Kim's Journey

12/05/2026

Still Becoming: The Story of Soléa

There was a season in my life when everything felt uncertain.
Even the simplest things—cleaning my home, journaling my thoughts, cooking, creating—slowly lost their rhythm. At first, I thought it was laziness. I blamed myself for the lack of motivation, for the pauses, for the days I couldn’t seem to move the way I used to.
But deep inside, something else was happening.
Life felt unstable in ways I couldn’t fully name. There were changes, possibilities, and questions about the future that had no clear answers yet. And without realizing it, my mind began to slow down. I stopped investing energy into things that felt temporary. I began to overthink even the things I once enjoyed. I started asking “what if” more than I started creating.
I thought I was losing myself.
But I was actually learning myself.
I began to notice a pattern—how my motivation wasn’t gone, but how deeply it was tied to my sense of stability. When things felt uncertain, I paused. When things felt clear, I came alive again. Slowly, I realized that I wasn’t lazy. I was sensitive to uncertainty. I was someone who needed safety in order to build, to create, to move.
And in that realization, I also saw something beautiful.
I am a creator at heart.
I find joy in design, in arranging spaces, in making things feel soft, meaningful, and alive. I feel fulfilled when I create something that carries my heart—like the church magazine journal I once worked on, where every page felt like a reflection of purpose and peace. I saw that I wasn’t just someone who “tries things.” I am someone who builds, who designs, who expresses.
But I also saw my struggle: I wanted everything to feel certain before I began. I wanted my ideas to be safe from failure, my efforts free from waste, my steps guaranteed to succeed. I wanted control before movement.
And life was gently teaching me that I cannot grow that way.
So I reached a point where I had to pause—not in confusion this time, but in surrender.
I stopped forcing clarity.
I stopped demanding certainty from every decision.
And in that quiet space, I said the words my heart needed to learn:
I let go, and I let God.
Not as an escape—but as a release.
A release of pressure. A release of overthinking. A release of the need to control every outcome before I even begin.
I am learning that I do not need to have everything figured out to move forward. I do not need perfect certainty to start creating again. I do not need to fear every possibility of failure before I even try.
I only need to take the next small step in faith.
Now, I see my life differently.
My pauses were not failures.
My overthinking was not the end of my creativity.
My sensitivity was not weakness.
It was simply part of becoming.
And so I continue—slowly, gently, imperfectly—but with more peace than before.
I am still becoming.
And I am learning to trust the process I cannot fully control.
I let go, and I let God. 🤍

20/07/2025

A quiet day with me I WFH life, wife duties, soft living.
Today felt simple. But in the quiet details - the steam from the kettle, the small routines, the way I prepared Justin's food with
care —there was a kind of beauty I don't always notice.
Sometimes, life doesn't need background music or dramatic edits. Sometimes, it just needs to be lived — slowly, fuly,
honestly.
This was a day in my life. Not for the trends. Not for the likes.
But for me. For us.

20/07/2025

Still Becoming: The Story of Soléa

Chapter 3: The Room That Became Me

Before it ever became a place of rest, it was a place of longing.

The room didn’t start beautiful. The paint was blue—cold and distant, and not quite me. The walls were bare, the energy felt hollow, and the space reminded me more of limitations than dreams. But there was something in me—a vision. A quiet, persistent whisper saying, “Kaya mo ‘to. Unti-unti.”

I didn’t have much. My budget was tight. Life was tight. But my imagination? It was alive.

One day, I found myself staring at a piece of cardboard, just brown and plain. I cut out the letters of my name—KIM—and thought: what if I could turn this into art? And so I did. I pulled from ethnic patterns, lines I’d seen from woven dreams and cultural soul. I drew them by hand, pen by pen, line by line. It wasn’t perfect, but it was mine.

It hung on my wall with string lights, not just as décor—but as a declaration:
"This is my space, and this is who I’m becoming."

Little by little, month by month, the room began to change with me.

Blue turned into apricot white—a warm softness, like a gentle morning hug. Shelves appeared, one at a time. A chandelier found its way into the ceiling, spilling light like answered prayers. The floor embraced a carpet. A chair welcomed my tired days.

And it was never about the things…
It was about the becoming.

Because every new piece I added wasn’t just an upgrade—it was a reflection.
A reminder that even if I didn’t have everything at once, I was always capable of building beauty, one choice at a time.

Now, I find myself in another space. Different walls, different city, but the same spark in my chest.

And I remember…
I’ve done this before.
And I can do it again.
Because I am still becoming.
And even in small spaces, God makes room for big transformations.

“Do not despise these small beginnings, for the Lord rejoices to see the work begin.”
— Zechariah 4:10

25/04/2025