Building a small vegetable garden in the Philippines while rebuilding myself from the inside out.

February 12, 2026 | Pozorrubio, Pangasinan

Hi everyone. Good morning.

Today felt simple. And yet somehow, it felt significant.

I woke up early while the sun was still soft and the air hadn’t turned heavy with heat. The kind of morning where everything feels possible because it hasn’t had the chance to overwhelm you yet. I told myself that today would be the day I finally started the vegetable plant box. I had been talking about it since before this trip — promising myself that I would garden, that I would grow something, that I would create something sustainable while I was here.

I didn’t have proper tools. I didn’t have perfect wood. I didn’t even have enough soil at first. I just found leftover scraps from when the house was built — random pieces that didn’t match, slightly uneven, not ideal. But I kept thinking, this is what I have. So this is what I’ll use.

There’s something very symbolic about building with scraps. I don’t think I fully realized it until I was crouched down in the heat, adjusting the wood, lifting it, lowering it, trying to make it stable. Life doesn’t always give you polished materials. Sometimes it gives you heartbreak. Sometimes it gives you anxiety. Sometimes it gives you expectations that feel too heavy to carry. And you still have to build something meaningful out of it.

We ran out of soil halfway through. Of course we did. So we walked out and bought four more bags. They were heavy. The sun was rising higher by then and the heat in Pangasinan does not play around. I felt tired. I even said out loud, “I’m tired, you guys.” But I kept going.

And that part — the not quitting — felt important.

I think there were years when I quit on myself emotionally. Years when I felt so overwhelmed by expectations — my own and other people’s — that I stopped believing I could build anything stable in my life. I tied so much of my worth to relationships, to career milestones, to timelines that I thought I had to follow. And when things didn’t go the way I imagined, I internalized it as failure.

But today, I built a box from uneven scraps and heavy soil. And it stood.

We already have tomatoes growing. Small, but alive. We have magic purple camote from Tuba — where my dad is from. That detail makes me emotional in a way I can’t fully explain. It feels like planting something that connects past and present. I’m planning to transfer the tomatoes into the new box once we come back from Bangkok. I’m propagating bougainvillea too because I love that pop of purple against concrete walls. I want this house to feel alive. I want it to bloom loudly.

Gardening feels like therapy in disguise. There’s something grounding about touching soil, about physically placing roots somewhere. It forces patience. You can’t rush growth. You can’t yell at a plant to grow faster. You prepare the foundation, you water it, and then you wait.

After we set everything up, I sat down with camote and tea with honey. Simple breakfast. The camote was naturally sweet, almost comforting. The taho vendor passed by earlier and I missed him again. I keep missing him. It’s funny how small things like that feel significant here. Life is slower. You hear birds, tricycles, neighbors talking. Vendors calling out what they’re selling. There’s movement, but it doesn’t feel frantic.

Being here has made me reflect on how fast I live in San Francisco. Work, sleep, eat, repeat. Even in one of the most beautiful cities in the world, I’ve been living on autopilot. I dreamed of living there for years. And now that I do, I forget to look up. I forget to appreciate the ocean, the hills, the diversity, the fact that I actually built a life there.

Why do I wait until I’m thousands of miles away to feel grateful?

That question has been sitting with me.

This trip has also brought up deeper things — things I didn’t plan to talk about today. I think one of the biggest sources of my anxiety and depression over the years has been expectation. The timeline I thought I had to follow. Marriage. Family. Stability in a very specific form. Watching friends move forward in ways that look so certain and solid. I’m genuinely happy for them, but there are moments when I quietly ask myself why my life looks different.

I’ve had heartbreaks that shook me deeply. In 2018, after a breakup that felt like it pulled the ground from under me, I checked myself into psychiatry in Brooklyn because I didn’t like the darkness I was sitting in. I didn’t recognize myself. I felt ashamed at the time. Weak. Dramatic.

But I remember my mom flying out just to be with me. Holding my hand. Sitting beside me.

She has seen me at my worst and never walked away.

This trip is also about rebuilding with her. In Filipino culture, we don’t always talk about emotions openly. We endure. We sacrifice quietly. We don’t want to burden each other. I want more than that now. I want connection that includes honesty. But I also know I can’t force vulnerability. She has to choose it. And I’m learning to respect that.

Being here has made me reconsider my plans too. I used to be hyperfocused on moving back to the Philippines permanently. I romanticized the simplicity. And yes, it’s beautiful. But I’m also seeing the reality — privatized healthcare, expensive medications, limited access compared to the U.S. I’m on blood pressure medication. I can’t ignore that. I can’t make decisions purely on emotion.

Maybe the answer isn’t choosing one country over the other. Maybe it’s designing a life that holds both. Living in the U.S., investing here. Splitting time. Building something sustainable in both places. I have four more years of physician supervision. Four years sounds long, but it will pass. Maybe in four years I’ll start telehealth. Maybe I’ll still love my job and stay. I don’t need to decide today.

For the first time in a long time, I’m allowing myself not to have a perfectly mapped-out future.

I’ve also been reflecting on how I love. I’ve loved intensely. I’ve attached deeply. I’ve put all my eggs in one basket because when I choose someone, I really choose them. And when it ended, I felt like I had lost myself. But this season feels different. I’m learning that choosing someone should never mean abandoning myself.

Today, building that plant box felt like a quiet declaration: I can build something that feeds me. I can create stability with my own hands. I can start small and still be proud.

February 12, 2026. I started what I said I would start.

It wasn’t glamorous. It was sweaty and heavy and imperfect. But it was real.

And I think healing is exactly that — imperfect, physical, sometimes exhausting, but steady.

We’re leaving for Bangkok in two days. Another chapter. Another perspective. But today, I’m grateful for this simple morning in Poseria, Pangasinan. Grateful for soil under my nails. Grateful for camote and tea. Grateful that I’m still here, still building, still choosing myself.

With love,
Jasmine 🌿