Before the long flights, airport layovers, and bright lights of Oklahoma, my world was rooted in the simple rhythm of life in Sagay City, Negros Occidental. I was born into a poor family, and we lived in a small bamboo huts. The roof was patched with rusting corrugated metal and woven nipa, and when the wind blew hard, we’d pray it wouldn’t fly off. The floor creaked under our feet, and sunlight slipped through the cracks in the bamboo like golden threads.
Every morning began before sunrise. The roosters would crow, and I’d wake to the sound of my mother cooking rice and dried fish over a charcoal stove. That smell always meant a new day. I’d help sweep the yard, carry water from the pump, or do laundry with my lola in plastic basins. Our neighbors lived close by—some just a stone’s throw away—and we all looked out for each other. What we didn’t have in money, we made up for in community.
I grew up walking along dirt roads lined with sugarcane fields, barefoot more often than not. I wore hand-me-down clothes and learned early how to patch holes and stretch things to last. When I wasn’t helping at home, I was at school, doing my best with what little we had. Sometimes my notebooks were missing pages, or I used a plastic bag for a backpack, but I didn’t care. I loved learning. I especially loved art—sketching, writing, and taking pictures with an old phone when I had the chance. I always dreamed of a camera in my hands and a story to tell.
Evenings in Sagay were slow and full of soul. We’d sit outside under the stars with grilled corn, talking and laughing while the mosquitoes buzzed around. Electricity came and went—brownouts were common—so we got used to candles and quiet. Looking back, those moments shaped me more than anything else. They taught me how to find peace in the stillness.
My parents worked hard. My father did whatever jobs he could—hauling fish, driving a tricycle, sometimes farming. My mother sold vegetables and mended clothes to help cover school expenses. We didn’t have much, but they gave me what mattered: values, courage, and the ability to hope.
When my marriage ended, it felt like everything fell apart. But somewhere deep inside, a part of me refused to give up. That part lit up when Tyme, an old friend now in Oklahoma, reached out—not to save me, but to remind me I had something to offer. That I still had a story worth telling.
Now that I’m in the U.S., starting a new chapter with Tyme at Subtle Shades Photography, I carry my past with me proudly. I’m beginning my modeling journey—glamour, boudoir, fine art, lifestyle, fitness—and each image I create feels like reclaiming a piece of myself.
Sagay will always be home. But I’m no longer just dreaming. I’m finally living.
