Reflections on life, love, and quiet miracles
Hi, I'm your Filipina Ate
Hi, I’m your Filipina Ate.Welcome to my little corner of reflections, where I share thoughts, letters, and life lessons from a Filipina heart.This is a space for stories about faith, struggle, grace, and growth.For the days that need a little light.Because being human is a story worth sharing.
About Your Filipina Ate
Hi, I’m your Ate.In Filipino, ate means older sister. We say it to call not just our actual siblings, but even strangers on the street or in the jeepney, like how in other Asian cultures they say “auntie” or “uncle” as a sign of respect. In the Philippines, it’s ate (or kuya for older brother). It’s a word wrapped in affection, responsibility, and honor.I’m an ate at home, the eldest of three, and the only girl in our small family. I grew up wearing the many hats that come with being the panganay (eldest): the example-setter, the voice of reason, the quiet warrior. Our family didn’t have much. In fact, we had almost nothing growing up. We were the poorest of the poor in our community. Life was tough. Illnesses, debts, sacrifices... but God carried us through.And by His grace, we made it.Today, my parents are homebodies who enjoy playtime and video calls with their grandkids. My brothers finished college and are raising their own families. We're okay. We’re more than okay, actually. And I’m deeply proud of that.I won’t share my name here. Not because I’m ashamed of who I am or where I came from, but because this isn’t about me. And I’ve never been one to make my private life public. I also know that people who know me will recognize my voice, my stories, and my heart. That’s enough.So call me Ate.Some people say being the eldest is a burden. That it means giving up your dreams, carrying the load no one else wants, and being the one to always make the hard choices. It's true. I’ve seen that happen. I’ve lived it, too. But I never saw it as a curse.I love being an Ate.I may not have been the kindest or most perfect ate growing up, but I tried my best to be a good role model to my brothers. We were close in age, closer in struggle. We didn’t always have school allowance. Most days, my parents could only afford to give us coins just enough for jeepney fare. But we did well. We stayed out of trouble. We studied hard. We made our parents proud.I was the girl who topped her class, won contests, led student councils, and stood out not because I tried, but because I had to. Because I wanted my brothers to see how serious we should be about our education so we could get jobs, build a house, and get a fair chance in life.When I went to university, my middle brother had to pause his studies so I could go first. Because even with two scholarships, it wasn’t enough. I studied in a big university far from home, and we simply couldn’t afford both of us to be in school. That’s how hard it was. But my brother let me go ahead. He didn’t complain. And I never forgot that.So I made a promise to myself: finish school, find work, and send my brothers to college. And by God’s grace, I did.My first job didn’t pay much. I earned P18,000 (minus taxes and other deductions). But I made it work. I sent most of it to my mom to help pay for my brothers' tuition and allowance, and set aside money for rent and food until the next payday.I didn’t have room to dream of nice things. But I had a mission. And when my brothers graduated, that was more than enough reward.Now that we’re older, we each have our own lives. But they still come to me when they need advice, or when our parents are being stubborn. I love that. I love that they trust me. I love that I’m still Ate: the glue, the assertive voice, the family bridge. Whether it’s scolding or comforting, settling things or celebrating wins, I'm here for them. I always will be.And now, I want to be your Ate, too.As a Filipina raised in the Catholic faith, I believe this is part of my purpose. I was given this gift of writing not just to keep it to myself, but to share it... for anyone who needs comfort, clarity, or a reminder that they’re not alone.Through this blog, I’ll share reflections on faith, life, grace, struggles, and small miracles. These are letters for those who need light on hard days. Or a quiet word that makes sense of the mess. Or a reminder that God’s goodness is still at work, even in ordinary lives like yours and mine.You don’t have to be a big achiever or a perfect Christian. You just have to be human. And if you’ve ever wondered if you’re alone in your thoughts, your fears, your hopes, I’m here to say: you’re not.So welcome.Let me write to you like an older sister would. No judgment, no pressure. Just presence.Leave a comment. Send a message. Or share this with someone who might need it, especially if they’re an Ate like me, quietly carrying more than they say out loud.Maybe my stories will help you find yours again. Maybe you'll remember how beautiful it is to be human. #With love,
Your Ate
Protected in ways I’ll never know
This morning, I was reminded again of how God protects us in quiet, unseen ways.I was getting ready for work — almost done, just need to put on a top and grab my bag. My husband checked the bus app for me and said, “One’s coming in a minute, the next in seven.” The bus stop is just below our block, so I could make it to the first bus if I rush down soon.But just as I was about to leave, I turned to look at myself in the mirror. And I thought the top I was wearing looked weird when paired with my pants. It just didn’t go well together, you know? So I put down my bag and changed. Twice even, because I couldn't decide which to wear.I finally settled on a black tank top with a green printed cardigan, sighed, and went down... just in time to catch the bus that came seven minutes later. I was running late, but at that point, I told myself, "Whatever, I’m already late anyway."The ride to work is long — about an hour and a half on a good day, two if there’s traffic. And while we were on the expressway, I noticed flashing lights ahead. Police outriders, an ambulance, and a familiar-looking bus stopped by the road.It was the same bus number I take. The same bus I'm on. The same route. It's the one that came before mine... the one I was supposed to take earlier.I couldn’t see exactly what had happened, but there were officers, medics, and passengers still inside. My chest tightened. Goosebumps. That could’ve been me.I sat quietly after that. I prayed that no one was hurt. But I also couldn’t shake the thought that if I hadn’t taken those extra few minutes to change my top, I might’ve been on that bus.I was reminded that sometimes, God protects us in ways we don’t see. In little delays. In last-minute changes. In moments that don’t go as planned.And maybe He does that for us every day.We just don’t always notice. #With warmth,
Your Ate
A grateful heart in the midst of storms
Today I called my family back home. A super typhoon is coming in a few hours, so I sent them some money and asked my mama to buy groceries, just in case it hits hard. Asked if they put plywood on the windows, if their phones and emergency lights were charged.They said everything was ready.Okay... perhaps we're really resilient now or maybe we just got used to it? Because typhoons always hit our province. They don’t pick a time or place. Not that disasters ever do anyways.I remember Christmases without power or internet because a typhoon hit us. And now schools getting cancelled because they need evacuation centres.When we were younger, our house was so dilapidated, it felt like the wind could just blow it away.So when a typhoon comes, Papa would tie the nipa roof with straws and put heavy things on it, like tires, so it wouldn’t fly off. Mama would go to the neighbors (usually my titas’ or lola’s houses) and ask if we could stay there until the storm passed. We would take our "valuables" (documents, some clothes) when we "evacuated" to the neighbor's.Mama and Papa would stay awake the whole night, anxious, probably thinking, “Will we have a house to come back to in the morning?”The next day, we’d run back to our little house. Mud everywhere. Holes in the roof. Mama and papa would start cleaning, and we’d carry back the things we brought with us.Food was always tricky. Papa couldn’t get a lot from driving after a typhoon because people would be busy cleaning and fixing their homes. So we’d utang rice, noodles, or canned sardines from the kind neighbor’s sari-sari store, then pay back once he earned a little from driving the tricycle.Our backyard was a rice field, and when it flooded, we’d stare at it because it had turned into a river. My brother would be excited to make paper boats and play.Thinking about all that now, I’m honestly amazed at how life has blessed us and how we can now be a blessing to others. Our house is now sturdy. When typhoons hit, nieces, nephews, and other family come to stay with us. Mama and Papa can finally sleep without worrying. We have enough food. We can give shelter to people who need it.It’s really heartwarming. God blesses us, and He lets us be a blessing too.But I still hope the typhoon passes quietly, without causing too much havoc. I think about people who might not have a neighbor to share shelter with, or a kind tindera to let them utang some food, or the courage to face it alone. I hope God protects them most.I’m writing this while lying in bed, resting after two minor surgeries. It’s been a tough month, but I’m still amazed by God’s goodness. I haven't questioned His presence even when I was anxious about these surgeries. Probably because I know He is with me.And today, when I called home to check on typhoon prep, I found myself praising Him even more, remembering all the times He protected us, saved us, and surrounded us with kind souls.With warmth,
Your Ate
I guess I was meant to write
When I was a kid, I wanted to be a teacher.I used to gather my younger neighbors in our tiny home, act like their teacher, and even make lesson plans and visual aids. I'd prepare snacks, too. We’d pray, sing, answer “homework,” and I took it all very seriously. So for a while, I thought "Ah, this is what I’m meant to do."Then in Grade 4, something shifted. My cousin, who had the full set of Harry Potter books, lent me The Goblet of Fire. That was it... I was hooked. After that, I read every book I could find. I even sneaked off to my lola’s house to read because my mama wouldn’t let me do it at home. She was worried about my eyesight. We didn’t have steady electricity, so she was probably right.Somewhere between those long reading days and joining journalism and essay writing contests in school, a new dream began to grow. I started thinking: Maybe I’m not just meant to teach… maybe I’m meant to write.I dreamed of being a journalist, traveling to faraway places, telling real stories about people and places most people didn’t know about. I imagined writing books, too.So when I took the college admission test, I listed communication and journalism courses as my first choices. I also listed a few science courses (just in case), but thankfully, I got into communications.I really thought I’d go straight into journalism after graduation. But life has a way of shifting things.I needed to help send my brothers to school and support my family back home. My dreams had to wait.So I took a job that wasn’t related to writing. It was unfamiliar and uncomfortable... but it paid. My first salary was ₱18,000 a month, and after deductions, I was left with around ₱6,000–₱7,000 every cutoff. I’d send ₱3,000–₱4,000 home, then spend the rest on rent and food. I didn’t have savings, but I was okay. I was proud to help.Eventually, I missed writing too much. So I looked for a job that let me write again. And around that time, I also found a part-time teaching job. Suddenly, I was doing both of the things I loved: writing at night, teaching during the day. I lived on barely 2 to 4 hours of sleep every day. But I felt alive.Since then, I’ve worn many hats: freelancer, full-timer, part-timer, remote worker. Now, I’m writing full-time again. But I’d be lying if I said I never doubt myself.Lately, with all the rise of AI tools, I catch myself wondering: Am I really good at this? Do my words still matter? Is there a place for writers like me in this new world? Hello, impostor syndrome.And yet, despite all the questions, I keep going back to this thought: God doesn’t give talents by accident.Maybe I was really meant to write. Maybe this gift wasn’t meant to stay hidden. So I started this space to write down my reflections, to share my thoughts, and to tell stories of small miracles. Even if just one person reads and feels a little less alone, then I think that’s enough.But I won’t pretend I no longer struggle. Sometimes I even use AI to clean up my posts (like I did with this one). And sometimes, that makes me feel like I’m not good enough. Like I’m cheating. Like I don’t deserve to call myself a writer.But then something funny happened.As I was brainstorming names for this blog, I typed in a prompt… and the AI responded with:"You were meant to write."It was like a gentle nudge. A hug. A reminder.I paused and smiled. Was it just code responding to my prompt? Maybe. But somehow, in that moment, it felt like truth.Maybe that’s all I needed to hear. And maybe someone out there needs to hear it too:You were meant to write. You were meant to create.You were meant to be here.And so, I write. Even if no one reads. Even if I’m scared. I’ll keep showing up... for the words, for the stories, and for the One who gave me this gift in the first place. #With grace and light,
Your Ate
The day God comforted me through a little girl
Have you ever found yourself in a church, crying your eyes out for reasons you can't even explain?You're not sure what's really wrong... only that something is. You're overwhelmed. Tired. Heavy. And before you even know it, you're there on your knees, the tears just spilling out.I’ve had a few of those moments. But there’s one that's stayed with me, even now, ten years later.Back then, I was working in Alabang as a marketing coordinator for a big real estate company. I rented a small boarding house with my cousin near the train tracks... super bare bones, but it was what we could afford. There was a church nearby that I’d go to on quiet Sundays, just to reflect or sometimes attend mass if I wasn’t too tired from work.That day, I wasn't even planning to go. I don't remember what I was so stressed about... maybe it was work, or bills, or life just piling on. But instead of going home after work, my feet somehow led me to the church.Mass had already started when I slipped in. I sat quietly at the back, and when it ended and people started filing out, I stayed behind. I knelt, said a few words, and then... the tears started falling.At first, it was just a few tears. Then came the quiet sobs. Then the full-on ugly crying, snot and all. And I hate crying in public. But that moment, I couldn't hold it in anymore.Thank God the church was almost empty by then. I knew someone was cleaning near the altar, but I tried to keep my head down, hoping no one would notice.And then, I felt a small presence beside me.A little girl, around six or seven, had approached me. She looked at me with her round eyes and asked, “Ate, are you okay?”I froze. I quickly wiped my tears and gave her a small smile. "Yes," I told her, even though I wasn't sure if I truly was. But somehow, after the cry and the prayer, maybe I was starting to feel a little lighter.She sat beside me and started chatting like we were old friends. Told me about her favorite Disney princesses, and I somehow found myself showing her what was in my bag... lip balm, powder, my scrunchie. You know, girly stuff. She oohed and aahed and giggled. For a few minutes, I forgot about the heaviness I had walked in with.Turned out she was the daughter of the church cleaner. She was just waiting for her dad to finish.Before I left, I quietly thanked God. For the cry. For the peace. And for sending that little girl who reminded me I wasn't alone.I don’t know if she’ll ever remember that day. But I will.Because sometimes, when you feel the most lost, God sends someone to sit beside you.And sometimes, it comes in the form of a chubby-cheeked kid who just wants to talk about princesses. #With warmth,
Your Ate
