I’ve carried this story quietly for a long time…

Ever since we moved to Oslob in 2021, I’ve been holding an ache I didn’t always know how to name — the ache of leaving a home I loved.

Letting go of our Alabang townhouse broke my heart in ways I didn’t expect. We left because life required it: farming plans, business decisions, homeschooling, practicality, survival.

And since then, we’ve never really gone back, except for a short visit two years ago that only reminded me of what we had left behind.

Living in Between “Home” and What Was Necessary

We didn’t move into a traditional house.
We lived inside a hotel resort setup.
We adjusted.
We made do.
We stayed grateful.

If I’m being honest, the dream of having a home that felt more like ours never disappeared. It just kept getting postponed.

Not because we didn’t want it, but because we weren’t rich.

Every peso we earned went somewhere important — employees, bills, homeschooling, local travel with Tuz, and building emergency savings. I’ve written before about how we reached certain financial milestones without sacrificing our health, and this decision grew from the very same place: choosing sustainability over strain.

We bought land for future farming.
We invested in long-term possibilities.
We built stability first—and trusted that comfort would follow later.

A Small Decision That Changed How Rest Felt

Last year, I made a small but meaningful decision: I set aside a budget to redesign our bedroom.

Before that, our bed was literally on the floor. The room felt dim and heavy. It didn’t feel like rest.

I tried to make it look festive during the holidays, but something still felt off.

When we finally added a proper bed frame, better lighting, and warmth, something shifted inside me. I realized how deeply our environment affects our nervous system, especially at this stage of life, when sleep and peace matter more than ever.

That one change quietly taught me something important: comfort isn’t indulgence. It’s regulation.

Why We Paused Japan or Europe This Year

This year, we were planning to travel abroad again.
Japan or Europe. Another birthday trip for Tuz.

But the world felt unstable.

Everywhere we looked, our feeds were filled with disasters, wars, and uncertainty. It reminded me that sometimes seasons don’t arrive the way we expect them to — emotionally or practically — and when that happens, forcing momentum isn’t always the answer.

So we paused.

We didn’t stop traveling; we still did local trips. But we postponed international travel. We chose safety first. We made sure our emergency funds were secure. This season has been about intentionally slowing down and designing a life that feels sustainable, instead of one that constantly needs recovery.

And then we asked ourselves a simple, honest question:

What would make our everyday life feel lighter?

The answer wasn’t another destination.

It was our kitchen.

Our old outdoor kitchen was messy, makeshift, always dirty… and little by little, it was draining me. I didn’t make a big declaration. I just told Hanz the truth: going into that space was affecting my mood and my energy more than I wanted to admit.

So instead of boarding a plane, we chose to improve the space we use every single day.

We redirected the funds into upgrading our Kitchen, Laundry, Crafts, and Herb Garden area — a space lovingly named by Tuz as Kit Dree Craft.

This space isn’t about productivity.

It’s about nourishment.

A kitchen where I can cook and bake intentionally.
A laundry area that doesn’t feel chaotic.
A future crafts corner for recycled décor and homeschooling projects, something I loved doing as a child.
And at the back, an herb garden that’s still mostly empty — but full of promise.

Ending the Year With Quiet Abundance

We are not rich.
But we are deeply blessed.

Blessed to live in a setup that allows us to improve things slowly.
Blessed to have help.
Blessed to choose progress without debt, pressure, or comparison.

We didn’t rush into building a full house.
We improved what we already had — one intentional decision at a time.

As this year closes and a new one approaches, I realize this:

We didn’t stop dreaming.
We simply chose to dream in a way that felt safer, kinder, and more sustainable for this season.

And for now, that feels like enough.

If you’re also ending this year in a season of pausing, redirecting, or choosing to improve the life you already have—you’re not alone.

I’d love to hear: what did you choose this year?