Carrying More Than Jackets

One of our family trips to Southern California greeted us with a chilly ocean wind. We had expected the cold weather, so everyone came prepared with jackets except me. I figured I could handle the cold for a while.

After about an hour of walking, the sun started to peek through and the temperature became more comfortable. One by one, my wife and children took off their jackets. Soon they were carrying them in their arms, trying to enjoy the sights while juggling extra layers.

As I watched them, I noticed the jackets had become more of a burden than a necessity. Without thinking twice, I volunteered to carry all of them. Before long, I found myself walking with an armful of jackets while everyone else moved freely, laughing, exploring, and enjoying the day.

Honestly, I didn't mind at all.

Seeing my family comfortable and happy was enough for me. In that moment, I realized that being a husband and a father is often about the little things that no one notices. It's not always about leading from the front or being the center of attention. Sometimes it's about quietly carrying the extra weight so the people you love can enjoy the journey a little more.

That's what being the head of a family means to me. Not power, not recognition, but service. It is showing up, supporting without being asked, and loving without keeping score. The sacrifices may be small, like carrying a few jackets on a cold California day, but they come from a place of unconditional love.

Looking back, I don't remember how heavy those jackets were. What I remember is seeing my family smiling, relaxed, and making memories together. And that made carrying the load one of the easiest things I've ever done.

Being a husband and a father is one of God's greatest blessings in my life. To love, guide, support, and help build a family is a privilege I never take for granted. If I can make their journey a little lighter, then my heart is full.

Jackie Meets Jake

During a visit to Chinatown in San Francisco, I wandered into a small shop filled with interesting Chinese souvenirs. One item caught my attention: a round black hat with a red tassel. Of course, I had to try it on.

As I looked at myself in the store mirror, my memory was at it again.

When I was a kid, I sometimes went to the movies by myself. I would go to a second-run theater that showed older films, and that was where I discovered Jackie Chan’s Hong Kong movies. To this day, I actually prefer those films to his Hollywood ones.

Thankfully, the movies were dubbed in English. They were packed with action, comedy, and those incredible fight scenes. But part of the entertainment was the dubbing itself. The English dialogue and the actors’ mouths didn’t always cooperate. Sometimes the voice had already finished the sentence while the mouth seemed to have a few more words left to say. As a kid, I thought that was hilarious.

Looking at that hat brought all those characters and movies back to me. They were more than just entertainment. They became a small part of my childhood, a place I could disappear into for a couple of hours whenever I needed a break from playing in the streets.

Funny how something as simple as trying on a hat in Chinatown can suddenly take you halfway around the world and decades back in time. 

A Visitor from Space, 50,000 Years Later

I never imagined I’d actually get to see a real chunk of the Canyon Diablo meteorite, something that came from space and crashed into Earth roughly 50,000 years ago. How cool is that?

Standing there and looking at it, I couldn’t help but imagine the incredible impact it must have made when it hit the Earth. And to think, what I was looking at was just a small piece of it.

This is one of the things I really appreciate about living in Arizona. There are so many hidden gems right here in our own backyard. We don’t always have to travel somewhere far away to experience something amazing.

Things I used to see only in movies, documentaries, or on TV are suddenly right in front of me. I’m grateful that places like Lowell Observatory in Flagstaff, Arizona, preserve these incredible pieces of history so we can experience them ourselves.

And the best part? There’s still so much more around Arizona waiting to be discovered.

 

When My Work Came Home

One of the most fulfilling parts of working at Pearson Education was knowing that the work I created had a purpose. I wasn’t simply making illustrations and educational content. I was helping create something that students could use to learn, discover, and grow.

But I never realized how close to home that impact would come.

One day, when my daughter was in middle school, she was working on a computer assignment in class and reading a story. As she went through the lesson, she suddenly recognized something unexpected beneath one of the illustrations:

“Illustrated by Jake Yago.”

It was my name.

She couldn’t believe it. She immediately told her teacher and classmates, proud and excited that her dad had created the artwork they were using in class.

When I picked her up from school that day, she couldn’t wait to tell me what had happened.

I had no idea her school was even using the educational products we had worked on.

That moment stayed with me. Of all the illustrations I created for Pearson, one of them had somehow found its way into my daughter’s classroom. My professional work and my life as a father had crossed paths in the most unexpected way.

It reminded me why I loved what I was doing.

Working at Pearson gave me the opportunity to use my skills in illustration, design, and storytelling for something bigger than simply creating artwork. I was contributing to the education of young people. And because I genuinely enjoyed the work, it rarely felt like just a job. It felt like I was doing what I loved and, at the same time, helping students learn.

This image is just one of the many illustrations I created during that chapter of my career.

But whenever I look at it, I don’t just see an illustration.

I remember the day my daughter found my name underneath one.

And I remember thinking, This is why the work matters.

 

A Small Sacrifice for the Greatest Sacrifice

Looking at this picture now, I still can’t believe we actually pulled it off.

The people in this photo were real, and the costumes were real. The image itself was later enhanced with AI, giving our little church production a much more cinematic backdrop. But behind that dramatic picture is something even more meaningful to me: a small church filled with people willing to give their time and talents to serve the Lord.

None of us were professional actors. We didn’t have a professional production crew or a huge budget. What we had was creativity, dedication, faith, and the willingness to work together.

And somehow, that was enough.

We brainstormed ideas. Someone wrote the script. Others handled videography, sound, lighting, and editing. We had narrators and performers. We built our own props and created costumes that, to our surprise, ended up looking almost authentic. Some people even took care of preparing meals so everyone could keep going.

Everyone had a part, whether that part happened onstage or behind the scenes.

For me personally, being given the opportunity to portray Christ was a blessing I will always treasure. I knew I was simply playing a role, but it made me reflect more deeply on the story we were telling and the sacrifice we were trying to portray. It was humbling to stand there in costume and realize that no performance could ever truly capture the weight of what Christ endured and the love behind His sacrifice.

Finding time to practice wasn’t always easy. We all had different schedules and responsibilities, but people showed up and made time. There was plenty of laughter during rehearsals, too. We knew when to be serious, but we also knew how to have fun. Those moments became part of the memory.

The actual performance lasted only about 30 minutes.

But behind those few minutes were days of preparation, sacrifice, teamwork, laughter, and prayer.

And when I think about the sacrifices we made to put on that play, they seem so small compared with the sacrifice we were trying to portray: Christ giving His life for our sins.

Maybe that is what made the experience so meaningful.

We weren’t trying to be professional actors. We were simply ordinary people offering whatever gifts we had. Some could sing, some played instruments, some could write, and others could act. Some built things. Others understood cameras, lighting, sound, and editing. Some prepared meals and made sure everyone was taken care of. Everyone brought something to the table. And when all those small contributions came together, they became something much bigger than any one of us could have created alone.

In the end, we didn’t just put on a Holy Week play.

We created a memory. We strengthened friendships. We discovered what we could accomplish together. And most importantly, we used our creativity to tell a story of faith, sacrifice, and love.

Years later, I may look at this picture and notice how impressive the costumes were or smile at how seriously we took our roles. And I will always be grateful that, for a brief moment on that stage, I was entrusted with portraying Christ. Not because of the role itself, but because it reminded me of the One we were all there to honor.

But what I want to remember most is what happened outside the frame:

The rehearsals. The laughter. The tired nights. The handmade props. The shared meals. The people behind the cameras. The voices behind the narration. And a small church coming together, each person offering something, to honor the One who gave everything.

Some Things Make Sense Years Later

During one of my visits to Manila, I came across this window display that immediately caught my eye. And, as usual, my mind went into flashback mode.

I struggled to find a job after college. I had lost touch with many of my classmate friends, and suddenly I was out there on my own, trying to figure out what came next.

I was so eager to find work that I applied for almost anything in the creative I felt I was capable of doing.

One of those applications was at Fair Mart Department Store in Manila.

I was invited to take a practical test along with about a dozen other applicants. Our task was to design and cut letters out of Styrofoam. I had never done anything like it before. No experience. No special training. Just a willingness to try.

So I did. I thought I did pretty well.

I made it to the interview, but after that, I never heard back from them. At the time, it felt like another door that simply didn't open.

But life has an interesting way of bringing things back around.

A few years later, it actually became part of my job. That little Styrofoam-cutting test I once took just to get my foot in the door suddenly didn't seem so random anymore.

That's why this photo means more to me than just standing in front of a cool window display in Manila. It reminds me of that younger version of myself, fresh out of college, uncertain about the future, applying everywhere and simply trying whatever opportunity came along.

Looking back now, I realize that not every opportunity is meant to give you a job. Sometimes it gives you an experience you'll understand only years later.

You really never know what lies ahead. 

The Terminal Where God Taught Me Resilience

Standing there in Terminal 3, I felt something I didn’t expect, a quiet wave of nostalgia mixed with gratitude. Sky Harbor has changed so much. The place looks brand new now: brighter, cleaner, modern. But for me, it’s more than an airport. It’s a chapter of my life.

I used to work here as an airport security screener. It was an odd job for someone who came from the creative field, but when you’re starting over in a new country, you don’t get the luxury of being picky. You take the opportunities that show up, because survival doesn’t wait. I had kids to feed, a mortgage to pay, and bills that never take a day off. That job was necessary and it taught me resilience.

Looking around the terminal, memories came back, the long shifts, the early mornings, the tired passengers, the coworkers who became friends. It reminded me of all the other odd jobs I took just to keep going. Those years were full of struggle, uncertainty, and moments when I wondered if I’d ever find my place again.

But through every season, I held on to God’s promise in Jeremiah 29:11. And He carried me. Every time I felt like I was running out of strength, He stepped in. Every time I thought I was stuck, He opened a door. Just like this building, He was quietly making improvements in me, reshaping me, strengthening me, preparing me for the work I do now.

Standing there in that terminal, I realized something: I’m not the same person who used to clock in here years ago. God didn’t just help me survive, He helped me grow. And seeing this place renewed reminded me that He’s been renewing me too, one season at a time.

Unfolding Without Making Noise

While on a hike, I noticed this caterpillar curled up on a leaf. I quickly grabbed my camera and took a snap of it. Looking at it now, I can’t help but think of my own life.

There were seasons when everything around me felt dull-times of uncertainty, hardship, and change. Moments when the world seemed too big, too fast, too heavy. Yet somehow, even in those gray chapters, something inside me stayed bright. A spark. A stubborn hope. A belief that I was meant to grow through whatever I was facing.

The caterpillar doesn’t rush. It doesn’t compare itself to the world around it. It simply carries its colors, even when no one notices. It keeps moving, even when the path is small. It trusts that transformation takes time.

And that’s my story too.

I’ve curled up during the hard seasons, held on when life felt cold, and waited quietly for the moment I could stretch again. Every challenge added a new color. Every setback shaped a new pattern. Every victory-no matter how small, became part of who I am now.

One day, the caterpillar will unfold into something completely different. And in my own way, I already have. Not in a loud or dramatic way, but slowly, through every season, every challenge, every quiet moment of holding on.

I didn’t burst into the world as a butterfly. I just kept growing, kept learning, kept adding color where life tried to wash it out. And somewhere along the way, without even noticing, I became someone stronger, softer, and a little more sure of who I am. Enough to see the beauty in where I’ve been and where I’m going.

My Last Great Hunt for Deals

Time changes quietly, almost without asking permission. One day you look up and realize entire traditions have slipped into memory. I still remember those Thanksgiving weekends, waking up before the sun even bothered to show itself, stepping out into that sharp early‑morning cold, and joining a long, shivering line outside the electronics store.

There was a special kind of excitement in those moments. The doors would open, and suddenly everyone moved with this funny mix of urgency and hope, rushing in for bargains, freebies, and that one item you’d been waiting all year to finally afford. It wasn’t just shopping; it felt like a little adventure.

This photo was the last time I did that. A cart full of hauls, the kind you proudly showed off like trophies.

But time kept moving. Those stores didn’t survive the shift. Online shopping grew so big that now you can buy anything from the warmth of your home and have it delivered without ever touching a shopping cart or standing in a line. Convenient, sure, but something got lost along the way.

I miss the thrill of those mornings. The camaraderie of strangers waiting together in the cold. The feeling of earning the deal because you showed up early and endured the weather. The anticipation of Thanksgiving not just for the food, but for the hunt the next day.

There was a warmth in those moments, something simple, something human, that no “Add to Cart” button can replace.

Behind Every Step

This is the best photo I took of my wife and our daughter (mom is the one shorter, Lol!). I was walking behind them with my two boys, just letting the moment unfold. Then I noticed how the sun seemed to choose them, how it wrapped around their silhouettes, how it stretched their shadows like a quiet promise. I knew right then it was a perfect moment. I quickly took my camera and started shooting.

But more than the shot, it was symbolic for me.

As I walked behind them, I was watching their every step, making sure their path was steady and safe. In that simple scene, I saw my wife guiding our daughter, showing her the way, teaching her how to move through the world with confidence. And there I was, just a few steps behind, watching, supporting, ready for anything.

It made me realize something: this is what fatherhood feels like. Not always leading from the front, not always being the loudest presence, but being the steady shadow behind the people you love. The one who sees the whole path. The one who carries the quiet responsibility. The one who makes sure the journey continues.

The sun shining on them wasn’t just beautiful, it felt like a reminder. That our children walk toward their future, guided by the light we give them. And we, as parents, walk behind them, not to control their steps, but to protect their freedom to take them.

In that moment, watching my wife and daughter walk ahead, I felt the weight and the honor of being part of their journey. A family moving forward together. Each step a story. Each shadow a symbol. Each ray of light a blessing.

And I realized: sometimes the most inspiring place to be is not in front, but right behind, where love becomes guidance, and guidance becomes legacy

Rails That Carry Me Back

Driving down Central Avenue, the light rail sliding past feels almost symbolic, like Phoenix quietly reminding me how much it has grown while I wasn’t looking. There was a time when this city felt wide and simple, its rhythm carried by buses, taxis, and long stretches of sun‑baked road. Now there’s this modern train humming through the heart of town, connecting neighborhoods that once felt far apart. It’s progress you can actually see, right there through the windshield.

And yet, as always, my mind drifts home.

I can still picture Manila when the LRT was new, those early days when a single peso could take you a short distance, when the platforms felt open and strangely calm, when riding the train felt like stepping into a small promise of modernity. I remember the sound of the doors, the breeze that rushed in when the train arrived, the way the city looked from just a little higher up. It felt hopeful.

Today, Manila’s stations are different. The lines stretch long and winding, commuters packed together before they even reach the stairs. Life has sped up, crowds have grown, and convenience has become something you earn through patience. Seeing that contrast makes me pause. It makes me appreciate Phoenix’s quieter commutes, the space, the ease, the way the city lets you breathe.

But more than anything, it reminds me how both places shaped me. Manila taught me endurance. Phoenix teaches me gratitude. And moments like this, just a simple drive down Central Avenue, bring both lessons together in a way that feels tender and grounding.

Roots!

Visiting Manila is always a blessing, especially when everyone in the family is there. Two weeks never feels long enough. You try to stretch every day, every hour, because you know how fast time slips away once you’re home. Every moment becomes something to cherish, the familiar faces, the laughter, the stories that pick up right where they left off.

It’s the chance to reconnect with family, relatives, and friends who shaped your childhood. And there’s a special kind of excitement when you bring your kids with you. You want them to meet their titos, titas, lolos, lolas, and cousins. You want them to feel the warmth of the place you grew up in, to walk the same streets, to hear the same sounds, to understand where their roots truly are.

So we took the jeepneys, went to Divisoria, wandered through the malls, and visited Rizal Park. Simple things, but they carried so much meaning. Hearing my kids speak Tagalog in those places made me smile. My eldest spoke fluently, confidently. The younger ones weren’t as fluent, but they understood well and spoke with that funny accent that always made everyone laugh. We made sure they learned the language. Ever since they were little, we spoke to them in both English and Tagalog.

They tried their best, and every time they asked me about a word they didn’t understand, I answered right away. It became our little exchange, they asked me Tagalog, and I asked them about my English grammar. A give‑and‑take that somehow made us closer.

Being in Manila reminded me how precious these moments are. It’s not just about the places we visited, but the feeling of being home, the familiar air, the voices you grew up with, the comfort of knowing you belong. Those two weeks always fly by, but the memories stay, carrying you until the next time you get to come home again.

 

The Day a Lizard Tried to Eat My Foot

Arizona is an interesting place. You can go almost anywhere and stumble upon unique art pieces. Over the years, I’ve found all kinds of metal sculptures, animals, abstract shapes, strange creatures, each one with its own personality. But this giant lizard really stood out.

As an artist, you don’t just look at something like this as a feature. You start imagining how it was made. You think about the hands that shaped it, the hours spent welding, sculpting, sanding, and refining. You wonder about the creativity, the love, and the patience poured into every detail. I’ve done carvings myself, so I know exactly how much effort and hard work goes into a piece like this. It’s not just art, it’s dedication frozen in time.

I couldn’t resist taking a picture of it. It was too cool, too unusual, too full of character. But I wanted to add more flavor to the moment. Just standing beside it didn’t feel enough. Something inside me,  maybe my inner childhood, kicked in right there by the lake.

It was a playful, silly, and fun moment that makes art come alive. For a second, I wasn’t just looking at the sculpture; I was part of the scene, part of the story, part of the imagination behind it.

Arizona has a way of doing that to you. It surprises you, invites you, and reminds you that sometimes the best moments are the ones where you let yourself play.

Inside the Black‑and‑White Dream

I remember watching American movies as a kid back in Manila. We only had a black‑and‑white TV, and every scene felt like it came from another universe. Whenever San Francisco showed up, the car chases, the steep streets, the cable cars rattling through the city, it all looked impossibly modern, clean, and orderly. In my young mind, America was this perfect place where everyone seemed well off and life moved smoothly, just like the movies promised.

So when I finally got the chance to visit Frisco, I carried all those childhood impressions with me. I found myself walking the streets trying to match real life with the scenes I remembered from that old TV. I kept looking for landmarks, corners, and angles that felt familiar, like I was trying to step back into those movie frames.

And then there I was, standing in the middle of the city, wearing my San Francisco shirt, surrounded by people, storefronts, and the everyday noise of real life. For a moment, it genuinely felt like I had stepped inside that black‑and‑white television. The world around me wasn’t a movie set, but it had the same energy, the same charm, that fascinated me as a child.

San Francisco has so much to offer. The weather alone makes you want to walk everywhere. The mix of old and new buildings, the smell of food from every direction, the way people move with purpose, it’s a city that invites you to explore. It was truly a blessing to be there. That’s why I paused. I looked around. I let myself feel the moment. Because after everything, the years, the miles, the dreams I carried from childhood, I was finally here. And I didn’t want to miss a single second of it.

 

A Moment I Finally Noticed

Standing on that pier in California, the sun warming my back while the ocean breeze tried to balance it out. Behind me, the beach was overflowing with life, kids running around, families setting up tents, people laughing like the day belonged entirely to them. It was loud, colorful, and full of movement, but somehow I felt calm in the middle of it.

As I looked out over the water, I started thinking about how easy it is for people to miss the blessings right in front of them. We get so caught up in our routines, our worries, our deadlines, that we forget to look around. We forget to pause. Standing there, I realized how many people on that beach probably didn’t even notice how beautiful the moment was, how blessed they were to be in a place like this, breathing this air, seeing this view. And honestly, I’ve been guilty of that too.

So I let myself slow down. I let the scene sink in, the palm trees swaying, the city stretching out behind them, the ocean opening up in front of me. I thought about Manila, about Arizona, about all the roads that led me here. I wasn’t posing for the picture; I was just trying to be present. Trying to appreciate the blessing of simply being alive in a moment like this.

With my backpack on my shoulder and my sunglasses hiding whatever was running through my mind, I felt like someone standing between where I came from and where I’m still heading. And for once, I wasn’t rushing. I wasn’t overthinking. I was just grateful.

Sometimes you really do have to stop, look around, and let yourself realize how blessed you are. That day on the pier reminded me of that, and I carry it with me now, wherever I go.

My Arizona Boat Story (The Camcorder That Fought for Its Life)

Standing on that dock today, my brain did what it always does, it time‑traveled decades back to one of my earliest “Welcome to Arizona!” moments. We were new in the state, still figuring out why the air felt like a hair dryer set to high, when a new friend invited us to go boating at a nearby lake.

At the time, this was the farthest I had ever driven in Arizona, which, honestly, wasn’t even that far from Phoenix. But in my mind, it felt like an expedition worthy of National Geographic. And of course, I brought my brand‑new Sony Hi8 camcorder, the pride of my tech collection. I treated that thing like it was my firstborn child.

When it was my turn to hop on the boat, I stepped in like a movie star boarding a yacht, smooth, confident, ready for adventure. We sped around the lake, bouncing so hard I thought my internal organs were rearranging themselves. But I documented everything like a true filmmaker. Spielberg would’ve been proud.

Then came the moment.

We returned to the dock. I stood up, ready to exit gracefully. I stepped off the boat… slowly… carefully… like a man who respected gravity.

But gravity did NOT respect me back.

The boat drifted.

My balance vanished.

My life flashed before my eyes, but more importantly, my camcorder’s life flashed before my eyes.

I started going down like a sinking ship, but I held that camcorder high above my head like it was the Olympic torch. People probably thought I was performing some kind of ritual sacrifice to the lake gods.

For a glorious second, only my arm and the camcorder were above water, like a dramatic movie scene. But then…

I continued sinking.

And the camcorder went down with me.

By the time I regained my balance, I made sure the camera came up first, because priorities. But it was too late. The lake had claimed it. If I had thrown it onto the rocky shore, it might have survived. Instead, I baptized it.

That day taught me a hard lesson:

Always read your surroundings before making a decision, especially when your surroundings include a boat that moves and a lake that wants your electronics.

Since then, I never went boating again.

Not because I’m traumatized, but because my friend moved out of state.

So to any future friends who own a boat:

I promise not to bring a Hi8 camcorder.

I’ve learned my lesson.

And so has the lake. 

Chasing the Light Before It Fades

I’ve learned that taking photos teaches you something about life. When you’re trying to capture the sun, you have to act fast, the moment appears, shines for a second, and then it’s gone. That sunset I caught in Southern California was one of those rare moments. I didn’t plan it. I just happened to be there, surrounded by people enjoying a beautiful beach, and I snapped the shot before the light slipped away.

Living in Arizona showed me the same truth, but in a different way. Opportunities here don’t come wrapped in golden beaches or dramatic skies. They show up quietly, in the long desert evenings, in unexpected chances, in the moments when life feels uncertain. Especially during the times I lost work and had to rebuild, I learned to recognize those small openings and move toward them before they disappeared.

That’s what this photo reminds me of:

Life’s opportunities are just like sunsets, brief, unpredictable, and worth grabbing the second you see them.

Whether it’s a moment of beauty, a chance to grow, or a new direction that could change everything, you have to be ready. You have to trust your instincts. You have to act before the light fades.

 

Heart Attack Grill and the Heart of Friendship

There used to be a wild little burger joint here in Arizona called Heart Attack Grill, and my friends and I just had to try it. The moment you sat down, the waitress, dressed like a nurse, would slip a hospital gown over you like you were checking into a ward. Their burgers were cooked in pure lard, they handed you a glass bottle of Coke, and they even took your blood pressure before and after you ate. And of course, the legendary rule, if you weighed 300 pounds or more, you ate for free. It was ridiculous, hilarious, and unforgettable, one of those experiences you try just to say you did.

But looking back, it wasn’t really about the restaurant at all.

It was about us, the friendships we built here in Arizona. We were a group of artists working at a major animation studio in Phoenix, pouring our creativity into every project. And when the studio shut down, everything changed. Suddenly we were all trying to figure out our next steps, our next jobs, our next version of life. But through all the uncertainty, we stuck together. We shared rides, shared meals, shared worries, shared dreams. We helped each other survive the transition.

Eventually, life pulled us in different directions. Opportunities came, responsibilities grew, and we each followed our own path. Some found stability, some found new passions, some found success after years of grinding. And I’m genuinely proud of every one of them.

That day at Heart Attack Grill wasn’t just a funny memory, it was a snapshot of a time when we were all together, all fighting for our futures, all holding onto each other in the middle of life’s unpredictability.

Friendship is like that.

You celebrate together, struggle together, and treasure the moments while you have them. Because life moves fast. You never really know when a chapter ends or when a new one begins.

But the memories, those stay with you.

Melodies That Survived the Distance

I saw a guy playing guitar by the waterfront in San Diego, sitting on a stone wall, letting the late‑afternoon sun fall over him as he played. His music wasn’t loud; it just drifted across the water like it belonged there. Watching him, I felt something familiar rise in me, something from far earlier in my story.

I remembered being a teenager in Manila, trying to learn guitar myself.

The city was noisy, alive, unpredictable, jeepneys roaring, vendors shouting, rain pounding on the roof like a drumline. But somehow, in the middle of all that chaos, I found quiet moments with a guitar in my hands. I wasn’t great at it, but I kept trying. Every chord felt like a small victory, every song a doorway into a world bigger than the one outside our window. That guitar became my escape, my companion, my way of imagining a future beyond the floods, the crowded streets, and the everyday hustle of Manila life.

Then Phoenix came to mind, the desert, the silence, the wide open sky. Life here has a different rhythm. It’s more reflective, almost like the world is giving you space to hear your own thoughts. Sometimes I think Phoenix is where I learned to understand the things Manila taught me. The noise shaped me; the quiet helped me make sense of it.

Standing there in San Diego, listening to that stranger play, I felt all those versions of myself meeting in one moment, the boy in Manila struggling to learn his first chords, the man in Phoenix navigating a quieter, wider life, and the traveler passing through San Diego, catching inspiration from someone who didn’t even know he was giving it.

His music reminded me that my journey has always had a soundtrack.

Sometimes it was the chaos of Manila.

Sometimes it was the silence of Phoenix.

And sometimes, like that day by the water, it was a simple melody played by someone I’ll never meet again.

But all of it, every note, every place, has shaped who I’ve become.

The Day the Turtle Snapped

Near the entrance of the Phoenix Zoo, I stopped to watch a group of turtles fighting for space on a wobbly log. Every time one tried to climb up, the whole thing tilted, sending the others scrambling to steady it again. It was funny, chaotic, and strangely familiar, like watching a tiny community negotiate life together.

And just like that, my mind slipped back to Manila.

I blame my ever‑eidetic memory for how sharply those moments return. I remembered the floods that came with every heavy rain, the way water crept into our home until it felt like we were living inside a giant aquarium. Fish swam past our furniture, catfish, tilapia, gourami, mudfish, and once, even a turtle. It was the first time we ever had one inside the house. I tried to catch it, thinking it would be slow and harmless, but it snapped at me with surprising speed. After that, I decided turtles were better admired from a distance.

Standing there at the zoo, watching these turtles balance themselves on a log, I felt that familiar mix of nostalgia and humor. Manila’s floods were inconvenient, messy, and constant, but they also brought unexpected discoveries. New species drifting through your living room. Neighbors becoming your closest friends. Childhood shaped by the strange and the ordinary blending together.

It’s funny how a simple scene in Phoenix, a few turtles on a log, can transport me across oceans and decades. Memory has its own way of reminding me that no matter how far I’ve traveled, Manila still rises to the surface.

The Climb That Echoed My Journey

Climbing those rocks hit differently because it wasn’t just a physical challenge, it felt like a reflection of everything I’ve had to climb through in Arizona. The heat, the rough edges, the uncertainty of each step… it all reminded me of the seasons when life here felt just as unforgiving.

I thought about the times I lost a job and had to start over, the quiet days when I wasn’t sure what came next, and the nights I held on to my dreams even when they felt far away. Arizona can be beautiful, but it can also test you, your patience, your confidence, your resilience.

So as I pulled myself upward, it felt symbolic. Every stretch, every push, every moment of doubt echoed the same perseverance I’ve had to rely on to survive here. And when I reached the top, it wasn’t just a view, it was a reminder that I’ve climbed harder things before, and I’m still moving forward.

This place has shaped me. It’s challenged me. And it’s taught me that even when life feels steep, I can still rise.

Where Time Folds Around a Capsule

Standing beside that Apollo test capsule, it’s impossible not to feel time folding in on itself. One moment I’m in Arizona, just casually exploring another hidden gem; the next, I’m back in grade school in the Philippines, standing in our tiny library with that oversized space book in my hands. I remember flipping through the pages and seeing the grainy photos of Apollo 11, astronauts on the moon, the lander, the flag. At that age, it felt unreal, almost magical, that humans had actually traveled that far and touched another world.

Now here I am, decades later, face‑to‑face with a real test capsule. It’s not flying through space, but it still carries that same weight, the ambition, the courage, the curiosity that pushed people to go beyond what anyone thought was possible. For a moment, I felt like I had just stepped out of it myself, carrying those childhood memories with me.

Arizona has a way of surprising you like that. You think you’ve seen everything, then you stumble on something that reconnects you to who you were and reminds you of how far you’ve come. It’s strange how a piece of space history can make you reflect on your own journey, from a kid discovering the moon in a library to someone still chasing that sense of wonder today.

The Taste That Followed Us

When we first came to America, the biggest shock wasn’t the weather or the language, it was the food. We arrived at night, went straight to a birthday dinner, and suddenly I was the newest immigrant among fifty others who had already begun adjusting to this strange new place.

The next morning, hunger made everything real. No car, no familiar streets, no Filipino breakfast waiting. I walked half a mile just hoping to find something, and by luck discovered a Walgreens. Bread and drinks, that was survival for the day. The next few days were harder. We weren’t just homesick; we were literally starving until we figured out how to call taxis and reach a grocery store.

But even then, the taste of the food here felt foreign. We kept searching for the flavors we grew up with, the comfort of home. Slowly, we learned to adapt. We figured out how to recreate Filipino dishes using whatever ingredients we could find here. It wasn’t perfect, but it was enough to remind us of who we were.

Like this turon. I used buro bananas because they’re the closest thing to saba. It’s not exactly the same, but when the sugar caramelizes and the smell fills the kitchen, it brings me back. It’s proof of how immigrants survive: we improvise, we adapt, we recreate pieces of home until they fit into our new life. It’s a reminder that even in a foreign land, even after hunger, confusion, and culture shock, we carry our flavors with us. We carry our identity. And sometimes, all it takes is a simple turon to remind us that we didn’t lose who we were, we just learned how to bring it forward.

The Monster Truck That Returned My Childhood

Driving through Phoenix one afternoon, I noticed a crowd gathered in a parking lot. Curiosity tugged at me, so I turned in. It was a car show, rows of polished classics glowing under the Arizona sun, but the one that stopped me was a towering monster truck, massive enough to make everything else look small.

The moment I stood in front of it, something inside me shifted. I wasn’t just looking at a truck, I was suddenly a kid again in Manila. I remembered invited by our neighbor to watch a monster truck show at Rizal Memorial Field. Those trucks flew through the air and landed like bouncing balls shaking the ground. I was amazed, wide‑eyed, and completely taken by the moment. It was one of those childhood memories that stays with you long after life has carried you somewhere else.

Standing there in Phoenix, I felt that same spark, along with the reminder of how different life was back home. In Manila, neighbors weren’t just people living next door; they were part of your story, part of your everyday life. They were the ones who brought you into moments that shaped you.

A giant truck in a parking lot became more than a spectacle. It became a bridge between two worlds, between the child I was in Manila and the man I am now in Arizona.

The Detour That Showed Me History

There are moments in life when things happen beyond our control, and all we can do is adjust. During one of my visits to Manila, my flight home was delayed. By the time we landed in Hawaii for my layover, the plane to Phoenix had already left. Some passengers were upset, but I had already prepared myself for the possibility. The airline gave us hotel rooms for the night and vouchers for dinner. The food was great, the room was comfortable, but my mind was already thinking about the next day.

My flight wasn’t until the afternoon, so I had plenty of time. After enjoying my free breakfast, I decided not to waste the morning. I hopped on a city bus and headed straight to Pearl Harbor. I walked through the historical sites, I felt the weight of history settle around me, the quiet bravery, the sacrifice, the stories carried by the wind. Then I saw the WWII cannon. A group of tourists were climbing on it, laughing, posing for photos. I waited patiently, letting the moment breathe. When it was finally free, I asked a fellow traveler (me, the accidental tourist) to take my picture.

Standing there, I realized it was one of those rare moments when a bad situation turns into something unexpectedly meaningful. A missed flight became a chance to explore history, to see something I never planned for, and to remind myself that sometimes life’s detours lead to the best memories.

Manila Moments That Still Follow Me

During one of my visits to Manila, I was walking along Roxas Boulevard when I saw the statue of Dolphy. Right away, I remembered that the very first movie I ever watched as a child was one of his films at Paco Cinema with my uncle, aunties, and my sister. The theater was freezing (my first airconditioned place experience), packed with people, and as a small kid I had to squeeze into a tiny spot just to see the screen. When we stepped outside afterward, the Manila heat hit me so hard it felt like waking up from a memory.

Paco wasn’t a place we went every day, but it was a place that shaped so much of my childhood, vendors calling out, jeepneys rumbling by, tricycles weaving through crowds. It was loud, chaotic, and full of life, a complete contrast to where I live now in America, where everything feels quieter and more orderly. Yet every time I pass by Paco, my mind travels back to those childhood days. It’s where my mother bought my school shoes and uniform, where we shopped for our sari-sari store, and where my father drove his jeepney route.

Those memories remind me of who I was, where I came from, and how far life has taken me

 

Held by Grace on the Mountain

Seating on top of South Mountain, looking down at the city, I felt something rise in my chest, something I hadn’t let myself feel in a long time. I tried to spot my home from up there, but all I could see was how much Phoenix has changed. The city has grown so much that it almost feels like it grew faster than I could keep up. And in that moment, I realized I’ve changed too.

When I first came here thirty years ago, life was busy but still simple. I was young, hopeful, and trying to understand a world that didn’t always understand me back. As the years passed, everything became more complicated, unexpected challenges, uncertainties, moments that shook my confidence. People think that living in America means life is easy. They see comfort, convenience, opportunity. But they don’t see the nights you cry quietly because you lost your job, or the fear that hits you when your health benefits disappear and you don’t know how you’ll make it through.

I’ve faced all of that. I’ve carried all of that. And yet, seating on that mountain, I felt something stronger than fear, gratitude. Because every time I was close to sinking, God pulled me back up. Every time I thought I couldn’t handle one more setback, He showed me I wasn’t alone. He rescued me in ways I didn’t always recognize at the time, but looking back, I see His fingerprints on every moment I survived.

Up there, with the wind brushing against me and the city stretched out below, I felt emotional in a way I can’t fully explain. I saw the life I built, the battles I fought, the grace that carried me. And I realized that even through all the hardship, I’m still here. Still standing. Still growing. Still held.

Finding the Perfect Spot

We’ve camped at several sites across Arizona with friends and church members, and every trip feels like its own little adventure. Arizona has no shortage of campgrounds, but somehow we always end up missing the perfectly flattened spot where a tent is supposed to go. This time, though, we finally lucked out. The ground was a bit rough, sure, but it was still a good spot tucked under a tree with a clear, peaceful view of the lake.

The real challenge, as always, was the pre‑winter cold. Arizona nights don’t play around. You have to bundle up like you’re preparing for a snowstorm multiple thick blankets, layers on layers, and the determination to stay warm until sunrise.

But the best part of these trips is never the campsite itself. It’s the fellowship. Sitting around with friends, hearing stories, funny ones, sad ones, the struggles everyone’s carrying, the victories they’re proud of. There’s something about being outdoors that makes people open up. And then there’s the cooking: everyone pitching in, chopping, prepping, stirring, grilling. You always end up eating together, laughing together, and feeling like time slows down just enough for everyone to breathe.

Every trip ends the same way, with a Sunday service and fellowship. A quiet, grounding moment before heading back to the rhythm of everyday life.

Creating Home, Wherever We Stand

Looking at this moment, I feel the weight and beauty of our story as Filipino immigrants. It’s more than just a day out with my family in Phoenix, it’s a reminder of how far our journey has taken us. Three of us arrived in America with nothing but hope, courage, and the belief that hard work and faith would open doors we couldn’t yet see.

Now, standing on that hill with two more children beside us, under the wide Arizona sky, I’m reminded of everything we’ve built. The desert felt strange at first, quiet, dry, so different from the familiar chaos and warmth of Manila. But slowly, through challenges, small victories, and countless new beginnings, it became home.

It’s a blend of worlds, the rugged beauty of Arizona and the unshakeable closeness of a Filipino family that refused to lose itself in the process of starting over. We carried our humor, our resilience, our way of loving loudly and standing for each other. And we planted those values in new soil.

Our story isn’t just about leaving home, it’s about creating one. Together. Wherever life takes us.

The Colors I Miss, The Colors I Make

Life has a way of being spontaneous. You see something simple, and suddenly a spark lights up an idea, a memory, a feeling. Sometimes you’re just standing in a quiet corner, and your creativity starts to wander, mixing reflection with imagination until something meaningful begins to form.

Living in America moves fast. So fast that you forget the small things that once made life feel full. Back home, happiness came naturally no effort, no planning, just the comfort of familiar streets, familiar faces, and the warmth of family and friends. Here, you have to slow yourself down and remember who you were before the rush of everyday life took over.

I still ask myself why happiness felt so effortless in the Philippines. Maybe it’s because I grew up surrounded by people who knew me, loved me, and shared the same rhythm of life. Here, my friends are busy, my relatives are hundreds of miles away, and the silence can feel heavier than expected.

But loneliness is something you learn to face head-on. You fight it, you push through it, and you find color wherever you can. And in the end, I’m grateful because my family here gives my life its color. They remind me that even far from home, I can still paint my days with meaning.

The Fourth Stooge!

As an animation artist, your world naturally revolves around art. There’s always that spark, every time you see characters, designs, costumes, or anything connected to TV, film, web, or print. Back in the early days, many of my friends and colleagues in animation made it a tradition to attend the San Diego Comic Convention. It was a playground for creatives, endless things to explore, and of course, tons of freebies.

But as the event grew more popular, the crowds grew with it. What used to feel spacious and exciting slowly turned into a maze of people, where you’d have to squeeze your way through every booth and table just to catch a glimpse of what was new. Even the free stuff eventually became merchandise for sale.

Still, it was always fun to see attendees in their costumes and discover the latest trends in the art and entertainment world. But over time, I felt myself enjoying it less. The magic was still there, it just wasn’t the same.

This photo was from my last Comic-Con in San Diego. I was lucky enough to run into the Three Stooges, well, not the real guys, but close enough to make me smile. For a moment, standing there with them, I felt like I had stepped right into one of their shows… as the unofficial fourth Stooge.

The Statue I Grew Up Passing By

Every time I visit Manila, I almost always find myself wandering back into Rizal Park. Growing up, this place was part of my life, close to home, close to school, and close to so many memories. I passed by it for five straight years in college, never realizing how much of my own story was quietly tied to these grounds.

Most visitors enjoy the open spaces and the breeze, but many walk past the park’s historical gems without noticing. Behind me is one of them, La Madre Filipina.

Created in 1911 by sculptor Ramon Martinez, this statue once stood proudly on the Jones Bridge. After the war damaged the bridge, it was moved here to Rizal Park, where it stayed for decades, almost hidden in plain sight. In 2019, during the bridge’s restoration, La Madre Filipina was finally returned to its original home, now standing 20 feet high on its base.

Its journey reminds me of something simple, when something meaningful stands right in front of you, take the moment. Look closer. Appreciate it. Some stories only reveal themselves when you pause long enough to notice

When the Tide Changed My Direction

Looking out at the ocean, the memories rushed in like the tide, fast, familiar, and unexpectedly tender. Back when I first started working in the Philippines, I was just like so many other Filipinos dreaming of opportunities beyond our shores. I imagined myself in Hong Kong, Singapore, maybe the Middle East, places close enough that home still felt within reach. And just like my childhood dream of becoming an architect, life nudged me in a different direction. I found myself in the animation industry instead, building stories frame by frame.

Still, I wondered about other possibilities. What about America? I asked myself once. But the thought felt too big, too far, too unreal. The United States was literally on the other side of the world, an ocean away from everything familiar. I never pictured myself crossing that distance.

But fate has a way of quietly rearranging your plans. It doesn’t ask permission, it simply opens a door and waits for you to notice. I could never have imagined that one day I’d be standing on a foreign shore, traveling across the ocean not as a tourist but as someone brave enough to try his luck in a new land. It was a blessing, yes, but one wrapped in challenges, sacrifices, and moments of doubt.

And yet, here I am. The waves in front of me feel like the same waves that touched the Philippines, reminding me that even the farthest places are connected. My journey wasn’t the one I planned, but it became the one I needed, proof that sometimes life takes you exactly where you’re meant to be, even if the map looks nothing like the one you first imagined.

The Day I Finally Walked Into My Childhood Western

Growing up, I watched more cowboy movies than I can count, American westerns, Filipino westerns, anything with dusty streets and wooden saloons. I was always drawn to those old towns: the weathered boards, the rusty signs, the oversized stars and metalwork that looked like they’d been hammered together by legends. Never did I imagine that one day I’d actually be living in the Southwest, surrounded by the very landscapes I used to only see on TV. When I first learned Fox Animation Studios was in Arizona, I felt like destiny had tapped me on the shoulder. I wanted to breathe the same air, walk the same ground, and see the world that shaped the stories I loved.

It took me a while to finally visit this ghost town, but standing there, in front of those giant metal revolvers and the old wooden walls, I felt that familiar spark from childhood. It was funny, really, here I was, a grown man in boots and a hat, posing like a background character in a Western, yet feeling the same excitement I had as a kid glued to the screen. Arizona has a way of making the past feel close. And in that moment, it felt like the little boy in me had finally stepped into the movie.

A New Studio, A New Story

I arrived in Arizona on August 21, 1996, stepping into a new chapter of my life to work on Anastasia, the very first feature film of Fox Animation Studios. After two days of trying to shake off the jet lag and settle into a new country, they called me in to start. I was still exhausted, still adjusting, but I showed up because this was the opportunity I had dreamed of.

On that first day, I looked calm and relaxed at my desk, but inside I was nervous. I hadn’t touched a pencil in three months, and suddenly I was handed a musical sequence: Anastasia singing and dancing, with Pooka bouncing along beside her. It was a beautiful scene, but it was also a test. My hands felt rusty, my mind was racing, and I could feel the weight of starting over in a new studio, a new culture, a new level of expectation.

Even with five years of experience and 55 Hanna‑Barbera titles behind me, I knew I had to adjust quickly. Fox had a different rhythm, a different creative energy, and I had to push myself to rise to it. I had to prove not just to them, but to myself that I belonged there.

But once I started drawing, something familiar returned. The nervousness didn’t disappear, but the joy of animation pushed through it. That moment, captured in the photo, shows me smiling and focused but it doesn’t show the courage it took to sit at that desk, pick up that pencil, and begin again.

Echoes of Valor Beneath My Feet

In San Diego, I sat quietly on a map of the Philippines etched into the ground, a moment that stirred memories and emotions I didn’t expect. Seeing my homeland honored in a World War II memorial reminded me of the stories I grew up with: of Filipino and American soldiers standing shoulder to shoulder, of courage in the face of impossible odds, of Bataan, Corregidor, and the long, painful road to liberation. The gold stars and engraved names around me weren’t just symbols, they were echoes of sacrifice, resilience, and shared history. As I traced the lines across the west Philippine Sea, I felt both pride and longing. That map beneath me wasn’t just geography, it was a piece of home, a reminder of where I come from and the legacy that lives on.

The Pump That Took Me Home

Seeing this deep well hand pump stirred a flood of memories. We had one just outside our house in Manila, and it was part of my daily rhythm, showering before and after school to escape the heat and humidity. The water wasn’t filtered or particularly fresh, but it was free, and that mattered. It saved us money and carried a kind of simplicity that felt grounding. Even here in Arizona, certain things, like this old pump, can unexpectedly transport you back home. It’s a quiet reminder that pieces of the Philippines live on in the most ordinary places.