We landed in San Diego, picked up a rental SUV, and headed straight to meet another friend. Our first stop? Breakfast—and not just the kind you eat, but the kind that feeds your soul, too. We sat together for nearly three hours, sipping, snacking, and letting our conversation flow like a slow, steady river.

Somewhere in between laughs and stories, we talked about culture—my culture. That’s when something deep clicked. This friend, who I had just met, brought up the Philippines with such curiosity and respect. I found myself softening.

She talked about how Filipinos often try to “save face”—not to deceive, but to preserve dignity. To protect. It’s not lying. It’s love. That hit me hard. I felt seen. Like she unlocked something I had always carried but never really explained.

That moment gave me language I didn’t know I needed—a way to communicate my cultural values and my needs. I’d never taken that chance before. But there, in that booth, I found my voice. I realized how much I wished I could have shared that clarity with Jenna. But I reminded myself: better now than never. We learn when we’re ready. And I’m learning now.

We said goodbye to that friend with full hearts and fuller bellies, then drove to Chicano Park. At first, we couldn’t find parking—so many cars. We drove around for almost two hours until I finally decided, Roz, just pay the $10. Worth it.

Because what came next? Magic.

The afternoon exploded with rows of lowriders and vibrant culture. Every car was a masterpiece. The food was next-level. And I let myself enjoy it all—no guilt, no rushing. Just being.

Around 4 PM, I met up with another friend—the one who’d invited me to this celebration in the first place. I hugged them tightly, full of gratitude.
Thank you. Thank you for including me in this.

That night, another friend asked me to join them for dinner. We headed to a cozy little restaurant with that kind of glow where you just know the conversation will be meaningful. We ended up talking about land—ownership, dreams, the future. Their ideas were brilliant. I told them so. I reminded them not to give up. Sometimes, someone just needs to hear: “You’ve got this.” And I was happy to be that voice.

On Sunday morning, we woke up, packed up, and got ready for our trip to LA. Our friends gave us a ride, and the road became its own little world—music, snacks, and soft conversations. They said traveling might help me gain new perspectives, maybe even release old knots. And I believed them. I felt it working.

Somewhere along that ride, I started thinking:
Maybe kids like me—those of us who grew up juggling cultures and expectations—carry both confusion and curiosity. We’re constantly trying to find where we belong, while holding space for everyone else, too.

I don’t think most of us are ever taught how to process that. Maybe we just carry it until we meet people who help us name it. Maybe that’s what this trip was—a chance to breathe, to feel, to sort out what’s mine and what I’ve been holding for others.

That’s what Sunday felt like. A slow, healing kind of ride.

---

Later that day, I went to the beach.

I stood in the wind and breathed in the salty air, slow and deep. The ocean felt like an old friend—steady, honest. And then… I cried. Quietly. The way the tide kisses the shore.

I thought about everything I poured into my marriage. All the effort. All the small things I did, hoping Jenna would see them. Feel them. Know it was love.

I believe we both tried. In our own ways. With what we had.

And maybe that’s enough to grieve. And enough to let go.

Standing there with sand beneath my feet and tears on my face, I didn’t feel broken. I felt human. Soft. And for the first time in a long time, I felt okay saying:
It’s okay to let go.

Because letting go doesn’t erase the love. It just makes room for something new to grow.

---

Later that Sunday afternoon, something small—but big—happened.
I saw a hummingbird.

It hovered there like a whisper. And I cried again.

Hummingbirds remind me of us. Of Jenna and me. We used to watch them together—tiny miracles with wings. That little bird carried a whole memory in its flight.

I realized how much I missed her. Not just her presence. But the usness. The shared wonder. The simple joy.

That’s part of the missing journey, I guess—the way longing shows up in quiet places. In wings and winds.

I hope Jenna knows I still care. I still love her. Even now, as things shift and change. Even as I learn to hold on in softer ways, and let go with love.

The hummingbird flew off.

But the feeling stayed.

---

As the weekend came to a close, I felt a quiet shift inside me—like something had been softened, untangled, maybe even healed a little.

This trip wasn’t just a getaway. It was a return to myself. To my intuition. To my ability to love deeply, even through grief and growth.

I reconnected with friends, with new understanding, and with parts of me I hadn’t made space for in a long while.

There’s still so much I’m learning—about letting go, about cultural identity, about how to communicate love and loss. But I know now that it’s okay to carry all of it. The joy. The ache. The gratitude. The missing.

It’s okay to feel it all.

And I’m proud of myself for saying yes to this journey—for showing up even when it felt tender, and for letting my heart lead the way.

Whatever comes next, I trust I’ll meet it with openness—just like I did this weekend.