life with this challenge. In an ideal world, I would’ve prepared everything in advance. Scheduled posts back-to-back like some social media savant who has their shit together.

But I’m human. And that definitely didn’t happen. There were maybe two scheduled posts in the entire month. Outside of social media, there was real work I had to do. Production deadlines. Pottery pop-ups. Life. And that caused delays.

Despite these challenges, I’m ultimately proud that I showed up. It wasn’t perfect. But I did it. And I proved to myself that yes, I am capable of posting on social media consistently.

But capable doesn’t mean sustainable. And that’s what I learned.

So here are the lessons from my month of posting consistently.

• Embracing the Cringe: When I first posted talking directly to camera, it felt cringey. Uncomfortable. Like I was performing for an audience that wasn’t there yet. But the more I did it, the more confident I became. And while I was aware this would be a result of it, it reminded me just how much consistency is its own kind of practice.

• Editing Got Easier (and Faster): I film with both my phone and my camera (I use the Osmo Pocket 3 for higher quality video), and whether I’m editing on Premiere Pro or Edits, I found my flow after the first couple of weeks. Editing consistently didn’t just make me faster, it helped me refine my approach for other projects too, which was an unexpected bonus!

• Preparation is Key: I would find myself scrambling when I didn’t prepare a post ahead of time. And honestly? It showed. The content felt rushed, less intentional, “lower quality.” Not every post has to be perfect, but having something ready, even loosely, made a real difference in how I showed up online.

• The More I Posted, the More Time I Spent Online: Here’s the part nobody really talks about. The more I posted, the more I kept refreshing the page. The more I kept checking on the metrics. The more I found myself spiraling into the engagement game, obsessively watching numbers instead of actually living the life I was supposedly documenting. It was a lot to grasp, and I didn’t realize it until I kept catching myself in the act.

• The Comparison Trap is Real: The more time I spent online, the more I found myself comparing. My numbers to theirs. My aesthetic to theirs. My growth to theirs. It crept in quietly and loudly all at once. It’s something to be mindful of the longer you stay in that space.

• Visibility Actually Works (But it’s How You Define it): What I didn’t expect is that people noticed. More people reached out. I became top of mind. And even in person, people were giving me flowers just for showing up. There’s something to be said for visibility, but I think we each have to define what that consistency in showing up actually means for us, rather than letting the algorithm decide.

• The Data Doesn’t Lie (But it Doesn’t Tell the Whole Story Either): This experience gave me data, which was my goal. Real data about what resonated and what didn’t. The posts I spent hours on sometimes got the least engagement. The ones I made quickly got reshared the most. And what I found most interesting? The content that spread was the content where people saw themselves in the mirror. Where they felt seen. And the more I shared real stories and experiences, the more that people engaged and also saw themselves in those posts.

• It Clarified What I Actually Want to Share: And ultimately, all of this helped me refine what I actually want to continue putting out there. What feels true. What I’m proud of—regardless of the numbers. Because I’d rather post something that means something to me and gets ten likes than something hollow that goes viral. And in a world full of slop, trends, and content designed purely to perform? I think it’s genuinely different, and commendable, to share what’s actually on your heart. Substance over performance. Always. This might be an unpopular opinion. But it’s mine, and I stand by it.

So here’s what I’ll say… if you’re thinking about challenging yourself to post every day, do it! Do it for the data. Do it for the reps. Do it to get comfortable being seen. But go in with your eyes open. Know that it will test your relationship with your phone, your sense of worth, and your creative energy all at once. And when it stops feeling good? Give yourself permission to change the terms.

Because I started this challenge asking myself: how can I use these tools that are designed to be distracting in a way that feels good for me? And honestly? I’m still figuring that out. But I know more now than I did in March. I know what I want to share. I know how I want to show up. I know the difference between posting because I mean it and posting just to post.

And maybe that clarity—messy and incomplete as it is—was the whole point. Consistency isn’t about showing up every day no matter what. It’s about showing up in a way that’s actually sustainable for the life you’re living—not the algorithm you’re feeding.

Instagram and I are still frenemies. But at least now I understand our relationship a little bit better.

This perfectly sums up what I’ve been experiencing lately. A feeling I can’t quite pinpoint. It feels like a confrontation between me and myself. As if every snooze button I’ve pressed for different parts of my life—my mental health, physical health, my dreams, my relationships—has all stopped working. Not for lack of trying, but because I can feel it in my body that I am at my wits’ end. I don’t have any more excuses, and I can no longer prolong what I’ve been trying to delay.

And delay, as in putting tasks on my to-do list and simply pushing them off for later. Don’t get me wrong, I know there is so much to be done. And I do get them done! I just either get everything done all at once or not at all until the next day… or the next, all with an excuse that I have other things to do—like laundry and cleaning the house, because god forbid I create a whole pitch deck with my dishes piled up in the sink. Or I end up feeling like I need to take care of my obligations to other people before taking care of myself. So that means I couldn’t just simply get an oil change while splitting my day between editing and pottery, right? Right.

At least that’s what I’ve been telling myself for the last two or three weeks as I continue to drag “get oil change done” from one day to the next. I promise I’ll get it done this week!

And another word that keeps coming up, aside from confrontation, is neglect. I feel the neglect I’ve had manifest into weeks of not moving my body, not seeing my family as much as I’d like to, and my journal collecting dust because I simply can’t be bothered to write down my thoughts—choosing instead to drown in them.

I share this because this is truly how I’ve been feeling. No one talks about these feelings of neglect, shame, and guilt—all because it kind of makes us look bad. I’ve only shared a few of these things out loud with close friends because I know I’m safe with them. And while I considered not sharing this at all, I had a brain dump of feelings when I finally opened a browser and spilled everything onto this blank screen.

It felt like reading a diary entry my past self wrote that I was never meant to find—because again, I didn’t want that confrontation. But now I’ve seen it. I’ve seen every part of me I’ve been neglecting. And it feels like the wake-up call I needed. The nudge to give myself permission to take up space. The reminder to feel the sun on my face during a morning walk, because it always feels good, and I often forget that. The universe is pointing signs in my direction saying: hey, you are okay.

I need that hey, you are okay reminder constantly. Because for some reason, I’ve been living my life as if each moment needs to be decided as quickly as diffusing a ticking time bomb with less than three seconds left. I’m remembering that I can take my time—but also that I need to prioritize myself in the process. To no longer put off the passion project I’ve been working on for the last year. To visit my family more, not just for special occasions or holidays. To move my body because it genuinely feels good when I do.

It feels like my future self is finally convening with my present self. Like we’re collaborating on creating this life together, instead of present-me shrugging off decisions as if I have all the time in the world.

And I think what I’m most afraid of is never having the opportunity to do the things I desire. We’re living in a time right now where this could very much be our last “normal” summer. And while I don’t want to dwell on the negative possibilities, I do want to use this as fuel to navigate this chapter with more devotion. Devotion to stop delaying the things on my to-do list. To speak up with more fervor. To stop caring so much about what people think of me if I comment something out of pocket on someone’s Instagram post.

While this space often serves as a memory log for life lessons, I think I’m just ready to share more unfiltered thoughts like this. Because why not? Especially as I continue to step into this season of giving fewer fucks.

Let’s be clear—I do give a fuck. But I give so many fucks that I’ve stopped caring. I don’t care if I offend someone who is in the wrong. I don’t care how I’m perceived. Because I would rather act in full integrity with who I really am than spend another moment performing a version of myself I’m not.

Now it just feels like I can no longer ignore what I’ve been putting off.

The clouds have parted, and the universe keeps opening doors—telling me to step in, not just take a peek. The invitation is there to keep going. And as easily as I could turn back around and hide away, make the excuse that I’m not ready, not yet. I just know in my bones I can’t anymore. And I won’t. Because there’s a desire and a will to change, to do more and be more. To meet my future self fully, not just halfway.

The magic I know I’m on the precipice of—the one that requires more responsibility from me—is the same one who just finished that write-up at 3:00 pm before the deadline. Proof that I have everything I need and that I always have.

The only thing left to do is stop hitting snooze.

Coming from a large extended Filipino family, we’re all pretty close. I see my cousins and my nieces and nephews at least once a month, and it’s in those moments—watching their unwavering curiosity, seeing their personalities bloom—that I can’t help but think about becoming a mother myself.

And then I look in the mirror. I see my gray hairs starting to come in. Growing up, my dad would let me crawl all over him, and whenever I spotted a white hair on his head, he’d let me pluck it. He’d always joke that if I found one and plucked it, he’d give me a dollar. Some days I walked away with one dollar. Other days, a few more.

Now, when I look at my own gray hairs and pluck them one by one, there are way more than I anticipated. And I think: if I had my own child and told them they could pluck my white hairs for a dollar each, I genuinely couldn’t afford it. And that kind of makes me sad, and it also makes me think about how much older I’m getting—and how much older my own parents are getting.

Since losing my Nanay, the thought of her matriarchy has been deeply rooted in how I see my family. What a blessing it was to be raised by her. To see her reflected in my dad, in my aunts and uncles, in the way we all gather and love each other. And since she passed, I’ve been thinking a lot about my own little family—my partner Adrian and our dog Cosmo. This quiet, beautiful life we’ve created together that I’m grateful for every day.

And yet. It feels strange to watch my parents grow older while I’m still figuring myself out. I still feel like some grown-up version of my twenties—like time has stayed still somehow—but then I look at my parents and I see it. The gray hair. The deeper wrinkles. The way time has quietly, persistently moved forward, whether I noticed or not.

And I think: how much time do I really have?

That question terrifies me. I’ve never been someone who obsesses over her biological clock. I have friends who have had their own kids, friends who are still trying, and here I am—sitting with this quiet, looming thought of becoming a mother while also choosing, for now, not to.

Not because I don’t want to. On the contrary. I do. I would love to be a mother one day. But if it isn’t in the cards for me, I’m also open to that reality.

So when my parents, my aunts and uncles, ask me “when are you next?” I shake my head with a smile. But deep down, I feel torn.

Because it simply doesn’t feel right for me right now. I’m a freelance producer and ceramic artist without “stable income,” still figuring out how to sustain myself long-term. And that is not the life I want to bring a child into. I don’t say this out loud to my family because I know they won’t fully understand. But it’s important to me to stand my ground—because I know I’m going all in, pursuing everything I desire for myself first.

Growing up as a Filipino woman in my family has always meant conforming. Doing what’s expected. Following the path that’s already been laid out. And while I’m choosing what’s right for me, I know that makes me the outsider. Not just because I didn’t follow the “normal” path—but because I’m genuinely pushing against it. Carving something entirely my own without the illusion of safety that comes from following the system everyone else seems to trust.

I feel like I barely became a functioning adult six or seven years ago. And just because my cousins have babies, mortgages, and stable jobs doesn’t mean I have to.

I’m still settling into the cracks and edges of who I’m becoming. And while people say “you can’t plan to have a baby,” I’d at least like to try. And if my biological clock wins? Then I have to make peace with the fact that I did everything I could to become the best version of myself before becoming anyone else’s mother.

Because the kind of mother I want to be requires a version of me I haven’t fully become yet.

I want to be the mother who can take months off at a time. Who isn’t in survival mode. Who can be fully present—not just physically, but emotionally, financially, spiritually. I want to bring new life into a life I’m proud of.

A life where I’m not checking my bank account before buying groceries. Where I can travel, take time off, and be present with the people I love. Where I get to nourish the next generation of BIPOC creatives who want to tell their stories. I don’t know exactly what “ready” will look like when I get there—honestly, does anyone? But I’m hoping I get close enough to the vision I hold for myself before the decision gets made for me.

I’m not rushing. I’m not giving up on the idea. I’m just choosing me, first.

And I’ll let the path reveal itself when it’s time.

It was the theme I chose for a very special project for We the Storytellers, one that has been living in my chest for longer than I can properly explain. And now that the month is over, I find myself sitting with everything it brought up. Not just in the project, but in me.

The thing is, when we think of arrival, we almost always think of the endpoint. The destination. The moment you finally get there, wherever there is. We spend so much of our lives moving towards the next “thing”, straining toward some future version of ourselves that feels more complete, more certain, more worthy of rest.

But arrival is so much more than that.

This month taught me that arrival isn’t a single moment. It’s a practice. It happens in phases, each one preparing you for the next. There is the arrival of a new idea. The arrival of love for yourself when you didn’t know you needed it. The arrival of peace even through uncertainty. The arrival of clarity you didn’t know you were ready for until it was already there.

I’ve been challenging myself to think about arrival this way. Not necessarily as a destination I’m moving toward, but as something I’m moving through. A continuous becoming. Each phase of my life has asked me to arrive at a new version of myself. And each time, that version was exactly what the next thing required.

This past month, I had the opportunity and walked into the CA Arts & Culture Summit with an open mind and left with something I didn’t expect. A quiet, buzzing sense of purpose around arts advocacy. I didn’t expect this because it wasn’t something that arrived loudly, but rather felt familiar, like it had always been there, lingering until it finally found a name that clicked for me. And sometimes, I feel like that’s what arrival can feel like. Not a big “ah-hah” moment, not crossing the finish line, but rather a hum. A recognition. Oh. There you are.

I’ve been paying attention to those moments more. The arrivals that don’t announce themselves. But rather the small, steady nudges pointing you in a direction you couldn’t have mapped yourself. I’ve been moving through a particular kind of uncertainty over this last year, the kind that doesn’t announce itself loudly. It just settles in and asks you to keep moving anyway. I’ve felt purposeless in ways I didn’t have language for. And then, gradually, things started to clarify. Not all at once. Just enough to take the next step.

While I’m still uncertain of what the future holds, I’m navigating with more grace. And I’ve learned that arrival doesn’t always mean you can see the whole road. Sometimes it just means you can see the next step—and that’s all you need.

Then there is We The Storytellers.

For the last year, I have been working toward bringing WTS to life in a new way. And this past month was when I finally sent the invitations to people in my community I want to build this with. And it felt liberating. It felt new, like stepping into the version of myself that had been waiting patiently for me to catch up.

That is arrival too. Not the arrival at completion, but the arrival at readiness. The moment you stop preparing and start becoming. The moment you realize that this phase, right here, was always what the next one was being built on.

I could have given myself reasons to wait until it was perfect, but I didn’t. And that moment arrived anyway, the way it was meant to. I can’t wait to share more, but know that there is some beautiful moments happening behind the scenes, and for that, I am incredibly grateful!

I’ve been reflecting on arrival as the different phases of my life. And what I keep coming back to is that arrival is a continuation of coming into who you are meant to be.

Arrival is love. It is the love you give yourself when you finally stop waiting and start showing up—as you are, where you are, with everything you’re still carrying.

Arrival is movement. It is the ongoing decision to keep going, to keep becoming, even when the destination isn’t clear.

Arrival is this sense of moving into the version of yourself you are meant to become—over and over again. Not once. Not at the end. But in every phase, every season, every moment, you choose to keep going.

That’s where I am right now—arriving at this next beginning. Grounding myself in my purpose, deepening my work and my vision, and stepping into a phase I’ve been quietly building toward. One that feels both brand new and deeply familiar.

And I’m learning to call that enough. To call that beautiful. To call that arrival.

While I remember the feeling going into the call, I could tell something was off. On Slack, I noticed a few other accounts going inactive, and I thought, this couldn’t be me too, could it?

That gut feeling immediately pulled me into the moment, recognizing that yup, this is happening. I’m losing my job. How am I going to tell Adrian? What am I going to do now? While the spiel was happening, all I could think was to spiral—that this was the end of my world as I knew it.

Who I Was vs. Who I Am

But here’s what happens over the span of a year.

The version of myself in February 2025 was someone who enjoyed her job, but wasn’t fulfilled in the way she thought she would be. She valued the stability, but still operated out of survival mode. She held on so tightly to the outcomes and future she imagined for herself, and she figured being part of this company was part of that journey. The person who ended up getting laid off, feeling so lost in that moment, didn’t think about what life could be.

Fast forward to now. The person I am today in February 2026—we are two completely different people.

When I think about who I was a year ago, I think about how scared I was. How broken I felt. Like a piece of me was missing. But I realized that a piece of me was missing all along. I was at a job, working for someone else, and I didn’t give myself enough credit. The job itself gave me a foundation to build something I needed, but I like to think about divine timing—how the work ended so I could become the version of myself I needed to be. That job gave me the opportunity to travel. It gave me the opportunity to invest in myself and my pottery. Both things I don’t think I could have done if I had continued to freelance at the time.

It’s interesting to reflect on the gut punch of that day versus the quiet certainty I feel today. It felt personal. It felt like I wasn’t valued. It felt like I lost myself. But really, I found myself. And I have more clarity on what I want to do and what I’m building.

Trusting the Plan vs. Trusting Myself

What’s interesting is that while I didn’t envision myself staying with the company for a long time, I did envision leaving on my own terms. The plan was to give myself another year—a springboard—before going full-time on myself again.

And now that I think about it, I trusted the plan more than I trusted myself. Because what ended up happening was I got laid off along with 12 other people. Then shortly after that, I lost my Nanay. Then the free fall began—the unexpected twists and turns, living off unemployment as much as I could, and luckily the little severance I did receive.

And while I did look for other opportunities, nothing aligned like I thought it would. It’s actually not that easy to look for a video producer role. And if you do look for one, they ask you to do multiple things—produce, film, edit, and manage social media.

It was the detour I didn’t choose, but had to trust anyway.

The Impossible Months

The few months after really felt impossible at times. I was applying to jobs while drowning in grief, still processing everything that happened, while holding space not just for my own loss, but my family’s. And nothing felt right because nothing was right.

And because I didn’t have income coming in, there were times I would wake up with a negative bank account, just wondering how the heck I would get out of this hole. I remember feeling so ashamed, so inadequate. It felt impossible. The jobs I applied for weren’t getting back to me. And I felt like I had to start from scratch as a freelancer.

And I really had to choose. All this time and energy I’m spending looking for a job, looking for another way out—am I doing myself a disservice? Am I choosing a different lifestyle that would hold me back instead of pushing me forward?

I had to choose myself. I had to choose to go all in for me.

And while everyone would tell me I was doing great, I felt like I was barely breathing. Because living in San Diego, especially, is expensive. And it was the moment I realized the plan I had—to save money, to start my creative career later—wasn’t coming back. I had to truly trust myself to make THIS work.

After a few okay interviews, not hearing back from other applications, that’s when I decided to go all in on myself. Not by choice, but also by necessity. Because it felt like these other doors weren’t opening for me, but the ones that did were things I couldn’t have imagined—like selling my pottery or meeting new clients by sharing my story.

And it’s weird. To choose yourself when you have no proof whether or not it would work. Living in this in-between of terror, freedom, excitement, and anxiety. All of it. Because at the end of the day, I’m building a life without a blueprint—just my intuition guiding me, and saying yes to what feels aligned.

Here are the 3 Lessons I Learned

1. Real growth is trusting the detour more than the original plan

We often have a tight grip on this sense of control, and having a plan feels like that. Gripping onto these plans we held for ourselves and imagined. But in reality, detours happen all the time—an unexpected street closure, the coffee shop you wanted to visit closed for the day, or the more extreme (like in my case), getting unexpectedly laid off.

Detours and pivots ask us to truly trust ourselves. Because we can’t schedule transformation. It happens when we stop resisting change. It happens when we stop planning every second of our lives. It happens when we let go of those expectations we held for ourselves.

2. Your multitudes aren’t a distraction—they’re your superpower

I was convinced I had to continue to fit into a box. To shrink myself. To pick one lane and niche down.

But as someone who loves to write, loves filmmaking, making pottery, and being in community, it no longer felt right to sacrifice these versions of myself. Instead, I learned to embrace them all. To go against the societal norm of picking one lane and decide to embody all of it.

The moment I decided to embrace every part of me—every facet of my skills and talents and interests—it turns out, I found my power lives in these intersections. Our creativity doesn’t fit into a job description. And that’s the point.

3. Real growth is building before you have proof it’ll work

I kept waiting for a sign. A sign that this next job application was the answer. A sign that going back full-time into my production company was the right choice. Teetering between these two worlds, wondering which was the right decision.

The sign never came.

Instead, I had to build anyway. A new foundation. Tried new things. Met new people. I had to continue and take steps forward without knowing where the path would lead. Something that continues to stick with me today is the phrase, “the path will reveal itself.” And time and time again, it has.

Sometimes we have to build, take one step forward without any guarantee. Without knowing whether or not I’ll have clients. Without knowing if income will come in. Without certainty that I could make this sustainable.

The thing about real growth is you don’t get that proof first. You don’t get to see the outcome before you commit. You have to choose it—and keep choosing it—before you even know it was the “right” decision.

Some days I’m still not sure. Some days, I wonder if stability would’ve been the easier route. But I continue to remind myself that I’d rather build something that is completely mine and live in this uncertainty than live comfortably building for someone else. Growth doesn’t ask us for certainty. It asks us for courage.

What This Year Gave Me

While I couldn’t have predicted what this life would look like, I was given so many beautiful gifts and experiences over the last year.

Like spending more time with family, exploring URL to IRL more deeply, premiering a documentary I produced in New York, selling my pottery and meeting new people through my art, writing and expressing myself more, deepening my relationships with myself and my loved ones, hosting gatherings that brought my people together, and documenting my life and journey that reminds me just how grateful I am for this life.

What I’d Tell Her

The version of myself who felt broken last year has grown. And if I could tell her anything, it would be this:

You’re going to be okay. Better than okay.

The grief you’ll experience will be heavy, but you will carry it. And while it sounds scary, you must trust yourself more than you trust the plan. Even at your lowest, know you will get through it.

Keep trying new things. Keep sharing your story. Don’t hold back.

The life you’re building now is better than the one you’re mourning. You’re not starting from scratch—you’re building from everything you’ve experienced and remembering who you are.

For Anyone in the Thick of It

For anyone who is in the thick of it right now—whether you got laid off, lost something, or you’re facing an unexpected ending—I want you to know that the free fall doesn’t last forever.

You will land on your feet. And while it may not be where you initially planned, it will be somewhere good.

Your worth isn’t tied to what you lost. The next chapter might be even better than you can imagine right now.

Trust the process. As cheesy as it sounds, take one step at a time toward the direction that feels most aligned. And if you feel like you can’t trust the process, trust yourself. You will always know what is best for you.

Where I Am Now

This last year was a whirlwind, to say the least. And while I still experience uncertainty along my journey, I get to call myself a full-time creative entrepreneur and artist, where I live through all of my different expressions.

I’m still figuring it out day by day. But that inner voice, that intuition—I’m learning more and more to trust and know that feeling.

And while I’m not where I thought I’d be this time last year, I like to think I’m somewhere better. Because I chose myself along the way.

While the “glamorous” parts of being on set are what a lot of people post about, what you don’t see are the hours spent on a computer in pre and post-production. I shared some behind-the-scenes of pre-production in my last post. Now I’m deep in the editing process.

Some production companies have dedicated editors. Adrian and I split the workload based on our strengths—largely due to budgeting. While I would love to hire an editor, it often comes down to what the budget allows.

And honestly? I love being the person who ties the story together.

When it comes to documentary-style filming, especially, I’m often the one sitting behind the camera conducting interviews. So this part of post-production fits my strengths. I love finding the story. The common thread in what each person says. The moments that matter. And I love that I get to bring it all together in the final piece.

I knew going into February it was going to be busy. I’ve prepared for this kind of busyness over the last year. But it never fails to feel like a lot of pressure.

This week alone:

• Filming 3 days

• Offloading footage after each shoot

• Editing a music video simultaneously

• Adding final graphics and touches to another client video and sending it off

• Organizing the timeline for several deliverables for this project we’re filming in real time

As I’m writing this, we just wrapped our final full filming day. What looks simple on paper—a few hours for interviews, a few hours of B-roll—is actually 8-9 hours of real work. The clock starts the moment I leave my home office. And it doesn’t stop until all the footage is offloaded, backed up, and backed up again.

Everything in between counts. Loading the van. Driving to the location. Unloading. Setup. Interviews. B-roll. Breakdown. Loading back up. The drive home. Offload. Backup. That’s the day.

Filmmaking isn’t always glamorous. But being on set? That’s where the energy is alive. Where I feel most in flow. Editing, to be honest, is one of my least favorite parts of production. But it’s also where everything falls into place. Where the story emerges. Where all those hours of prep and filming start to mean something.

I’m grateful for this work. But it also stretches you when you have to wear multiple hats.

Producer. Interviewer. Editor. Coordinator. Problem-solver.

Some days I’m on set directing. Other days, I’m at my desk past midnight, cutting sequences. Both are essential. Both require completely different energy.

This is the reality of being an independent producer. You don’t get to just do the parts you love. You do what needs to be done. And you figure out how to make it sustainable

Remembering why this work matters—not only for my clients, but for me—is what keeps me going through busy seasons, through chaotic days, through moments where I feel like things are so up in the air that I’m not sure where or when I’ll land.

The stories I get to help document aren’t just content. They’re archives.

Archives of this moment in time. This mark of impact in this region. It’s preservation. And I wish more people understood that. When we have the creative sovereignty to pick up our phones and document our lives, we’re creating moments worth preserving. Worth archiving. Worth sharing. Because our stories do matter.

Beyond the trends that last a few days, we have the ability to create something that lasts. And it takes courage to do this work in an online world where everything looks and sounds the same.

So yes, while this work can be tiring, it’s important to me to make sure the people doing this work are seen. That's when I’m at my desk past midnight, tweaking the timeline, I remember that someone’s story is in my hands.

It’s the small things you sometimes don’t notice right away. Like when someone’s face lights up during an interview to share a special moment. Or when I’m in the middle of editing a sequence and everything—the music, pacing, and the story—just clicks.

That’s what pulls me through the hard days, plus doing this! Archiving my memories and moments in real time. More to come as this project continues to unfold.

For now, back to the edit.

Not the final piece. Not the polished product. But the in-between. The before. The behind-the-scenes that rarely gets shown. Because the truth is, most of producing happens before anyone steps foot on a set, before the slate gets in front of camera, and before anyone says “action.”

What most people don’t know about producers is that our work happens weeks—sometimes months—before production even begins. Lots of communication, logistics, thinking through plan A through plan Z. And when the week of production happens, that’s when everything falls into place. That’s also when my nerves kick in. I’ve done this work for 7 years, but the feeling the night before any filming day is always the same: buzzing with energy from both nerves and excitement. It’s a sign to me that this work will never get old.

This week started the way most production weeks do. Early mornings, planning and logistics, going over schedules and details to make sure everything is right, and a lot of communication.

On the day of our first filming day, we loaded gear into the van. Every piece of equipment accounted for—C-stands, camera gear, cube taps, stingers—checking each list twice like we’re Santa Claus.

Sometimes we run into unexpected moments we couldn’t have accounted for. Like security upon arrival not knowing why we’re there and recommending we not set up until our point of contact arrived. Or forgetting the cube tap—not entirely essential, but something to grab for the next day.

Being a producer is not glamorous work, but it’s essential. The difference between a smooth filming day and a chaotic one often comes down to the work that happens in pre-production—days, weeks, or months of labor leading up to it.

The important thing about my work is the alignment it takes to get everyone on the same page. Creating the vision alongside the client. Locking in the crew. Connecting with talent and making sure they feel prepared and comfortable. As the producer, I’m the person who connects all of these dots.

It’s a lot of invisible labor. The kind that, when done well, makes everything look effortless.

Arriving On Set

We arrived on location and started what always takes longer than people expect: unloading and lighting.

We’ve gotten it down to a science. And while you technically could just pop up a main light, a hair light, and call it a day, it’s truly an art. It’s an art form I respect so deeply because it sets the stage, and it takes time. An hour to two hours if given the liberty.

Your team is testing angles, asking “where will talent be sitting?”, adjusting flags to shape the light just perfectly.

What I love about lighting is that it’s not just about making people look good on screen—it’s about honoring the person trusting us with their story. To paint them in the best light, best background, and shine light on them literally and figuratively.

I’ve noticed how Adrian and Rob make tweaks and adjustments. And while I sometimes think about how long it’s taking, I also understand that each technical decision is a decision made with care and intention. The depth of field we choose. The way we frame someone on camera. The way the light hits them. All of it communicates: you matter. Your story matters. We’re treating this with care.

I’m grateful to work with a crew I’ve collaborated with for years. People who know my communication style, who anticipate needs before I ask, who bring their own creative instincts to the work. When you have that kind of trust with your team, the work flows. It’s one of the greatest privileges of this work—building relationships with people who care as much as you do.

The In-Between Moments

What I love most about producing—especially these documentary-style projects—are the conversations that happen in between. In between takes. In between setting up and adjusting. In between breaking down, or even while talent is getting mic’d up.

This week, I got to sit across from some incredible leaders in San Diego—people whose work impacts not just their community, but the entire region.

One interview felt like a direct mirror of what I’ve been thinking about and talking about lately. How media storytelling is so important right now, especially for marginalized identities, because we’re currently being targeted, silenced, and censored.

This leader’s work provides resources, tools, and access points for youth and young people to tell their own stories. I loved this so much because it affirmed what I’ve been wanting to do with my own projects—documenting these moments in time, the stories of our time, as an act of reclamation and archive. They even shared, “Because if we don’t tell these stories, who will?” And that is it, exactly!

In another interview, a leader who’s been doing this work for over 20 years spoke about how most of it happens behind the scenes. When we talked about impact, she shared that she may never know the direct impact she makes—it’s a ripple effect she isn’t always able to see or witness. But she knows she makes it.

That really stayed with me.

We often think we need to make impact right now. Change the world right now. But this reminded me that the work we do has a larger impact when we think about the long game. To be committed to work for more than 20 years—that’s real commitment. And I think about how many people aren’t thinking long-term. They’re focused on gaining “enough” followers, or going viral for a moment in time.

This affirmed what I’m trying to build for myself and my work. I hope it can be a sustainable form and expression of me—not just for right now, but for the long haul.

What This Week Reminded Me

Doing this work reminds me just how powerful storytelling is. How the stories we tell—the ones we document, preserve, amplify—shape how we understand our communities, our history, and even our future.

I feel so deeply rooted in my work as a producer because my job is to hold space for these stories. To make sure the people doing important work get to be seen in the light they deserve. To bear witness to their passion, their purpose, and their impact.

Getting to be a guide in this work is a privilege. I get to sit across from people being interviewed and share these conversations. And while most of the work I do will go unnoticed—the constant loading in and loading out, the hours spent coordinating and researching, the problem-solving when things go wrong—I love what I do. Because my job is making sure their work doesn’t go unnoticed.

It’s only week one of this project, and I’m filled with gratitude and new perspectives. Any time I’m on set is a reminder of why I love doing what I do. Not just for the final piece (though I can’t wait to get there), but for the moments in between. The new connections and honest conversations I get to have. The privilege of sitting across from people who are changing our culture and communities.

A Note On Why I’m Documenting This

I’m starting to document more of my production work in real time, and what I’m realizing is that this work has come full circle in so many ways. I started We the Storytellers (fka Coffee & Convos) over a decade ago, and my production company, Future’s Past, 7 years ago, with a unified vision to amplify stories that matter. To create space for voices that deserve to be heard.

And here I am, still doing that work. Just in new forms. In new ways.

What I’ve learned is that all of our stories matter. Whether we tell them ourselves or someone finds them worth sharing. Whether we have a platform or we’re just beginning. Whether the work is glamorous or behind the scenes.

I think it’s important right now to show what my life actually looks like as a producer. Because it’s not typical, I didn’t go to school for this, I’m entirely self-made and while I would have compared myself to those in my industry who have “more experience,” I’m proud of what I do because I built this for myself. I built it without a blueprint, choosing all of who I am instead of shrinking to fit someone else’s mold.

If you’re a creative, an entrepreneur, someone building something that matters—I hope seeing this process helps you understand the work behind the work. The intention behind the outcome.

And if you’re someone whose story deserves to be told, I hope this shows you that there are people who care. Who will treat your stories with deep care and respect. Who understands that storytelling isn’t just content—it’s preservation, connection, and honoring what matters.

More to come as I continue to document this journey.

For now, thank you for being here. For witnessing the process. For caring about the stories that shape our communities.

I’m not going to sugarcoat this, nor am I going to try to make this palatable. Because there is no hiding what this is. And what I feel every day for the last year since this convicted felon/rapist has been in office (for a second time, mind you) is nothing short of alarming.

I start with this fact because what I’m going to continue to express is how I’ve been trying to navigate these times as a creative, an entrepreneur, and someone trying to make sense of it all.

It feels hard to wake up in the mornings to act like things are “normal” and focus on my work. Even client calls are layered with this unspoken grief and pain.

And while *gestures arms wildly* THIS is all happening, we must take care of ourselves, continue with our business, and continue to make ends meet. But I can’t help but feel defeated as bigger issues continue to happen.

Since I surround myself with a lot of creative entrepreneurs, the conversations we’ve been having have all been around this shared experience—the guilt we feel in showing up for our business and especially on social media marketing our services and sharing our work. Which begs the question, how do we put ourselves out there? How do we share our work when people are suffering?

It feels tone-deaf, it feels selfish, it feels wrong. And yet, we must continue to show up anyway. And the feelings we hold, I think is proof enough of our humanity. Of our integrity. And the fact that we are doing our best in the face of crisis.

There’s a narrative circulating, of “keep politics out of business” or “keep politics out of art.” And that demand alone is a privilege.

I’ve watched it happen in real time. Businesses and artists speaking out about what’s happening in our country are being unfollowed, boycotted, and even threatened. People who once admired the art, who once frequented the cafes, who once supported the work are now withdrawing that support—not because the quality changed, but because they disagree with where these people stand.

Instead of listening or even trying to understand the values behind the work they claim to love, they choose division. They choose to punish people for speaking the truth.

But how can we, the creatives, the entrepreneurs, the small business owners behind the artwork, the cafes, the services you’re supporting—how can we NOT be political when our inherent identities are already political?

Being a woman is political. Being a person of color is political. Being an immigrant or child of immigrants is political. Being LGBTQIA+ is political. Standing up for what’s right is political.

And while we didn’t decide politicize our identities, the system did. And when we create, when we share our stories, or when we address the very things that are affecting our communities, like the ICE raids in our neighborhoods, the reversal of our rights, the erasure and censorship of our identities, we’re not being divisive. We’re speaking about our reality. And the only people who can demand we “stay out of politics” are people whose bodies and families aren’t the ones being targeted.

Then there are the people who say they simply don’t pay attention to politics because “it doesn’t affect them.” That ignorance is not neutral, it’s harmful.

Ignoring injustice doesn’t make you innocent. It makes you complicit. And while that may not be your intention, it’s the impact that matters. When you say “I don’t pay attention to politics,” what you’re really saying is “I have the luxury of not paying attention because my life, my safety, my rights aren’t the ones at stake.”

But where does it stop? Recent history has shown us that time and time again, injustice doesn’t stay contained. The targeting of one group is never just about one group. It’s about establishing that some people are disposable, that some lives matter less, and that some voices can be silenced.

Again, what a privilege to think that any of this does not affect you, just because you can’t afford to care, since the violence isn’t at your door. And when you don’t listen to the immigrants, the women, the LGBTQIA+ communities, and there is no one left to speak up because all of these voices and communities have been silenced, what happens when they finally reach your door?

And by the time it reaches your door, there’s no one left to speak up.

And your decision to “stay out of it” doesn’t protect you—it enables the very systems that will eventually come for you too.

When someone says, “I don’t pay attention to politics,” they’re choosing willful ignorance over solidarity. They are choosing comfort over courage. And what I know is that silence has never protected anyone. It’s only ever protected the status quo. The very system that is in place to divide us and keep us small.

I think the question isn’t whether or not we should bring politics into our work, the question should be—what kind of person do you want to be in this moment?

Someone who speaks up? Or someone who looks away? Someone who uses their platform (no matter how big or small) for something bigger, or someone who justifies that what the government is doing is right, simply because they are the government? Someone who stands in solidarity, or someone who chooses comfort?

We get to choose who we become in these moments. And while staying silent is a choice, and ignorance of what is happening is a choice, those choices also have consequences.

I often think about the scene in A Bug’s Life when Hopper realizes the ants outnumber the grasshoppers a hundred to one. He says “If they ever figure that out, there goes our way of life!”

In this situation, we are the ants. We do have power. Real, tangible, collective power. We’re seeing it unfold in real time—DEI rollbacks from large corporations like Target are facing massive backlash. Target’s stock tanked when they abandoned their values. Companies are scrambling as consumers demand accountability.

What I’ve seen even more during this time is how small businesses are thriving when they stand for something. Because the truth is, every dollar we spend is a vote. Every business we support is a choice. Every platform we engage with is a decision about what world we want to build. And I think these large companies are terrified of us remembering just how much power we have.

While I’ve lost followers when I speak about ICE (not to mention Gaza and what is happening in other countries) and what’s happening in our communities—some are angry stating I don’t know anything, and some unfollow immediately—you know what else is happening? I’m finding my people. I’m finding people willing to have these conversations, willing to share the same grief and rage and uncertainty. People who don’t have all the answers but are showing up anyway. People who feel alone but are realizing they’re not.

In conversation with a friend, we talked about how a lot of us are experiencing pain and grief during this time, not knowing how to move forward. She shared how she recently told someone that we must continue to create during this time, that our art is important and how our creativity is a catalyst for change, new ideas, and conversation.

I think it’s easy for us to want to stop. To simply be still. To put our creativity aside and wait for “the right time.” But it brings me back to the idea that when we are silent, when we play small and dim our light, we are also letting the system win.

My friend continued to say:

The grief is normal. We’re human with compassion and empathy for humanity. It’s painful. But remember that we make the most impact with our communities directly surrounding us. The power lies in the way we pour into the people around us now. They want us exhausted, angry, and confused when we need to be rested, focused, and moving with love and purpose.

That’s the strategy. Keep us scattered, scared, isolated, and angry. Because when we’re too tired to organize, too afraid to speak up, too alone to build community—that’s how they win. The same system instilling fear, hate, and division is the same system that has always worked to keep us apart. To keep us competing instead of collaborating. To keep us silent instead of speaking up.

But what they didn’t account for? People refusing to be complicit. Because the more they try to divide us, the more I’m seeing people come together. The more they try to silence us, the more I’m seeing people speak up. The more they try to isolate us, the more I’m seeing communities form. And while we may not be able to change the world overnight, we can absolutely impact our own communities. And that impact ripples.

And the perfect example is how Minneapolis has shown up for their community. Where thousands of people have taken a part of their strike and economic blackout that involved no school, no work, and no shopping to demand ICE leave their city in the harshest weather.

While I don’t have all the answers, here are some ideas into what community power looks like inspired by what I’ve seen on other social media platforms. Things we can do now even if we feel helpless. Even when we feel like there is not much we ourselves can do.

Direct Mutual Aid

• Buying groceries for neighbors who can’t leave their homes out of fear

• Pooling money for bail funds

• Sharing resources (food pantries, legal aid, mental health support)

• Creating community fridges and supply stations

Platform & Visibility

• Sharing accurate information

• Amplifying voices from impacted communities

• Using whatever platform you have (even if it’s “just” 100 followers)

• Creating content that centers marginalized stories

Economic Power

• Supporting immigrant-owned businesses

• Choosing where we spend our money deliberately

• Boycotting corporations that abandon their values

• Amplifying small businesses taking a stand

Reading & Learning

• Study the organizers who came before us, like Ella Baker, Grace Lee Boggs, and many more

• Read about resistance movements: the Civil Rights Movement, the labor movement, Indigenous sovereignty movements, the AIDS activism of ACT UP

• Share what you learn—education is community care

Skill Sharing

• Offering your professional skills (legal, medical, creative, technical)

• Teaching workshops on rights, safety, and organizing

• Creating art that documents this moment

• Writing, filming, recording what’s happening

Showing Up Physically

• Attending community meetings

• Joining protests and vigils

• Being present at school board meetings, city council sessions

• Filling spaces with bodies that refuse to look away

Creating Space for Grief and Processing

• Hosting community circles

• Creating art together

• Sharing meals, stories, fears

• Reminding each other we’re not alone

There is an extensive list of so much more we can do, but this is just how we can scratch the surface. How can we start and start small within our own communities?

Last year, a friend and I started hosting Pause & Play gatherings as an effort to be present, be among good company, and share space. And it feels perfectly timed to bring that same energy back into the fold.

A handful of books I’m picking up to read and learn from:

• Pleasure Activism by adrienne maree brown

• My Grandmother’s Hands by Resmaa Menakem

• No One Is Illegal by Justin Akers Chacón and Mike Davis

• A People’s History of the United States by Howard Zinn

• An Indigenous Peoples’ History of the United States by Roxanne Dunbar-Ortiz

• We Do This ‘Til We Free Us by Mariame Kaba

What I feel like is important to note is that this is a journey that we alone can’t fix. My friend shared a solid point that this is generational work. Where the generation before us chipped away at these systems, the generation after us will continue.

And that doesn’t mean this work we are doing now doesn’t matter. But rather, it means every action we take now lays the foundation for what comes next.

Every conversation you have plants a seed. Every business you support votes with your dollars. Every post you share reaches someone who needs it. Every act of community care builds resilience. Every piece of art you create documents this moment.

This is how change happens. Not in one grand gesture, but in a million small acts of refusal. Refusal to be silent. Refusal to comply. Refusal to abandon each other.

We don’t have all the answers. We’re all figuring this out in real time, making mistakes, learning as we go, adjusting when we stumble. But what matters is that we show up anyway. Imperfectly. Messily. With our whole hearts.

Because they’re counting on us giving up. They’re betting that we’ll get too tired, too scared, too overwhelmed to keep going.

So we keep going. Not because we have it figured out, but because we refuse to let them win. Let’s keep going together. One step and one day at a time.

But the universe had other plans. In fact, I would argue that the universe pushed me so far beyond my comfort zone that I had no choice but to do the things I said I wanted to do, but in a much speedier timeline. From losing my job, and needing to figure out my next moves—do I continue to look for a 9 to 5 or do I finally risk it all to be a full-time creative? Truthfully, I thought giving myself another year at my job was my ideal situation, but the universe gave me a blessing in disguise which came in the form of a small severence package, time off to grieve and spend with my family when my Nanay passed, and a bit of a cushion during my transition where I didn’t freak out every second of every day, but rather every other day or so.

Speaking of the universe, I consider myself a spiritual person, so it felt very aligned when discovering that 2025 is the year of the snake and a year 9 in numerology. The symbolism of endings, shedding, and releasing. And I felt every bit of it.

I grieved the life I once knew and was so comfortable in. Losing my job, the team I grew to love, and losing my Nanay. On top of all of the loss due to our administration, and the collective grief many of us are feeling. It’s heavy. And it’s devastating.

And although I didn’t see the significance of the symbolism right away, looking back now, I can say that I feel like the universe was nudging me towards something I was too scared to choose on my own. Autonomy over my own life, a career and lifestyle where I can embody my multitudes, and time to just be.

I won’t say that it was easy in the months following. It felt like the hardest thing in my life to continue to show up despite the random bursts of sadness and grief. It felt like a free fall with no idea where I was going to land. And some days, it still feels like that. I applied to jobs, but no job description felt like a good fit. Had conversations with other creative people who tell me I’m doing a great job, but feeling like I haven’t accomplished anything because I am barely making ends meet. And not to mention sitting in the uncomfortable stillness—the moments where I’m confronted with the guilt of not being “productive enough” but also not having the energy to do anything because I was/am processing grief and loss.

I kept thinking about snakes, how they don’t shed their skin all at once. How they observe first—noticing patterns, recognizing when something no longer fits. How the shedding itself is slow and uncomfortable, but they can’t rush it. They have to trust the process, even when they can’t see what’s underneath yet.

That’s what this year asked of me. To observe the patterns that no longer served me. To notice what felt tight and constricting—the job that didn’t quite fit anymore, the need to control my timeline, the belief that there was only one “right” way forward. And then to release them, slowly and uncomfortably, trusting that something new would emerge. The transformation itself wasn’t dramatic. It was quiet, profound, and so necessary.

But the more I sat in the stillness, continued to share my story, and stayed true to what felt right, the more things fell into alignment. I realized I wasn't solving a puzzle. I was unraveling a riddle. And the riddle was showing me that this whole experience—the one that felt like a detour—was the path all along.

2025 taught me a lot of things, but if I had to sum it up into a few different points, I’d share this:

• Real growth is trusting the detour more than you trusted the original plan

• Not all endings are complete stops—they're movement toward who you're becoming

• The most important work this year wasn’t checking boxes—it was showing up when everything felt uncertain

• Every break, every fracture, and every ending is an opportunity to pick up the pieces and create something new

• Releasing control made space for aligned opportunities

• Your multitudes aren't a distraction, they're your superpower

• Where you end up isn't what you initially imagined—but it's often far better than what you could have planned

• Gratitude is abundance in action

It’s interesting now, looking back at this past year. I truly believe that in order to move forward, we must look back and reflect. And this time last year, I was perfectly content. I was comfortable working for someone else, and I didn’t imagine this life for myself. Now, I get to call myself a full-time creative entrepreneur and artist, where no two days look exactly alike. I can spend half the day at the pottery studio, and the next day I can spend a whole day on set, while in the middle of the day I can meet with a friend for coffee or take a break to read a book.

The life I’m living now is one I couldn’t have imagined for myself. And what surprises me most isn’t the pottery studio or the film premiere or the freedom—it’s how calm I am. The clarity. The centeredness. I fell so many times this year. Got back up every single time. And now I know my resilience can handle whatever the future brings. I’m no longer operating in survival mode. I still have doubts, but I’m finally equipped with the tools to face them. Who would have thought that releasing control—or really, just the idea of control—would be how everything I needed found me?

So yes, 2025 was the Year of the Snake—of endings, shedding, and releasing. And it feels good to name what we’re all collectively experiencing. This idea of loss, surrender, cutting things out. In some ways, these endings didn’t feel totally random. Was it cosmic timing? A push to trust myself? Either way, I like to think it was both.

And as we enter 2026—the Year of the Horse (more specifically, the Fire Horse), numerology Year 1 (and 10)—the symbolism is clear. Movement. Freedom. Independence. New beginnings. Acceleration. Expansion. All of these words feel fitting for what a year of shedding has brought us.

And I, for one, am ready to move.

As I enter 2026, I’m bringing in so much more clarity, namely:

• Trust in my intuition, which has never steered me wrong

• Starting before I feel ready

• My multi-hyphenate identity—and embodying every multitude!

• A calm nervous system, built through somatic practices, deep trust, and surrender

• The understanding that alignment feels better than achievement

• Permission to let things unfold instead of forcing them

• The knowledge that when I release control, better opportunities show up

And I am working on continuing to release:

• The need to have it all figured out

• Timelines that don’t account for being human

• The idea that there’s one “right” path

For anyone on their own detour or uncharted path, whose year didn’t go as planned—whether you lost something (a job, a loved one, a version of yourself) or you’re building something new and it feels messy and uncertain—I want you to know:

The thing that feels like it’s taking you off track? It might just be redirecting you.

The loss that feels unbearable? It might have made space for something you couldn’t have made room for otherwise.

The plan that fell apart? It might be making way for something better aligned.

You are not behind. You are not off track. You’re releasing. You’re moving. You’re becoming.

This is very much a note to self—a reminder that this spark I feel in this moment, I don’t want to lose it. As we inch closer to 2026, the fresh energy feels like a spark to a flame. Like remembrance. A rekindling of energy and ideas. An opportunity to build something I didn’t think I was quite ready for.

But with nothing to lose and everything to gain, I know I’m not building from scratch. I’m building from experience and the pieces I chose to keep.

Start something new. Trust when things don’t go as planned. The right time will always be right now.

This one precious life of ours is just that—precious and ours. And sometimes the unplanned path is exactly where we needed to go.

On the note of new beginnings: Remember that online ceramics store I mentioned didn't happen in 2025? Well, it's here now!

I’m leaning into the idea of starting before things are perfect and my shop is open with a limited collection of pieces I made—each piece made with care, with intention to use for your daily rituals. Shop my ceramics here. ✨🏺

It’s the season of reflection, and I’ve been sitting with this feeling, scrolling through my scribbled notes in my journal and Passion Planner, looking at the goals I set for myself at the beginning of 2025. The documentary series I wanted to launch. The URL to IRL expansion I envisioned. Crafting an original work of art or showcase my ceramics at a gallery, then open up my own online shop.

And as I look at these goals, written by someone who could not have known what this year held, I see so much hope and possibility, but I can’t help but feel the guilt. The disappointment. And shame that I didn’t hold these silent promises to myself.

Am I not doing enough? Did I let myself down? Or do I have impossibly high expectations of myself?

It’s a question I’ve been wrestling with as I plan for 2026 and watch some of these same goals transfer over to next year’s list. And I think if you’re a creative, an entrepreneur, or someone building something from scratch, you’ve probably asked yourself this too.

At the beginning of 2025, I had BIG plans (don’t we all?). I made a vision board and everything. Establish a consistent movement routine, sell my pottery, document my family more, start my own home garden, film and launch the documentary series I’ve been talking about for what feels like years now. And these goals felt so within my reach at the time.

But either timing didn’t align. Work took priority, and I needed to shift my focus. Communication with my creative partner didn’t sync up the way I hoped. Energy went elsewhere. And now here I am, at the end of the year, looking at a list of things that didn’t happen.

And when I’m honest with myself? The hardest part isn’t that the goals didn’t happen. It’s the story I tell myself about what that means. The story that says I’m not doing enough. That I’m letting myself down. And that maybe I’m not cut out for this after all.

But it’s also a much-needed reminder to myself when that negative self-talk gets incredibly loud and overwhelming, that I can quiet the noise and remember all the things I DID fill my time and energy with this year.

Not to mention, this was a tough year for me. I lost my 9-5 job. I lost my Nanay. I navigated a complete pivot in real time—grieving, rebuilding, and trying to hold it together all at once.

And in the middle of all of that?

I took pottery seriously and started to sell at local pop-ups and markets, started journaling consistently, and started writing more publicly here on this platform. I produced a film that premiered at DOCNYC. I hosted consistent URL to IRL gatherings, even if it wasn’t the big expansion I’d envisioned. I found new client work. And most importantly, I started openly exploring what it means to be a multi-hyphenate creative building without a blueprint.

These things took more energy than I anticipated. But they were worth it.

They reminded me that some goals aren’t meant to be rushed. That sometimes the most important work is the work of just showing up when everything feels uncertain.

When I shifted my focus from what I didn’t achieve to what I DID show up for, something changed. It felt like someone handed me a permission slip. Permission to recognize that things don’t always go as planned—and sometimes it’s better that way.

Because if I’m being honest? Launching a documentary series and expanding URL to IRL while navigating grief and job loss and a complete life pivot? That would have been too much. That would have burnt me out and stretched me too thin to the point where I wouldn’t feel like my most confident and creative self.

The goals I’m carrying over aren’t a failure. It’s deeply rooted wisdom. It’s my body and my intuition saying—Not yet. Not like this.

And I’m learning to trust that.

Here’s what no one tells you about being a creative entrepreneur. You trade a 9-5 for a 24/7. You become your own boss, accountant, marketer, and creator wearing the countless hats you sometimes forget which one you put on. You dictate your own schedule, which sounds like freedom, and it is, but it also means you never really clock out. Everything is interconnected. Your creativity IS your business. Your business IS your life.

Some days are packed. Some days look quiet from the outside but are full of mental labor—planning, strategizing, problem-solving, just thinking about the work.

And then there’s the guilt.

The guilt when you take a break in the middle of the day to watch Wicked For Good with your mom. The guilt when you’re not at a computer “working” even though you chose this life specifically for the flexibility. The guilt when you rest because rest doesn’t look productive, and productivity is how we measure worth in this culture.

I wish we had talked more about how taxing it is to wear all the hats. How isolating it can feel to handle it all on our own. How hard it is to give ourselves permission to be human when we’re constantly trying to prove this choice was worth it.

Because that’s the real weight, isn’t it? The pressure to prove that leaving the corporate world and not going back to a 9-5 was the right call. That going all in without a backup plan wasn’t reckless. That we’re not failing just because we’re figuring it out as we go.

So here’s the question I keep coming back to: Am I letting myself down? Or do I just have impossibly high expectations of myself?

And here’s what I realized when I asked myself what I’d say to a friend in my position:

If someone told me they lost their grandmother, lost their job, pivoted their entire career, premiered a film at a major festival, launched a pottery business, hosted consistent community gatherings, found new clients, and kept showing up—but felt like they let themselves down because they didn’t also launch an online store and a documentary series?

I would tell them that there is no one holding a measure to your success but you. And you are being unreasonably harsh.

I would tell them that we are our harshest critics. Just because certain goals didn’t happen doesn’t mean they’re any less of a creative who has created success in different ways.

I would tell them that you are powerful. You showed up in ways many people could not have. And only YOU did that.

So why is it so hard to give myself that same compassion?

I think the problem is that we set expectations in a vacuum.

We look at what other people are doing. We imagine what “success” is supposed to look like by a certain age or timeline. We create these milestones without accounting for the reality of our actual lives—the grief, the loss, the transitions, the just being human part.

Reasonable expectations for someone navigating what I navigated this year? Survival. Showing up. Not giving up even when it got hard.

Everything else—the premiere, the pottery, the gatherings, the client work—that’s all bonus. That’s evidence of resilience and commitment, and refusing to let circumstances dictate my worth.

And I think we need to talk more about this as creatives and entrepreneurs. About giving ourselves grace and understanding that we are humans experiencing life and creativity in new ways. That there is no blueprint for this life. That success manifests differently for everyone, and comparing our chapter 3 to someone else’s chapter 20 is a losing game.

The more we honor ourselves first in the process—the grief, the capacity, the actual reality of our lives—the easier this becomes.

As I plan for the new year and see these goals carry over, I’m approaching them differently.

With more intention. With fresh energy after everything New York reminded me. With an understanding of just how much my life has shifted in the last 12 months.

But more importantly, I’m releasing some things. I’m releasing the impossible standard. The one that says I should be further along by now. The one that measures my worth by how much I produce instead of how much I’ve endured and grown.

I’m releasing the guilt. The guilt about flexibility. The guilt about rest. The guilt about not meeting every expectation I set for myself when I didn’t account for grief or loss or life just lifing.

I’m releasing external validation as a measure of success. I don’t need anyone else to tell me this choice was worth it. I know it was. I feel it in my bones.

And I’m releasing the belief that I’m not worthy of everything I’ve created for myself. Because I am. And so are you.

If I could tell myself one thing as I move into 2026, it would be this. Do it for your future self. Your small decisions every day—the ones to show up, to rest, to pivot, to trust your timing—they’re all contributing to the version of yourself you’re becoming.

And that version? She’s going to be so proud of you. Not because you checked every box or met every deadline. But because you kept going. Because you gave yourself grace. Because you chose alignment over achievement, sustainability over hustle, and your own humanity over someone else’s timeline.

If you’re reading this and you’ve been beating yourself up about what you didn’t accomplish this year—please hear me. You are not letting yourself down. You’re just being human in a system that demands we be machines.

Look at what you DID do. Look at what you survived. Look at what you built despite the circumstances.

That’s not failure. That’s resilience.

And those goals that are carrying over? They’re not evidence that you’re behind. They’re evidence that you’re learning to honor your capacity. To trust your timing. To recognize that some things are worth waiting for.

So here’s to releasing impossible standards. To giving ourselves grace. To measuring success by how aligned we feel, not how much we produce.

Here’s to recognizing that we traded a 9-5 for a 24/7—and that means we need to be kinder to ourselves, not harder. Here’s to doing it for our future selves. To trusting that every small decision, every act of showing up, every moment of choosing ourselves—it’s all contributing to something beautiful.

You’re not letting yourself down. You’re building something sustainable. And that takes time.

Be gentle with yourself. You’re doing better than you think.

What goals are you releasing? What are you giving yourself permission to approach differently in 2026? Let’s talk about it.

It was an incredible opportunity meeting fellow filmmakers as well as people who are simply fans of documentaries who wanted to be in these rooms where real stories are being shared on the big screen.

The energy was magnetic, and for someone like me—a self-made producer still figuring out how to build a sustainable creative career—it was exactly what I needed. It affirmed a lot of what I’ve been thinking about for myself. And beyond the screenings and celebrations, I also got to spend time at DOC NYC PRO and attend the panels on funding. What I learned during my few days spent at DOC NYC, I gained more clarity than I’ve had in months.

The core truth is that there is no singular path. One of the first things that I realized, not just through the funding panels but through conversations among fellow filmmakers, is that everyone’s path is different. And I believe this is true not just for filmmaking but for all creatives and artists.

There’s no one way to fund a film. No singular strategy that works for everyone. No magic formula that guarantees success. And honestly? That’s both terrifying and liberating because it means that we have permission to build our own foundations, our own blueprints. We have permission to combine strategies and our gifts that may not traditionally go together. And we can also try things that feel unconventional and say no to the “rules” that don’t serve us.

But building a sustainable creative career, whether in documentary filmmaking or any other creative field, requires entrepreneurship and thinking outside the box. One thing rang true throughout my time in New York. You can’t just be a great filmmaker or artist. You have to be a creative entrepreneur.

Let’s talk about the financial reality of production. One of the biggest lessons from the “How Do We Keep Making Films?” panel was about budgeting. And to create a budget for what you actually need (not what you think they want to hear, because let’s be real, we’ve all been there)!

Producers must create budgets that reflect what is actually needed to produce the film—not what they think a funder wants to see.

Here’s the truth: Setting your budget too low can actually hurt your application. It signals to funders that you don’t understand the true cost of your vision. That you’re not taking the work seriously. That you haven’t thought it through.

And beyond that? Always include your full professional fees (Director, Producer, Writer) in the budget—even if you anticipate needing to defer them.

Your labor has value. Budget for it. Protect it in contracts as the first expense paid when any sales or profit occur.

The reality: Filmmakers often defer their own fees for years. Many are left with personal debt or no pay for their initial time and labor. But if you don’t include yourself in the budget from the start, you’re already accepting that your work doesn’t have value.

But where does the money come from? A lot of filmmakers apply for grants and go through grant cycles to fund their films. But when institutional funding is difficult (and it often is), community becomes everything.

Small donations from friends, family, and community members can provide the emergency support you need to keep moving forward. Grassroots funding proved vital for many of the producers on the panel.

Equity and Investment: If you’re accepting equity, negotiate a cap on the percentage you give away. You need to retain most of the profit.

International Co-Productions: This is a key strategy to access larger pools of money and public funds available outside the US. US funds are versatile and can be spent anywhere, which gives you an advantage in negotiations.

My takeaway: Get creative. Don’t wait for one big funder to say yes. Build a patchwork of support—grants, donations, partnerships, co-productions. Diversify your funding the way you diversify your income.

This was my favorite part of the funding conversation because it affirmed a lot of things I was already thinking about. Adapting to the creative entrepreneur mindset and making the shift from “starving artist” to “creative entrepreneur.”

The panel on “Funding Ourselves: Financial Resilience & Sustainability” was all about adopting a “Docupreneur” mindset.

You are not a starving artist waiting for someone to discover you or fund you.

You are a creative entrepreneur building a business around your art.

And that shift—from passive to active, from waiting to building—changes everything.

And the big secret? Diversifying your income and not relying on one project or one income stream. For all my multi-hyphenates out there, this is our time!

Here’s what diversification can look like:

Hosting Screenings: Use your finished films as an opportunity to screen your films in person or online. One filmmaker shared that he uses the platform, Gathr, where you can monetize your films to host screenings online and in person.

The Lecture Circuit: Use your finished films or projects as assets for speaking engagements at colleges, universities, and high schools. Reliable honorariums between projects.

Consulting and Teaching: Monetize your expertise by creating digital courses or workshops. You don’t need to be an expert—you just need to know more than the people you’re teaching.

Commercial Side Work: Work flexible roles (DIT, camera assistant, editor) for corporate clients or event videography to bring in steady cash.

Brand Collaborations: We’ll get to this in the next section, but brands are looking for documentary filmmakers and creatives who align with their mission and can tell authentic stories.

My reflection: This is where my multi-hyphenate identity finally made sense. I’ve been diversifying without even realizing it—filmmaking, pottery, writing, community building. These aren’t scattered interests competing for my attention. They’re income streams. They’re assets. They’re all part of the same entrepreneurial practice.

And hearing this affirmed at DOC NYC? It gave me permission to stop apologizing for not “niching down” and start celebrating the integration.

The reality is, as filmmakers, sometimes you do have to self-fund to start. If you’re ready to start, sometimes you must self-fund the initial stages (savings, credit cards, personal loans) to create a proof of concept.

This doesn’t mean going into debt recklessly. But it does mean: Bet on yourself.

No one else is going to believe in your project as much as you do. And sometimes, the only way to get it off the ground is to invest in yourself first—then use that initial work to secure bigger funding.

The panel on “Where the Work Is: Opportunities at the Intersection of Documentary, Archives, and Brands” opened my eyes to opportunities I hadn’t fully considered—collaborating with brands as creative partners. There’s a stigma around working with brands. Like it’s “selling out” or compromising your integrity.

But here’s the reframe: Brands are looking for documentary filmmakers who can tell authentic, emotionally resonant stories.

They want to tap into their archives, their history, their core values to create content that connects with audiences in a real way.

And if you can maintain your documentary integrity while helping them do that? It’s a win-win.

Key skills for collaboration:

• Transparency: Be highly communicative. Provide regular updates. Manage their anxiety (especially on long-form content).

• Do your homework: Research the brand’s ethos and current campaigns and figure out how that aligns with your own storytelling experience. Be so deeply invested in their existing work before pitching your synergy.

• Build relationships: People move between agencies and companies and you never know where your relationships will take you. Building genuine relationships with people in business and being a reliable source can lead to repeat business opportunities and collaborations.

My takeaway: This isn’t about compromising. It’s about recognizing that there are multiple ways to sustain your work. And sometimes, a brand partnership funds your passion project.

Sitting in these panels, taking notes, listening to producers and filmmakers share their strategies—I felt something click.

This is the blueprint I’ve been building without realizing it.

Diversifying income? I’m already doing that—filmmaking, pottery, writing, hosting events.

Entrepreneurial mindset? I’ve been operating as a creative entrepreneur since I started my production company.

Betting on myself? That’s what going all in without a backup plan is.

Being an archivist of my time? That’s what Made of Memories is. That’s what documenting my journey in real-time is about.

But hearing it validated by people who are years ahead of me in their careers? It gave me clarity. Confirmation. Permission to keep going.

Beyond the panels, I spent time at film screenings throughout the festival. And during one Q&A session, something a filmmaker said stopped me in my tracks:

We are the archivists of our time.

We owe it to ourselves to document our stories—otherwise, who else will? And if we don’t, we let others control the narrative.

This isn’t just about preserving history for future generations. It’s about claiming our stories now. It’s about ensuring that the narratives being told are told by us, not about us by someone else who doesn’t understand the nuance, the context, the truth.

As a first-gen Filipino American filmmaker, this resonates deeply. How many of our stories have been told through someone else’s lens? How many have been erased because no one thought they were worth documenting?

Every film we make, every story we tell, every moment we choose to preserve—that’s activism. That’s reclamation. That’s ensuring our communities see themselves reflected accurately.

And that’s what we all need to remember as documentary filmmakers and creatives: We’re not just making content. We’re creating the archive of our time.

The Immediate Shifts I’m Making

1. I’m not afraid to bet on myself anymore.

If I have an idea, a project, a vision—I’m going to invest in it. Time, energy, maybe even money. Because waiting for someone else to validate it or fund it first? That’s just another way of staying small.

2. I’m diversifying intentionally.

Not scattering my energy, but building complementary income streams. Using my IP (films, writing, workshops) to create assets that generate revenue independent of production cycles.

3. I’m prioritizing relationships and genuine partnerships.

This work is collaborative. The people you build relationships with today become your collaborators, your funders, your advocates tomorrow.

4. I’m committing to personal integrity.

I will not compromise my values for a paycheck. I will not say yes to projects that don’t align. I will always include myself as a line item in my budgets because my labor has value.

5. I’m documenting my stories—and empowering others to document theirs.

We are the archivists of our time. If we don’t tell our stories, someone else will—and who knows our stories better than ourselves? I’m committing to preserving the narratives that matter, in my own voice, on my own terms.

Key Takeaways (For You)

If you’re a filmmaker, a creative, an entrepreneur building something from scratch—here’s what I want you to take from this:

1. Embrace the Entrepreneurial Mindset

You are not a starving artist. You are a creative entrepreneur. Shift your identity. Shift your strategy.

2. Diversify Your Income

Do not rely on one project, one client, one stream. Build multiple revenue sources. Create assets (courses, speaking engagements, consulting) that generate income between projects.

3. Budget for Yourself

Always include your full professional fees in your budget. Protect your deferred fees in contracts. Your labor has value—act like it.

4. Think Outside the Box

There is no single path. Combine strategies. Try unconventional approaches. Build your own blueprint.

5. Relationships Matter

Build genuine partnerships. Be transparent. Be reliable. People remember who showed up with integrity.

6. Bet on Yourself

Sometimes you have to self-fund to start. Sometimes you have to take the leap before you feel ready. Sometimes betting on yourself is the only option—and that’s okay.

7. Use Your IP Creatively

Your finished films are assets. Your expertise is valuable. Your story matters. Find ways to monetize and share your work beyond traditional distribution. This also applies to your finished pieces and artwork, there are so many ways to think outside the box when it comes to sharing your work.

8. Document Your Stories

We are the archivists of our time. If we don’t preserve our narratives, someone else will control them. Every story you tell, every moment you document—that’s reclamation. That’s ensuring your community sees themselves reflected accurately.

Final Thoughts

DOC NYC reminded me why I love this work.

The stories. The people. The energy of being in rooms where real, human stories are celebrated.

But DOC NYC PRO reminded me how to sustain this work.

Through entrepreneurship. Through diversification. Through genuine partnerships. Through betting on myself even when I’m scared. Through recognizing that we’re not just making films—we’re creating the archive of our time.

And maybe that’s the real lesson. You can love the art and still build a business around it. You can be a creative and an entrepreneur. You can make meaningful work and make a living. You can tell stories that matter while ensuring those stories remain in the hands of the communities they belong to.

It’s not one or the other. It’s both. Always both.

So here’s to building without a blueprint. To diversifying income. To betting on ourselves. To choosing what feels most aligned, even when it doesn’t look like anyone else’s path.

Here’s to documenting our stories, preserving our narratives, and ensuring that the archive of our time reflects the truth of who we are—not who others think we should be.

Here’s to being creative entrepreneurs who refuse to starve for our art. And archivists who refuse to let our stories be told through someone else’s voice and lens.

This is our time. These are our stories.

For my fellow filmmakers and creatives building your own versions of sustainable careers, what resonates most? What are you already doing? What do you want to try? What stories are you preserving? Let’s keep this conversation going.

But then I found myself sitting in a sold-out theater at DOCNYC, seconds away from watching Songs of Reclamation premiere on the big screen.

I’d watched this film countless times. The different versions before it became what it was. I lived with every scene, and even though I watched it countless times, hearing that familiar banjo strum opening in a packed theater—surrounded by my crew, sitting near Hannah, alongside the entire American Masters In The Making cohort—the energy was magnetic.

I remember feeling giddy, so happy I could cry, and I think I did. The moment it finally premiered, it was a confirmation. Proof. And a full-circle moment I didn’t know I needed. And it turned out, this trip to New York wasn’t just about celebrating a film I produced. It was a reawakening of my love for travel, for people, for possibility. And for me.

There’s something about seeing your work on a big screen that makes it real in a way it never was before.

All the iterations. The planning. The problem-solving. The belief that this story mattered and deserved to be told. It wasn’t just a file living on a computer or a project I talked about anymore. It was here. Real. Being witnessed by over a hundred people.

My eyes swelled with tears because I saw all of our work come together in that theater. The gratitude was overwhelming. For Ebony, our incredible director. For the crew. For Hannah, trusting us with their story. For every moment that led to this one.

The first few days in New York, I was reorienting. Getting refamiliar with the subway system. Remembering how to navigate a city that moves at a completely different pace than San Diego. And after a few days (and a few times getting lost), I found myself feeling more confident. Walking all over Manhattan. Averaging 15,000 steps a day (so different than walking around downtown San Diego). Exploring the different neighborhoods. Meeting new people. Going to a Snap and Yap photo walk and connecting with fellow creatives. Eating the best pizza. Just... being.

I felt so alive.

Not the “I’m checking things off my list” kind of alive, but the “I’m exactly where I’m supposed to be” kind of alive.

New York felt full of possibility. Like maybe I could come back more. Like maybe travel doesn’t have to be this rare, once-in-a-while thing. Like maybe I’m allowed to say yes to exploration, to newness, to experiences that don’t have a direct ROI but fill me up anyway.

What I loved most about my trip, aside from being in a whole different environment, crunching leaves everywhere I went, and feeling the cool chill in the air, was getting to meet new people. I met filmmakers, fellow creatives, people from the Snap and Yap photo walk who became instant friends. I also got to reconnect with a dear friend, Nyah. Conversations felt easy and real and full of that “where have you been all my life” energy.

There’s something about being away from your routine, your city, your usual circles that opens you up. You’re more present. More willing to say yes. More yourself because no one knows the version of you that you’ve been performing.

From the Selena-themed celebration for Brown Girls Doc Mafia where I danced and sang to Selena, to the spontaneous afterparties after film screenings, to saying yes to celebratory whiskey shots with the cohort of In the Making, to connecting over the film camera my mom gave me—they were all moments I couldn’t have planned for.

And all of this reminded me how much I love meeting people. I love traveling. I love the version of me that emerges when I’m exploring somewhere new. That version of me was free, and every moment felt magical. I’d forgotten that. Or maybe I’d buried it under everything else I thought was more important.

This trip connected everything I’ve been processing in my season of becoming. I’ve been searching for clarity. Wondering what’s next. Sitting with the uncertainty of going all in without a backup plan. Trying to figure out what projects deserve my energy and which ones I’ve been holding onto out of obligation.

And somehow, being in New York—celebrating this milestone, meeting new people, walking through unfamiliar streets—gave me the clarity I’d been looking for.

Projects I’d left collecting dust? Ideas I thought would need to wait? Ideas I didn’t think I was ready for? They deserve a renewal. A second look. Fresh energy and this version of myself that experienced this magnetic city and allowed myself to open up again.

That version of me who loves travel and exploration and meeting new people? She’s not gone. She’s been here the whole time, just waiting for permission to come back out. And that inner knowing of what I’m capable of? It’s stronger now than it’s ever been.

The last time I was in New York was 2018, right before the pandemic, with a few girlfriends. And funny enough, back then, I didn’t feel creative. I didn’t have this inner knowing of what I was capable of. I was still figuring out who I was and what I wanted to build.

This time felt completely different. For one, I was premiering a film I produced at DOCNYC—the largest documentary film festival in the United States. That alone felt surreal. But beyond that? I showed up differently. More sure of myself. More aligned with who I’m becoming. More clear on what I want to create. And even more clear on how I introduced myself and talked about myself.

That difference alone is staggering, and it means everything. This trip has given me more than a world premiere—it has given me more energy. More hope. More alignment.

I’m bringing back the reminder that I’m allowed to celebrate my milestones—not just acknowledge them and move on to the next thing, but actually sit in the gratitude and let myself feel proud.

I’m bringing back permission to rediscover parts of myself that got buried. To say yes to things that don’t make “strategic sense” but make me feel alive.

I’m bringing back a renewed commitment to the projects I’ve been sitting on. New life. New energy. New belief that they’re worth finishing.

And I’m bringing back a different vision for my life moving forward. One that includes more travel. More exploration. More meeting new people and trying new things, and giving myself permission to just... be.

This is your reminder to celebrate your wins, big and small. Take the trip. Meet the people. Try the new thing. Give yourself permission to rediscover who you are outside of your routine, your responsibilities, and your performance of productivity.

Go to the Snap and Yap. Dance and sing the night away with a group of strangers. Book the flight. Say yes to the invitation that scares you a little.

What I’ve learned is that the clarity I was looking for didn’t come from sitting still or thinking harder. It came from moving. From exploring. From saying yes to the experiences that make you feel alive. It comes from trusting yourself enough to celebrate what you’ve built, while staying curious about what’s next.

This trip was more than a celebration. It was a reminder of who I am when I give myself permission to explore and travel. To meet new people. To walk over 15,000 steps a day through unfamiliar streets and feel completely alive. It was confirmation that I’m exactly where I’m supposed to be. That the projects I’m working on matter. That this season of unfolding is leading me somewhere unknown but beautiful.

It was a reminder that sometimes the best thing you can do for yourself is say yes to the thing that doesn’t make perfect sense on paper but feels right in your bones. And a reminder of how alive I am. How the feelings and experiences I’ve been craving have been waiting for me all along—I just needed to give myself permission to reach for them.

So here’s to celebrating milestones. To rediscovering ourselves through travel. To meeting new people and trying new things and trusting that we’re on the right path—even when we can’t see exactly where it’s leading.

Here’s to New York. To Songs of Reclamation. To new friends and the best pizza and 15,000 steps a day.

And here’s to whatever’s coming next. I’m ready for it—for more aliveness, more exploration, and more of wherever this journey leads.

Songs of Reclamation is still available to screen through DOCNYC online until November 30th! Check it out if you’d like. The film block it was a part of was truly phenomenal, and you’d be in for a treat!

Call me nostalgic, but I miss the days of the landline. When dial-up would interrupt any incoming calls, when I could eavesdrop on my parents’ conversations from the other room, and when connection required real intention. When reaching out meant something because it truly took effort—not to mention the memorization of phone numbers or keeping a phone book!

Now, we can reach people without even knowing their phone numbers. We can exist and converse purely through a social media platform that hosts millions of other people around the globe. But here’s what’s most interesting: we were never meant to have this much access. Based on the well-known research around Dunbar’s Number, we were only meant to maintain about 150 meaningful relationships.

Yet with thousands of people producing and sharing millions of pieces of content every day, how can we call the consumption of it all “connection”? The consumption of people’s lives has replaced actual connection. Parasocial relationships have become something a lot of people equate with knowing someone. And the dopamine addiction makes it hard to leave these platforms, all for the sake of wanting to stay “connected” to our people.

I’ve seen the videos of parents exploiting their kids’ tears for views, the staged emails to get attention for an online sticker shop, and so much more. It’s performative, to say the least. And performing for an algorithm that rewards constant consumption over actual depth? It’s kind of insane. But we are no strangers to the scroll, right?

I think we’re all feeling it right now. The perfect storm of political climate and collective anxiety. End-of-year burnout. AI making everything feel manufactured and hollow. It’s hard to want to be online when nothing feels real anymore.

Underneath it all is a bone-deep exhaustion from moving at a pace humans were never designed to maintain.

For me, I’ve been shifting how I show up—both online and in real life.

Online, I’ve moved from a place that once felt really icky to a place where I just want to document and share my story authentically. And offline? Slowing down has been integral to quieting the noise—not just externally, but my inner voice too.

I’ve been reaching for books more than my phone. Choosing to go to events. Seeing people I engage with online in real life. Getting outside my comfort zone and saying yes to gatherings where I may not know everyone. Scheduling whole days with friends—like planning an entire Tuesday to bake and watch movies together, not just squeezing quality time in between everything else.

I’ve prioritized IRL connection more than anything. And I’ve noticed how much more these moments fill me up in a way scrolling never has.

And sometimes, taking a break is necessary.

Adrian and I took a few months off from hosting URL to IRL events. We spent our summer with friends instead of hosting them. We needed to recenter, recalibrate, and re-envision what this space could be.

What we learned confirmed everything we suspected: People are craving more connection offline. More pop-up events. More gatherings. More tactile moments to create together. And even more than that—people are craving depth. Real conversations. Permission to show up without the performance.

What I love most about hosting URL to IRL events is how immediate the magic is. The energy shifts the moment people put their phones away. It becomes welcoming, intimate. Hosting in our loft allows people to drop their masks, because the space itself gives permission to just be. No performance. No curation. You can be messy and human and real.

There’s more trust. More depth. More understanding. More realness.

And that’s what we’ve all been starving for.

When everything we do is online, it takes away our autonomy in a way I don’t think we fully recognize.

Call me a pessimist—or a realist—but I often question: What would happen when the internet goes down? We already freak out when Instagram is down for a few hours. What would happen when the entirety of anything requiring an internet connection just... stops?

We put so much power in these apps, these devices, this internet connection. We’ve become so dependent that the world would lose its shit if all these platforms disappeared overnight.

It makes me wonder about our connections offline. Are we secure enough with our community to know their numbers? Know where they live? To have plans outside of online spaces? To maintain connection without an algorithm dictating it?

I’ve often heard the advice “you don’t own your audience” when it comes to social media platforms, encouraging people to build email lists. And I think it’s great advice because truly—what happens when these apps shut down? When accounts get deleted?

But beyond that, when we meet offline, when we’re physically together, no platform can take that connection away. There’s no algorithm deciding who sees what. There’s just us—real, present, accountable to each other.

I’m not opposed to social media, nor am I promoting a completely offline lifestyle (although that does sound appealing).

What I’m advocating for is intentionality in how we use these digital tools.

What if instead of using Instagram to replace connection, we used it to facilitate connection? What if we used these digital platforms to usher in the next movement of offline gatherings, offline community, offline depth?

Here’s the irony I’m sitting with. Though we host phone-free events, the invitation comes through social media and our newsletter. We promote URL to IRL on Instagram—the very platform we’re encouraging people to step away from for a few hours.

But no matter how much we share about our gatherings online, it can never replace the magic, nor could it define what that magic actually is. Because it happens when we’re in the same room. When you can hear someone’s unfiltered laugh. When you can pass a dish across a table. When you can just be, without the pressure to make it content.

That’s the difference. That’s what we’re trying to protect.

The digital tools get people in the door. But the real work—the real connection—happens when the phones go away.

I’m excited for what we have in store for URL to IRL, especially as we ease into the end of the year with a few more gatherings. And what we’re envisioning for 2026? It’s going to be pretty amazing. I can’t wait to bring you along for that journey.

The world is moving faster. The noise is getting louder. We’re seeing so much performance, so much AI slop, so much content that’s clearly just manufactured engagement.

And we need spaces where we can slow down. Where we can be seen by human eyes, not through a screen. Physical spaces where we can remember what it feels like to connect and have a conversation without notifications interrupting us.

I think it’s time we all used these digital tools to build our real-world communities.

Host a dinner. Organize a walk. Create a book club. Plan a craft night. It doesn’t have to be extravagant—it could be as simple as gathering people in your living room.

Start small. Start with one person. Start with people who make you feel like yourself.

That’s what we did. And now we’ve hosted multiple strangers who’ve become close friends of ours. We’ve watched other strangers become friends, connect people in their networks, and build meaningful relationships simply by putting their phones away for a few hours.

Notice what happens when you’re in the same room. When connection isn’t mediated by an algorithm. When you can just be human together.

That’s where the magic lives. That’s where we remember we’re not alone.

I’m nostalgic for a time before the internet, but I wouldn’t go back. I’m grateful for the connections it’s made possible. For the community it’s helped me build. For the work it’s allowed me to share.

But I am advocating for balance. For intention. For recognizing that these tools work best when they serve our humanity, not replace it.

So yes, I’ll keep showing up online. I’ll keep using these platforms to share my work and connect with you.

But I’ll also keep hosting gatherings in my loft. Keep inviting people into real space. Keep creating containers where we can slow down and remember what it feels like to just be together.

Because that’s where the real work happens. That’s where community lives. That’s where we remember we’re not alone in this.

URL to IRL isn’t just a series of gatherings. It’s a practice. A commitment. A reminder that when you show up here, you matter beyond your content. Beyond your follower count. Beyond what you can produce or perform.

You matter because you’re here. You’re human. You’re real.

And that’s worth showing up for.

For anyone in San Diego who would like to attend one of our next URL to IRL events, you can sign up for our weekly newsletter updates, and check out our next gathering happening Sunday, November 23rd.

But first, I need to tell you about the name change I didn’t see coming.

For the last year when I started writing on Substack, my platform was called “In the Making.” It felt right—like a reflection of who I was. A work in progress. Someone still figuring it out. Building something from scratch without a blueprint.

And then I got the opportunity from a Director I admired to produce a documentary for PBS. You guys, a PBS original documentary!!!

It’s the kind of project I’d been manifesting. The kind of work that felt like validation that everything I’d been building—the 12-hr long production days for other projects, the rejections, the moments of wondering if I was crazy for doing this without film school, without connections, without a traditional path—all of it was leading somewhere.

And when I learned about the project, that’s when I realized PBS already had a show called “American Masters: In the Making.”

At first, I didn’t think much of it. But the more I sat with it, the more I realized that I didn’t want to contribute to any confusion, and I wanted to be proud of this original work and honor where it would be distributed. And honestly? Maybe this was a sign for me it was time to evolve.

The documentary centers Hannah Mayree, an artist and musician who is reclaiming the banjo back to Black culture by helping build banjos from gourds. This story is about so much more than building banjos. It’s about reparations. It’s about reclamation. It’s about shifting narratives that have been stolen and rewriting them with truth and real history.

As a producer, I got to help bring this vision to life. I was on set, capturing behind-the-scenes moments, planning logistics, supporting our director, Ebony, through every phase—from concept to filming to editing. I got to witness every step of how a story like this comes together.

And no matter how many times I watch it, I’m moved. I’m proud. Because this is the kind of storytelling that matters. The kind that honors someone’s truth. The kind that gives back what was taken.

Hannah is an American Master In the Making.

And working on this project made me realize that maybe I was in the making of something too. Maybe the universe handed me this opportunity, this specific project with this specific title, to show me it was time to let go of who I thought I had to be and step into who I was becoming.

It took me almost a year to figure out what to rename my platform. I knew I didn’t want to rush it. I knew it had to feel right. But I had no idea what that even looked like. I sat with it. I wrestled with it. I tried on different names like trying on identities that didn’t quite fit.

And then one day, I was looking at old photos and videos—moments I’d captured, memories I’d archived—and it hit me… These memories made me.

Every moment I’ve documented. Every story I’ve held space for. Every quiet observation, every behind-the-scenes glimpse, every reflection I’ve shared in real time—they’re not just content. They’re memories. And memories are what shape us.

We are all made of memories. Our stories are memories we hold onto, that challenge us, that grow us.

“Made of Memories” felt like coming home.

This is our little corner of the internet where we can pause and hold onto the fleeting beauty of our days. A space to remember, to document, and to notice the small details that become the stories we’ll return to again and again.

Here, I share the softness and the growth. Moments that may seem ordinary now, but are already becoming memories in the making. The laughter, the messiness, the stillness, the wonder, these are what shape our lives, what make us human, and what I love to capture.

This is a living journal—one that honors both the fleeting and the enduring, and the way each moment leaves an imprint.

Looking back, I think the universe gives us exactly what we need when we least expect it. I wasn’t expecting the opportunity to work with Ebony. I definitely wasn’t expecting to work on a PBS original documentary. And I certainly wasn’t expecting that project to be the catalyst for my own transformation.

But maybe that’s how it always works. Maybe while I was “in the making” of discovering who I am and what I’m capable of, the universe handed me exactly that—literally.

The documentary is about honoring roots, reclaiming what was stolen, and doing the work to heal. And witnessing that process reminded me to return to my own roots—to the memories that shaped me, to the stories I’d been carrying. “Made of Memories” fits like a glove more than “In the Making” because it’s not about becoming something I’m not yet. It’s about honoring what’s already here. The moments. The memories. The stories that shaped me into who I am right now.

It’s about documentation as an art form. It’s about archiving not just for the future, but for the present. It’s about saying this moment matters. This memory matters. This story matters.

We are made of our memories—the ones we hold close, the ones that challenge us, the ones that help us grow. And maybe what I’ve been doing all along is collecting the moments that would eventually show me who I was meant to become.

So here’s what I learned from letting go of a name I loved:

• Sometimes the pivot isn’t a detour. It’s the path.

• Sometimes what looks like a conflict is actually a gift in disguise.

• Sometimes you have to release what no longer serves you to make space for what’s meant to be.

• And sometimes the universe literally names your next chapter for you—you just have to be paying attention.

If you’re going through an unexpected rebrand, a pivot you didn’t see coming, a moment where everything you thought you knew is shifting—Follow what feels good.

Trust the redirection.

The thing you’re being asked to let go of? It served its purpose. It brought you here. And now it’s time for what’s next.

The documentary premieres at DOCNYC on November 15th and will air on PBS next year! I’m so proud of this work. So grateful to have been part of bringing Hannah’s story to the world. So honored to have learned from this experience what it means to reclaim, to rebuild, to remember.

And so ready for whatever memories I get to make—and be made by—next.

Watch the documentary premiere at DOCNYC November 15th, and on PBS in 2026. And welcome to Made of Memories—where we honor the moments that make us.

Story One: I participated in selling my pottery at a recent event. After the fact, I was told there was a vendor fee I never knew about or agreed to. When I spoke up about the lack of transparency, they took accountability immediately. They waived the fee. They took responsibility. They committed to doing better.

That’s what accountability looks like.

Story Two: Someone with privilege and entitlement demanded work that was outside our agreed contract. They used harmful language and threatened to sue if I didn’t deliver something I had volunteered to do—something I would have been happy to deliver on my own timeline. But they demanded it done their way, in that moment. When I delivered what I could in the format I had available, it still wasn’t enough. They deployed rude behavior as a weapon. When I held my boundary, there was no accountability. No ownership. Just more attempts to manipulate and control.

That’s what exploitation looks like.

And the difference? Everything.

The version of me who tolerated disrespect to keep the peace? She’s dead. The version who shrank herself to fit into boxes? Gone. The people pleaser who stayed quiet when someone crossed a line? She doesn’t live here anymore.

And honestly? Good riddance.

This isn’t just about one person or one incident. This is about a pattern I’ve seen my entire career and one I refuse to perpetuate by staying silent.

This is about how creative work is treated as “not serious.” How our livelihoods are dismissed as hobbies. How people think they can disrespect us and our character because what we do “isn’t a real job.”

This is about privilege and entitlement. About people using money as a tool to control us. About those in “power” believing they have the right to demand whatever they want, whenever they want it, without understanding how things actually work.

This is about independent contractors being treated as disposable. About creatives being expected to tolerate abuse because “that’s just how the industry works.”

The truth is, when someone disrespects our work, they’re disrespecting our livelihood. When they disrespect our character, it IS personal. And when we tolerate it, we’re teaching them, and ourselves, that we’re willing to accept less than we deserve.

I’m speaking up because accountability matters. Not just holding others accountable for their behavior, but holding ourselves accountable to our boundaries. To our worth. To each other.

When we stay silent about disrespect and exploitation, we become complicit. We allow this behavior to continue. We teach people that creatives will tolerate anything to get the gig, keep the peace, or avoid being labeled “difficult.”

Over the years, I’ve seen so many of my peers continuing to work with people who don’t respect them. Taking gigs that compromise their values. Accepting treatment they know is wrong because they’re afraid of what speaking up might cost them.

But you know what costs more? Our silence.

When we don’t talk about this, we hold resentment. We let others walk all over us. We lose trust—in others, yes, but worse, in ourselves.

And the people with power who aren’t held accountable? They keep doing it. To the next creative. And the next. And the next.

I know what it costs to stay quiet. I’ve paid that price once before.

I’ve tolerated disrespect from old business partners who, over time, took advantage of my kindness to get what they wanted, which ultimately led to financial trouble. From past clients who thought my kindness was a weakness. Even from family members who didn’t understand why I couldn’t just “let it go” for the sake of keeping a steady paycheck.

I stayed in these situations because I wanted to be liked. Because I wanted to be seen. Because I thought if I just accommodated one more request, bent one more boundary, shrunk myself one more time—maybe then I’d be enough.

Instead, I walked away from those situations feeling more hurt and betrayed than before. And even worse, I walked away having betrayed myself.

Accepting disrespect cost me my confidence, my energy, and my trust. At first, I thought I was losing people. But when I finally took a step back, I realized something that changed everything when I asked myself: Why would I want to be in a relationship with someone who disrespects me?

The answer is: I wouldn’t. And I don’t have to.

I know what it feels like to be taken advantage of because of my kindness. I know the weight of carrying someone else’s disrespect in my body because I was too afraid to speak up. I think about the past versions of me, who even the person I was a year ago would have bent over backwards to people-please my way through this. But I’ve learned too much to go back to those old patterns myself.

This time, I hit a breaking point. There’s only a certain level of red flags I’ll tolerate. And I’ve done enough self-work to know that their energy isn’t worth my time.

I’m protecting my energy. My future. My integrity.

Because integrity is all we have.

Integrity is kindness and empathy and understanding. It’s doing what’s right, not what you think is right. It’s choosing honesty and truth and compassion, even in the face of bullshit.

Integrity in moments like this requires action. It requires my voice. It requires speaking up and walking away from situations that compromise who I am.

And what I learned is that integrity is the moral compass that connects us to our own self-respect. When we have self-respect, we have the integrity to do what’s right—not just for us, but for our people, our community, even in the face of hard times and difficult moments.

Here’s what I learned from these two experiences:

Accountability looks like:

• Taking ownership when you make a mistake

• Being transparent about expectations from the start

• Responding with respect when someone sets a boundary

• Making it right when you’ve done wrong

• Committing to do better and following through

Exploitation looks like:

• Blaming others for your mistakes

• Changing agreements after the fact

• Punishing people for having boundaries

• Using power and privilege as weapons

• Refusing to take responsibility

The event organizers? They showed me what it means to lead with integrity. They were reciprocal, respectful, and accountable. All traits of people I would want to collaborate with again in the future. That’s the standard. That’s what we deserve. And when we don’t get it? We should walk away.

I’m speaking up because this is bigger than me. This is about all of us.

If more creatives spoke about disrespect and exploitation, we would experience less of it. But we’ve been conditioned to stay quiet. To be grateful for opportunities. To not rock the boat.

Especially if you’re a woman. Especially if you’re a person of color.

We’re taught that speaking up means we’re difficult. That having boundaries means we’re unprofessional. That protecting ourselves means we’re ungrateful.

But the truth is, speaking up is how we protect each other. Holding people accountable is how we create change. Using our voices is how we shift the culture.

This is for other creatives who think they have to tolerate this. For my younger self—for all the times she stayed quiet. For anyone who’s been stepped on because they wanted to be liked, wanted to be seen. This is for the people pleasers. The ones who thought their kindness would be respected, only to have it exploited. And this is especially for women and creatives of color who have been made to feel like they don’t have power.

You do have the power. We do have the power. And we should use it.

The standard I’m setting for myself is that I will continue to speak up. I will no longer tolerate disrespect. And the next time someone tests this boundary? I will be prepared to speak up and, if needed, to end that relationship.

Not with anger. Not with drama. But with clarity and conviction.

Because I know now what I didn’t know before. That walking away isn’t giving up. It’s choosing yourself. It’s honoring your worth. It’s protecting your peace.

If you’ve been tolerating disrespect—in your creative work, in your relationships, in your family dynamics—I want you to know:

• You have the power to walk away.

• You do not have to work with people who don’t align with your values.

• You do not have to shrink yourself to make others comfortable.

• You do not have to tolerate harmful language, threats, or manipulation—no matter how much power they think they have over you.

Here’s what walking away can sound like:

“I don’t accept being spoken to this way. I’m ending this conversation.”

“This behavior doesn’t align with how I expect to be treated. I’m stepping back from this relationship.”

“I’ve honored my end of our agreement. I will not be doing additional work outside of what we contracted.”

“Your tone and approach are unacceptable. I’m done here.”

You don’t owe them an explanation beyond that. You don’t owe them a second chance. You don’t owe them your peace.

Here’s what it actually looked like when I walked away:

I sent screenshots of what they kept requesting. I listed out the terms—what I was contracted to do and what I wasn’t. I reminded them that the assets they were demanding? Already provided. As a courtesy, not an obligation. Even after I’d gone above and beyond, wearing multiple hats.

And I made it clear: “This working relationship is over.”

No drama. No emotion. Just facts and a boundary.

Red flags to watch for:

• Harmful language or threats (legal, professional, or personal)

• Using their wealth, status, or connections as leverage

• Gaslighting you into thinking you’re the problem

• Expecting you to accommodate unreasonable demands

• Disrespecting your boundaries after you’ve clearly set them

• Making you feel small so they can feel big

I know what you’re thinking, because I’ve had these same thoughts before. “But what if I need them? What if this ruins my reputation? What if I never work again?”

I’ve learned that the people who respect you will respect your boundaries. The people who don’t weren’t meant to be in your life anyway.

Yes, walking away might cost you an opportunity. But staying will cost you something far more valuable—yourself.

And no opportunity is worth that price.

The version of me who tolerated disrespect is dead. And I’m not mourning her. I’m celebrating the version who knows her worth. Who protects her energy. Who speaks up even when her voice shakes. Who holds people accountable—including herself.

This is my line in the sand. This is my new standard. This is my integrity in action.

But more than that, this is my contribution to shifting the culture. Because when one of us speaks up, it makes it easier for the next person. When one of us holds a boundary, it raises the standard for all of us.

Accountability is how we protect each other.

Integrity is how we build a better industry.

Speaking up is how we create the change we need.

If you’ve been waiting for permission to speak up, to walk away, to demand better—this is it. You have the power. You always have.

Not because I don’t think my work is good—but because two and a half years ago, I walked into a pottery studio for the first time with one simple intention… to play.

No business plan. No monetization strategy. No five-year vision of selling at markets.

Just me, wanting to get my hands dirty and give my burnt-out, screen-exhausted self permission to make something for absolutely no reason at all.

And now? Now I’m setting up 6-foot tables, arranging matcha bowls and trinket dishes, making Sanrio-inspired mystery grab bags because my inner child demands it, and watching strangers get genuinely excited about taking home a piece I've made with my own hands.

So let me tell you what I’m learning about play—and why it might be the most important work you do all year.

A few months ago, I committed to Bakunawa Market. I had a specific idea for a collection, a vision of what I wanted to create. Brilliant new pieces that would tie into the theme of the market, spiritual and ancestral wisdom, so I envisioned a lot of candle holders, altar pieces, and more. Long story short, it didn’t pan out.

September arrived, and I was deep in work mode—helping produce a feature film, balancing multiple client projects, and behind a screen for hours at a time, my brain moving a million miles a minute. The market was approaching, and I had nothing ready. I started spiraling. I don’t have time for this. I won’t have anything to show. Maybe I shouldn’t even do it.

But then something shifted. After wrapping the feature, I went to the studio and just... made what I knew best. Matcha bowls. Trinket dishes. Vessels for candles. The things that come naturally when I’m not trying to force a concept or prove anything.

The clay gods were on my side.

And then, because apparently I love chaos, I committed to another market. Pixels and Petals. Same feeling. Rushing. Hoping. Making what I could and trusting it would be enough.

In the days leading up to both markets, the stories started:

No one will want my stuff.

I’ve only been doing this for two and a half years. Why would anyone support me?

I’m not a “real” ceramic artist.

I even tried making something completely new—ceramic charms turned into keychains for Sanrio-inspired mystery grab bags. A treat for my inner child. A gamble on whether anyone else would think they were as delightful as I did.

Spoiler alert… They were a hit!

But standing there the morning of the first market, setting up my booth, I felt exposed. I looked around at elaborate displays—beautiful backdrops, professional signage, carefully curated aesthetics. And there I was with just a 6-foot table, a tablecloth, and my pieces.

Simple. Terrifyingly simple.

I kept adjusting things. Moving bowls. Rearranging dishes. Trying to make it look “right.” Trying to make it look like I belonged there. But no one questioned me, just my inner voice.

Here’s what surprised me the most. People were kind. Not just polite—genuinely kind. Genuinely curious. Genuinely excited to take home a piece.

Complete strangers asking about my process. Holding up a matcha bowl and smiling like it was exactly what they’d been looking for. Buying mystery grab bags and opening them in front of me, cheering in excitement when they got the charm they were hoping for.

No weird interactions. No one questioning my prices or my “qualifications.” Just people connecting with work that came from a place of play.

And that’s when it hit me: The thing I almost didn’t do—the thing I convinced myself “wasn’t serious” or “wasn’t ready”—was exactly what people wanted. Not in spite of its simplicity, but because of it.

Because when you make something from a place of joy rather than pressure, people feel it.

When I first started pottery two and a half years ago, it wasn’t about building a side hustle or adding another hyphen to my identity.

It was about healing my inner child. Getting dirty while playing with mud. Letting myself create without harsh expectations. The creative exploration was an invitation to dive deeper into my curiosities and just make for the sake of making. To play for the sake of playing.

I was burnt out at the time. Stressed. Deep in work mode behind a screen. And I knew if I didn’t find a way to step away, my relationship with myself—and with my creative work—would take a serious toll.

Pottery gave me that way out.

Not just an outlet to play and create, but to heal. To step away from my devices and focus on something tactile and intentional. To learn from my mistakes in real time (and trust me, it gets real when a piece you worked on for weeks breaks before it even gets into the kiln).

For a long time, it stayed there—in the play space. I made pieces as gifts. I posted photos on Instagram with no agenda. It was mine, and that was enough.

And then, the more I shared my pieces a year into making, people started asking: “Can I buy that?” My immediate reaction? They’re just being nice. They don’t really mean it.

But a close friend told me something that changed everything: “Why shouldn’t you sell your work? When you say no, you’re potentially blocking the blessings you were hoping for.”

So I started saying yes. And here we are now.

Don’t get me wrong—I love filmmaking. It’s storytelling at its most collaborative, most expansive. It’s a calling I searched for my whole life, an art form I identify so much of who I am through. But pottery gives me something filmmaking doesn’t: it forces me to use my hands and get messy, to tune out the world and be present because I have no other choice.

There’s no multitasking at the pottery wheel. No checking emails while centering clay. No Zoom calls while trimming a bowl. It’s just me, the clay, and whatever’s going to emerge.

And what I’ve realized is that clay is another form of storytelling. It’s one of history’s earliest artifacts. The things I make aren’t just things—they’re items meant to be used, shared, and enjoyed. Much like a film, but in this way, a physical object creates an opportunity to build and make memories that you can use over and over again. Whether it’s dinnerware, your favorite candle vessel, an incense holder, or decor marking a moment in your story.

Pottery informs my filmmaking. My writing. My community building. Because they’re all about the same thing: creating containers for connection, for memory, for meaning.

Here’s what I need you to understand: Play is necessary.

Not as a reward for working hard. Not as something you get to do “later” when you’ve earned it. Not as a side hobby that’s separate from your “real” work.

Play is the work.

It’s how you stay creatively alive. It’s how you discover what you’re actually capable of when you’re not performing or proving. It’s how you heal the parts of yourself that got buried under deadlines and expectations and the pressure to monetize every passion.

If I hadn’t given myself permission to play with clay without pressure, I wouldn’t be here. I would have missed:

• The joy of making something with my hands

• The community I found in the pottery studio

• The moments of presence when the world goes quiet

• The confidence that comes from learning through mistakes

• The surprise of people wanting to own something I created

• The reminder that my worth isn’t tied to my productivity

I would have stayed burnt out. Stuck behind a screen. Convinced that rest was weakness and play was a waste of time.

If you’re a creative who’s been putting off play until you “have time” or until your work is “good enough” or until it “makes sense,” let this be your sign!

Make the thing you’re curious about. Try the medium that scares you. Give yourself permission to be a beginner. Let yourself get messy and make mistakes and create things that might never see the light of day.

Because when you do, you remember why you started creating in the first place. You find new ways to tell stories, new textures to explore, and new parts of yourself that were waiting to be expressed. You build a sustainable creative practice that doesn’t burn you out because it’s fueled by joy, not just deadlines. And sometimes, if you’re really lucky, you end up at a market selling Sanrio mystery grab bags to strangers who get just as excited about them as you do.

We owe it to ourselves to take a moment to pause, play, get messy, laugh, frolic, and enjoy this life—because it’s the only one we have, and I refuse to be the person who spends most of my time on a screen.

So here’s my challenge to you:

This week, do one thing purely for play.

Not for content. Not for your portfolio. Not for followers or clients, or future opportunities.

Just for you.

Paint something. Dance in your kitchen. Try a new recipe. Write poetry. Build something with your hands. Go to the park and swing on the swings.

And notice what happens. Notice how your body feels. Notice what ideas start bubbling up when you give yourself permission to just be.

Because that’s where the magic is. That’s where the unexpected paths open up. That’s where you remember who you are underneath all the pressure and productivity.

That’s where I found pottery. And pottery led me to markets I never imagined doing. And those markets reminded me that the things I create from a place of joy are exactly what the world needs.

Your play matters. Your joy matters. You matter—not because of what you produce, but because of who you are when you’re free to just exist and create and explore.

So go play. The world will wait.

P.S. If you’re curious about my pottery journey or want to see what I’ve been making, follow along on Instagram. And if you’re a creative who’s been neglecting play—I see you. Consider this your permission slip. Go get messy. 🪴✨

Maybe it’s a sign. Maybe it’s just timing. Either way, I’m taking it as permission to leap.

You know what question keeps me up at night? Tossing and turning while I try to settle in, but no matter what, it’s the last thought in my mind before I go to bed: “What’s next?”

When people ask me how I am, I share this: that I feel like I’m in a season of becoming. Where I don’t exactly know what’s next, sitting with the uncertainty, no significant gigs coming up on the calendar, and stuck with the thought of “did I manifest this reality?”

The irony is, I feel like I’ve worked my whole adult life for this kind of freedom, but it’s terrifying. And I wonder if this is even freedom, because I’m not quite sure what to make of this feeling. This feeling of unease. But also the sense of excitement and possibility. At this moment, I have no 9-5, no backup plan, and no safety net. Just me. My dreams. And the wide-open path ahead. I’ve always wanted a life beyond societal norms, and now I’m here.

But I find myself split in the middle of the uncharted path. In this liminal space, split right in the middle, where I see everything that has led me up to this point, and all of the possibilities ahead of me. Part of me feels like every door that closed—losing my job, not having the same financial backing, and getting back into a career in my Production Company, where that industry alone is turbulent—it makes me think that these doors closing weren’t ways to abandon me, but rather, a reminder to myself to trust. In some ways, I believe it was the universe saying, “You’re ready, even if you don’t feel ready.”

Then the other side of me asks—what if I’ve already done my best work? What if the ideas I have just stay ideas? What if going “all in” means falling flat on my face? The financial worries creep in, and it always seems like every time I open any social media, everyone else seems to have it all figured out.

The fear that sits within me oftentimes leads back to “what am I even doing?” to the point where I applied to 9-to-5s again just a few months ago. And ones that seemed like a good fit! I feel like I’ve spent the last 8 months with some sort of cushion to keep me afloat. But now that I no longer have a soft place to land, I feel like the real fear of going “all in” means being seen and possibly even failing publicly and vulnerably sharing that “this is everything I have.” And that is terrifying!

Sometimes I don’t know what’s scarier: facing the public or facing my immigrant parents. Being a first-gen daughter to Filipino parents, I was taught to reach for safety. Go the safe route. Choose a stable career. And though I am rebellious and was so growing up, I find that it was always so difficult to choose my dreams over safety, especially when it came to my family. I remember feeling so much shame when I was let go from my job. And of course, the response was what I expected: “You’ll find something else.”

And I thought that was the route for me. Choosing another 9-5. But I really don’t feel called to fit into that box anymore. And when I think about following my dreams, there’s that inner voice, my inner critic, asking me, “Who do you think you are?”

There are a few dreams that scare me—like making a feature film of my own, writing a book, and creating a community platform. And when I think about each one, I think about the magnitude of each one. Making a feature film requires money, it requires a lot of resources and energy, and a good enough script that I wish to write. Writing a book requires coming up with a good enough story, choosing to get published or figuring out how to self-publish, and then talking to people about the book! Launching a community platform requires time, resources, and building that community and convincing them to join me on this whole other platform. Why would they choose mine?

I dream about these things all the time, and I feel like the gap between where I am now and where I want to be isn’t THAT big. But it does require me to take action.

Here’s the truth I’ve been sitting with: This journey of building without a blueprint isn’t just scary—it’s necessary. For me, it feels like I don’t even have a choice anymore.

It’s not that I’m being reckless or impulsive. It’s that every other path has closed. Every backup plan has dissolved. Every “safe” option has revealed itself to be a cage. The universe didn’t just open the path, it burned every exit behind me.

And at first, that felt like abandonment. Like punishment. Like “what did I do to deserve this uncertainty?”

But now? Now it feels like the most profound act of trust the universe could offer me. Like it’s saying: “You’re ready. You’ve been ready. Stop looking for the safety net and jump.”

So I’m jumping. Not because I’m brave. But because staying still is no longer an option. Because building without a blueprint is the only path left. Because choosing myself isn’t a luxury, it’s survival.

And maybe that’s what new beginnings actually are. Not a gentle invitation. But a fierce, undeniable knowing that you can’t go back. Only forward.

What I’ve been reflecting on the most during this season is the pattern I’m starting to recognize. Filmmaking, pottery, writing, event hosting, and community building. They’ve always felt separate, like I was splitting myself into pie pieces and only serving that amount in every expression I was doing.

But what I’ve realized is: what if they’re all expressions of the same thing? What if everything that I love doing is a part of my why, a part of a bigger picture I have yet to see for myself? And it made me realize that I don’t have to choose a specific identity, that integration is the path.

So it leaves me questioning—how do I form a life around ALL of these expressions? Not a “portfolio career” but a fully integrated life where I can be fully myself no matter what. What if the answer to “what’s next?” isn’t about choosing, but weaving? Weaving these expressions into its own unique path that isn’t quite a path at all, but the common thread that connects me to the people I’m meant to create with, build with, and dream with?

What I’m learning in real-time is that the discomfort of not knowing is part of the path. That I’m not supposed to have every step of my life figured out. And that maybe my “best work” isn’t behind me, but requires THIS version of me to do the work. To show up scared.

And so here I am, committing to making this next season of my life one full of trust. I’m choosing to see the open path as an invitation, not abandonment. I’m choosing to believe my ideas matter. I’m choosing to shift the “starving artist” narrative. I’m choosing to trust that all of my expressions can coexist.

Most of all, I’m choosing me. And I’m going all in. Even as every ounce of energy wants to backspace and delete delete delete!

For anyone else standing at their edge, if you’re scared, you’re probably close to something real. Your backup plan might be what’s keeping you small. Your dreams getting bigger isn’t a problem—it’s progress. And not knowing what the path looks like doesn’t mean you’re on the wrong one.

Questions I’m Sitting With (and you can sit with too):

• What would you create if no one were watching?

• What if your different expressions aren’t scattered—but connected?

• What if the scariest path is actually the most aligned one?

I don’t have the answers yet—and that’s okay.

I’m publishing this under a new moon in Libra—a time for new beginnings, for balance, for integration. For finding harmony between all the parts of yourself that you thought had to exist separately.

Cosmic timing or just good luck, I’ll take it.

The universe didn’t just open doors. It closed every other exit. It left me with no choice but to trust myself.

So this is me, trusting. Going all in under a new moon, planting seeds in the dark, and believing they’ll grow. If you’re standing at your own edge—scared, uncertain, wondering if you have what it takes—maybe this is your new moon too. Maybe this is your moment to plant something new. To choose integration over perfection. To trust that the scariest path is the most aligned one.

I’m figuring it out in real-time. And I’m bringing you along for the ride.

New moon. New beginning. Let’s see what grows.

When I look back on this past year—the life I lived at 34—I think of the places I traveled and the cultures I got to experience like Mexico City, Marrakech, and Lisbon with my best friend.

I think of the epic productions I was trusted to lead—a track day for one of the biggest automotive creators, and a documentary that will be released in 2026.

I think of the laughter, the tears, the joy, and heartbreak from grief that made me feel like I lived many lifetimes in a single year. No one tells you that living the life you desire doesn’t always feel glamorous. It asks you to shift, to break, to be put back together. It asks you to let go of who you thought you were, so you can discover who you really are.

Even as I write this, I’m on set for my first feature film—something I never could have imagined as a little girl, yet always secretly dreamed of.

When I think of my younger self, I remember how badly she wanted to fit in. How she molded herself to be liked. I think of a memory when I was five, living in Alameda, and the neighbors across the street asked me to give them my pennies. And I did, I counted every single one and gave them all away. I spent so much of my time pleasing others, believing that being chosen by them was the only way I could feel like I belonged. When what I really needed was to choose myself.

And it’s in those moments of doubt that I wish I could whisper to her—you already have everything you need.

Because the truth is—she has always been enough.
The joy, the love—it was there all along.

This project—this offering—is for her. For the version of me who dreamt of traveling the world. For the one who envied the kinds of friendships she only saw on 90s TV shows. For the one too shy to share her voice, who never imagined she’d one day stand so fully in her truth. And for the one who longed for a love that felt rare and real.

Honoring her shows up in my daily life now. In choosing play and stillness. In doing things purely for fun, without needing them to be productive or serious. In remembering that joy and love don’t just come from others—they’ve been within me all along. I am joy. I am love.

This past year reminded me of that truth again and again. The hardships made me proud of my resilience, because with each one, I chose myself. I listened to my inner wisdom. I let my inner child guide me. And that guidance led me here—creating, living on my terms, bringing a vision to life that feels like a love letter to the girl I once was.

This life is for her. For the girl who thought she wasn’t enough. For the one who craved love and joy but didn’t yet know she was love and joy all along.

Today, on my solar return, I celebrate her. I celebrate me. And I celebrate the beauty of living a life that feels like both a dream and a remembering.

Special thanks to Jessie Aparte for helping bring this vision to life, and to Adrian, the love of my life, for showing me what it means to experience this kind of love in this lifetime.

My younger self and I are so loved.

We’ve been conditioned to want answers instantly. Google has been in our lives longer than most of our relationships, making it easy to believe we should never sit in uncertainty. But our parents, and generations before them, didn’t have instant access to every possible solution. They figured things out as they went. They made mistakes. They learned through trial, error, and trust in themselves—without strangers from across the globe telling them what they should be doing and how they should be doing it.

The answers I’ve been searching for? I’ve found them in silence and stillness. They’ve been in me all along—whispered by my intuition. Especially after losing my job, after losing my Nanay, and while navigating the in-between spaces that seem to stretch on forever.

And yet, the world outside feels like it’s collapsing. We’re witnessing history and devastation unfold in real-time, without clear answers and with a dwindling sense of hope. Meanwhile, my daily thoughts still ask: How will I pay my bills this month? Will I even have a future worth making a 5-year plan for?

It’s safe to say we don’t need all the answers right now—especially when life is shifting daily, headlines feel overwhelming, and so much lies beyond our control. What matters more than chasing certainty is learning how to navigate and self-regulate through the unknown. That inner steadiness gives us far more power than trying to control outcomes ever could.

For years, when people told me to “trust your intuition,” I didn’t know what they meant. Now I understand. It’s that quiet gut feeling when faced with a choice, that internal compass that points you somewhere you didn’t plan to go, it’s following what feels good inside of us, instead of ignoring the discomfort.

And trust me—I’ve loved having a plan. I was the person who needed every detail in place before leaving the house, who mapped out every hour of a vacation, who wanted every photo and event to unfold exactly as I imagined. But here’s the thing—rarely did it go as planned. Sometimes it was the weather ruining my “perfect” photo. Other times, it was an event that didn’t reflect my vision because I’d handed the mic to someone else instead of stepping into my power (that’s another story for another time).

What’s changed is this—I’ve stopped gripping so tightly to the outcome. I’ve been practicing letting go. Not perfectly, but consistently enough to notice the difference. When I do slip back into control mode—out of habit, fear, or discomfort—it only leads me to the same feelings I was trying to avoid: confusion, frustration, and stuckness.

The more I’ve listened to myself, the more I’ve found peace. It’s ironic—how letting go and surrendering to those quiet nudges is actually what moves us forward.

Now that I’ve loosened the grip on the life I thought I should be living, I can see more clearly how everything has unfolded exactly as it was meant to. How experiences have shaped skills I never knew I’d need. How people have shown up at just the right time. How undeniable magic exists beyond what I can comprehend. I’ve shared about trusting the process and the quiet unseen work that shapes us once before, and I’ll say it again—letting go of expectations is what truly opens doors and allows us to expand in ways we couldn’t have imagined.

I know it’s not easy. But if you’re a recovering perfectionist (or a Virgo like me, lol), the key is learning to quiet the noise. In a world that’s always shouting, we have to create silence on purpose—space to hear that invisible tug that already knows the way.

And lately? My intuition hasn’t steered me wrong once.

If there’s one thing I’ve learned, it’s that trusting myself isn’t about knowing every step—it’s about making space to hear the quiet truth within me. The more I practice listening, the more I realize I already have the answers I’ve been searching for.

Here are the reminders I’m holding close this week:

• I accept that my inner voice will always guide me in the right direction.

• The answers I need are already within me, waiting to be heard.

• I trust the quiet nudges of my intuition to guide me forward.

• I release the need to know it all right now. One step at a time is enough.

• My inner voice is louder when I quiet the noise.

• I am safe to follow the path I cannot yet see.

• I choose trust. I choose curiosity. I choose myself.

Maybe they’ll be the reminders you need, too.