I didn’t make any grand resolutions this year. Just this: to keep choosing myself. To move through the world with clarity, softness, and steel.
In the last hours of 2025, I found myself rushing home from drinks at the Janu. I had met up with a new friend visiting Tokyo, and somewhere between cocktails and that warm hotel lighting that flatters everyone, we ended up talking about midnight rituals.
“You know you’re supposed to kiss someone when the clock strikes 12,” they said.
“Is that still a thing?” I laughed. “I thought everyone was eating twelve grapes under the table now.”
They asked if I had anyone in mind. I didn’t hesitate. “I just want to be with my dog by midnight.”
This was my first New Year’s Eve as a single woman in over a decade. I thought it would feel emptier. I think a lot of people expected it to be. Instead, it felt like I’d finally stopped holding my breath.
And I was. I made it back just in time—let him out for a quick walk, poured myself a glass of Japanese wine, and indulged in a charcuterie board for one I’d prepared earlier. I curled up on the couch with Juancho, my seven-year-old corgi, and we watched rom-coms from the 2010s.
Earlier that evening, I had already texted my New Year greetings to close friends and family, telling them I’d call in the morning. That night, I wanted quiet. Uneventful. Perfect. I wanted peace.
I thought back to how I began 2025. I was in Takayama, a mountain city in Japan’s Gifu prefecture, soaking in a private onsen. My marriage was on the rocks, though I was still being made to believe I was the problem. I had been told it would be better if I traveled on my own during the holidays—he’d stay behind to care for our dog and “enjoy some alone time.”
I was alone. Him? I’m not so sure.
But that trip reminded me of something I had long forgotten: if the proverbial shit hits the fan (and it would, just four months later), I am someone who genuinely enjoys her own company. I’ll be just fine.
The next morning, I lived like a local. I visited shrines. I drank sake with monks. I watched the snow fall on a city that didn’t know my name—and I felt free. I chatted up coffee shop owners and their elderly regulars, my broken Japanese somehow carrying conversations further than I expected.
This year, I opened my eyes to Juancho’s face hovering inches from mine, sunlight spilling into my Tokyo apartment. I scratched behind his ears and whispered, “Wasn’t that the best?”
This was my first New Year’s Eve as a single woman in over a decade. I thought it would feel emptier. I think a lot of people expected it to be. Instead, it felt like I’d finally stopped holding my breath.
On New Year’s Day, I went with a friend to Shinagawa Shrine to get my first omikuji—a fortune slip meant to set the tone for the year. As always, it spoke of patience, promised happiness, and hinted at unexpected luck. But still, I have to be patient. And patience has never been one of my selling points.
The days that followed were spent preparing to bring Juancho back to Manila. Since December 2023, I’ve been splitting time between Tokyo and Manila, and this year’s calendar is already tilting heavier on the Manila side—so I decided to stop propping up the dog hotel industry and take him with me. Besides, we both needed a break from Tokyo’s dry winter air.
That same air had already done me in—I could barely speak in the first week of the year, a harsh welcome from 2026. “I’ll be back in spring. Don’t miss me too much,” I told my friends who dropped by my apartment for Juancho’s going-away party. We couldn’t go out, so they brought the party to us—a quiet, joyful reminder that in my life, I’m never short of people who show up. For me, and for my dog.
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Our flight was smooth, but we landed late—getting out of NAIA past midnight to find Steph, another ride-or-die, waiting with her massive pickup truck, ready to haul Juancho’s crate to our Manila abode. I slept like a rock that night. The kind of sleep that only comes when you feel safe again.
I woke up to a slow morning, Juancho at my feet, then went straight into meetings. Some in person. Some with Tokyo, online. No fanfare. Just forward motion.
People keep asking how I am—and the truth is, despite everything I’ve been through (and am still going through), I feel like I’m doing well. Really well. Not because it’s been easy, but because I’m surrounded by people who keep picking me up, dusting me off, and reminding me of how much they believe in me—even on the days I forget how to believe in myself.
Lately, some friends have taken it upon themselves to play matchmaker. I love them for it—but I’ve been skirting around the idea, gently reminding them that while I’m open to new friends and work connections, a boyfriend is not something I’m ready—or willing—to put myself through again anytime soon. Especially not while there are still legal matters to settle.
Right now, I’m just enjoying the company of people who’ve never let me down: friends, family, and a career that keeps evolving with me. They’ve always shown up. Unlike the man who promised me the world only to pull everything from under me.
Just yesterday, I bumped into a Filipino ambassador preparing for a new posting. We’ve known each other for years through my work in journalism—and, well, you know the rest. With a kind but steady tone, the ambassador reminded me that healing doesn’t mean letting things slide. That moving forward and standing up for yourself can—and should—coexist. It was the kind of reminder that lands softly yet stays with you. The kind that makes you stand a little straighter.
I didn’t make any grand resolutions this year. Just this: to keep choosing myself. To move through the world with clarity, softness, and steel. To remember that peace isn’t something I have to earn by enduring pain first. To stay open to what life brings while keeping my wits about me. And to never again confuse being chosen with being cherished.
With one foot in Tokyo and the other in Manila, I’m looking forward to what this chapter holds—to being more present in the lives of my people, to playing catch-up on their stories, dating and otherwise. And all of that, to me, is worth celebrating—no fireworks necessary.
