The last Sunday of the year. Some days I still feel like I don’t belong. That girl from Manila, in rooms she never imagined.
I wasn’t born into wealth. I was born into the kindness and compassion of others. An uncle who said yes. An American family who took me in. Mentors who took chances on a kid with nothing on her resume but babysitting and eagerness.
Maybe that’s exactly why I’m here. People gave me oxygen. Now I get to help others find theirs, to reimagine their work, their roles, what’s possible.
We’re all turtles on a totem pole. None of us got here alone.
I wrote this story eight years ago (see link in the comments). It’s about firewood and pumped water. A 14-year-old who boarded a plane with a brown passport and a doll, not knowing when she’d see her family again.
It’s not a success story. It’s a debt story. The kind you can only repay forward.
To those who mention my name in rooms I’m not in. To the ones who quietly open doors. To those I’ve had the privilege to inspire: your words mean more than you’ll ever know. They keep me going.
You’re part of something bigger. Thank you.