Autumn is here now, and as always, it brings me back to center. Of all the seasons, this one speaks to my soul the loudest.

Wow—it’s been ages since I last posted here. And oh, how I’ve missed this space. Missed the ritual of sitting still, the sacred pause it demands. Missed the quiet invitation to reflect, to let my thoughts breathe, to write my way back to myself. Life lately has moved fast. In all directions. There were travels that expanded me in ways no map could chart, career moments that humbled me more than they praised me, and silent seasons of letting go—moments not posted or shared, but felt deeply—where I had to loosen my grip on what I thought life would be, and make peace with what it had become. And yet, here I am again, coming home to this little corner of the internet like one returns to an old friend—with stories to tell, lessons to unpack, and gratitude tucked into every line.

🍂 The Season of Gold and Grace

Autumn is here now, and as always, it brings me back to center. Of all the seasons, this one speaks to my soul the loudest. There’s something sacred in the way the trees surrender—effortlessly, without panic or protest—letting go of their leaves, knowing that beauty doesn’t end in loss. It lives there too. The world turns gold and amber, not in the prime of blossoming, but in the quiet surrender of change. And it reminds me that there is power in knowing when to release. That sometimes, the bravest thing we can do is stop clinging to what once served us, and trust the soil we’re growing in now. I’ve found myself pausing more lately—watching leaves fall, letting the crisp air wrap around me like a promise. Even fallen things can still be beautiful. Even what we lose can lead us to what we need next. That, perhaps, is the essence of grace: not the absence of struggle, but the soft presence of peace in the midst of it.

This past year hasn’t been easy. There were headlines that felt personal—my hometown was struck by a typhoon, a storm that arrived not just in the skies but in the hearts of every family trying to hold their roof and hope together. My mama was diagnosed with diabetes, and though she’s strong, I carry the weight of worry that often comes with love. My brother returned to face-to-face university life, navigating deadlines, expectations, and his own quiet battles. And here in the UK, the cost of living climbed so quickly it caught many of us off guard. Suddenly, groceries felt heavier—not in weight, but in cost. Bills became conversations. And little decisions added up like they never used to. Anxieties crept in—not loud, but persistent. And yet, through it all… I endured. I learned. I grew.

we are not born lucky—we build our luck.

Maybe it’s the pain I’ve already walked through in previous years that prepared me to stand a little steadier now. Or maybe it’s grace. I believe it’s both. One of the deepest lessons this year has taught me is this: we are not born lucky—we build our luck. With every hard decision, every quiet act of faith, every refusal to quit when quitting seemed easiest. Resilience isn’t gifted. It’s cultivated—in the way we rise from things that tried to break us, in the way we continue loving even after loss, in the way we believe again even after disappointment. And opportunity? It doesn’t always knock loudly. Sometimes, it whispers. And if we’re too busy proving, chasing, performing—we miss it. But if we slow down, if we listen, if we trust the quiet pull in our chest—we’ll know when it’s time to leap. And when we do, we’ll realize that every small step we took in faith was never wasted. It was preparation.

And so I find myself, here and now, in a season not just of change, but of reflection and quiet gratitude. I’m celebrating not just what the world might applaud, but also what it will never see. I completed the second renovation project for our home in the Philippines—this time, hopefully more typhoon-proof. I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again: nothing compares to the feeling of giving your family the kind of safety and comfort they once only hoped for. My brother walked across the stage during his pinning investiture, and I don’t think I’ve ever felt prouder. In his smile, I saw every remittance, every overtime, every homesick night made worth it. And in my own life, I quietly said yes to a Band 6 post—something I had dreamed of, doubted, feared, and prayed over. I said yes, not because I felt ready, but because I knew I didn’t want fear to make my decisions for me anymore.

one truth remains: God has been so good to me.

Through it all, one truth remains: God has been so good to me. Even in the seasons where I fell short, where my faith wavered, where I forgot how to pray—He stayed. He sustained. He led me in ways I didn’t always understand, and only now, looking back, do I see the fingerprints of His grace woven into every delay, every detour, every quiet miracle I didn’t know how to name at the time. And for that, I am endlessly grateful.

So here’s to more golden leaves. To deeper growth. To honoring not just the victories, but the valleys that shaped them. To remembering that strength is not in how loudly we rise, but in how gently we keep going. And to walking boldly into whatever season God sets before me—carrying hope, holding space for joy, and choosing gratitude even when it would be easier not to.

With love and everything in me,
Anj 🍁