Below is my story shaped into a memoir chapter. I tried to preserve my  experiences, voice, and emotion, but structured it like a narrative chapter you might see in a book—smoother flow, clearer storytelling, and stronger imagery while keeping it authentic.

Chapter 1

A Life Meant to Be

I was born on December 13, 1968, around 2:30 in the morning, in my mother’s house in a rural area of Nueva Vizcaya in the Philippines. I was the ninth child—the youngest of six brothers and two sisters. My mother was a simple housewife, and my father worked as a road builder for the government. His job required him to move from one place to another, building and repairing roads in different towns and provinces. Wherever he went, my mother, my brother Will, and I often went with him.

Most of my early childhood was spent with my parents and my brother Will, who was three years older than me. Because of that, we became very close. He was not only my brother but also my protector and friend.

I was what people often call a “daddy’s girl.” I am not ashamed to say that. My father was the best father I could have asked for, and I adored him deeply. He worked hard to provide for our family and showed us love in quiet, steady ways. Of course he was not perfect, but to us he was the perfect father.

Even before I could remember anything about life, my mother told me that my survival was never certain. From the day I was born until I was about three years old, I spent much of my time going in and out of hospitals. Doctors said I had very weak lungs and warned my parents that I might not live long. In those days my mother sought help everywhere—from doctors to traditional healers—but more than anything she placed her faith in God.

She believed that my life was in His hands.

And somehow, I survived.

Looking back now, I often think that God must have had a purpose for my life from the very beginning.

One of my earliest brushes with death happened when I was only four years old.

My mother had gone to the market and left my brother to watch over me. Near our house there was a creek, and depending on the season the water could be calm or dangerously strong. Like most curious children, I wandered down toward the water to see if I could find fish or snails.

As I stepped closer to the edge, my foot slipped on the muddy bank and I fell into the water.

The current was stronger than I expected. I panicked and began screaming for help, crying as loudly as I could while the water pulled me along. I tried to grab something—anything—but there was nothing to hold onto. Ahead of me was a tunnel that carried the water under the road to the next street, and I was being dragged toward it.

My brother, who was supposed to be watching me, was fast asleep and heard nothing.

Just then my sister arrived home. She woke my brother and asked where I was. When he realized I was missing, he began searching frantically. My sister ran straight toward the creek. When she saw me struggling in the water, she did not hesitate. She jumped in, fought against the current, grabbed me, and pulled me to the side.

She brought me home, cleaned me up, and acted as if nothing had happened.

For a few days my mother knew nothing about it.

But when she finally heard the story, she realized how close she had come to losing her youngest child.

Moments like that made me believe even more that God had been watching over me since the day I was born.

Being the youngest of nine children was not always easy. In many ways it meant that everything came to me last.

If I wanted a new dress or a pair of shoes, my mother would often say, “We cannot afford that,” or “You don’t need a new one.” Most of my clothes were hand-me-downs from my sisters, and sometimes even from my brothers.

There was never any bargaining. My choices were simple: take it or leave it.

Birthdays were not something we celebrated in our house. Life was too hard and money too scarce for those kinds of luxuries. I did not have my first birthday party until I was twenty years old, when I finally had my own money and could pay for it myself.

Of course it was different celebrating at twenty than it would have been at five or ten, but I still remember the joy of being able to do something for myself without asking permission or worrying about the cost.

Because my father’s work moved us from place to place, my early schooling was sometimes challenging. During my first year in primary school we lived in an area where the local people were ignorant, native people of the mountains. They spoke a language that neither my parents nor I understood.

At first it was intimidating. But children have a wonderful way of overcoming differences. Even though we could barely communicate with words, we became friends through play.

After all, when you are a child, playing is the universal language.

My brother Will was always nearby, keeping an eye on me the way older brothers do. Having him there made every new place feel a little less frightening.

But like most children, I had my share of mischief.

One day when I was about nine years old, my mother went out on an errand and told my brother to watch me. Not long after she left, curiosity led me into our neighbor’s yard where there was a chicken coop.

I had the bright idea of looking for eggs.

In the process, I accidentally opened the coop and let all the chickens loose.

Suddenly chickens were running everywhere, squawking and flapping their wings in complete chaos. The owner came rushing out of his house holding a stick, shouting as he saw his chickens scattering in every direction.

Terrified, I ran as fast as I could.

I found my brother on the path, breathless and crying as I tried to explain what had happened. He held my hand and led me home.

When our mother returned, he did not say anything about the incident. But later that evening the neighbor came knocking on our door. My brother and I sat quietly in the living room listening to their conversation.

When the door slammed shut afterward, I knew we were in trouble.

My brother bravely stood up and told our mother that it was his fault. Of course she did not believe him. She knew very well which one of us was usually responsible for these kinds of adventures.

Despite our poverty, my childhood was full of simple joys.

We had no toys—no Barbie dolls, no Lego sets, no coloring books. Instead, our playground was the world outside our house. My cousins and I spent most of our free time outdoors playing traditional Filipino games like hide-and-seek and patintero.

Sometimes we wandered into the rice fields to catch frogs or butterflies. When we grew hungry, we climbed fruit trees and ate until we were so full we could barely climb back down.

If the irrigation water was shallow enough, we caught fish to bring home for dinner. When we did that, our parents did not scold us for being dirty or mischievous. Instead, they were grateful for the extra food.

Life was simple then.

There was no internet, no cell phones, and even electricity was uncertain. Our television was black and white and had no remote control. Many families did not have electricity at all. In our house we used an extension wire from my aunt’s home next door. At night when they went to sleep, they unplugged it, and our electricity disappeared until morning.

Some mornings there was little or nothing to eat before school. My older brothers often pretended they were not hungry so the younger children could eat first. My parents always made sure we had something, even if it meant they went without.

Sometimes all we had was a glass of water.

I remember seeing tears in my mother’s eyes on those mornings, though she tried hard not to let us see how much it hurt her.

My mother was a strong woman. She never gave up, no matter how difficult life became. To help my father, she washed and ironed clothes for other people on weekends. My sister and I helped her with small tasks—filling buckets with water or hanging clothes on the line.

Looking back, I realize how much strength it took to raise nine children under those conditions.

School eventually became one of the places where I felt happiest.

My first teacher was very strict, and I was terrified of her. She would hit the blackboard with a stick and glare at us until the entire class fell silent. But later, in grades five and six, I had teachers who changed my life.

They treated us like their own children—with patience, encouragement, and kindness.

Watching them made me realize something important.

I wanted to become like them.

They showed me that teaching was not only about lessons and books. It was about love, respect, and helping children believe in themselves.

Those teachers planted a dream in my heart.

And like many other moments in my life, it felt like another small step toward the purpose God had placed in my life long ago.

More to come? We shall see…