Marked with Grace: A Reflection on International Birthmarks Awareness Day

 

Today marks International Birthmark Awareness Day, and for the first time in a long while, I feel inspired to write—truly write—about something that has always been a part of me: my birthmark.

For as long as I can remember, this mark on my face has been more than just a patch of pigmentation. It has been a quiet witness to every chapter of my life. Though it’s always been there, only recently have I felt compelled to truly reflect on what it has meant to me. This past week, in particular, brought about a series of moments that nudged my heart to share my journey.

My birthmark has undeniably shaped the woman I am today. Has it influenced me? Absolutely. But contrary to what some might assume, it hasn’t done so in a negative way. On the contrary, it's gifted me with lessons that I cherish deeply—lessons about self-worth, empathy, and the kind of beauty that transcends appearances.

Over the years, I’ve developed an instinctive connection with people who are perceived as “different.” I’m not easily shocked by appearances, behaviors, or stories that veer from the norm. In fact, I often feel drawn to those who carry their own unique battles. And while I can’t always walk in their shoes, I understand what it feels like to be seen through a lens of curiosity or misunderstanding. That understanding has formed the foundation of my compassion.

If I could offer anything to the people I meet, I hope it’s a sense of acceptance and love—the kind that reminds you that your worth has never been tied to what’s on the surface.

Among family and friends, there’s been a long-standing, lighthearted theory that my birthmark might be the wellspring of my creativity. And I must admit, there’s a lovely poetry to that idea. I’ve always had a desire to do things differently, to create, to imagine, to build something meaningful out of ordinary moments. Perhaps there’s something mystical about a mark that nourishes not just skin, but also soul and imagination.

What surprises people is that I never really struggled with feelings of ugliness. I was never made to feel repulsive, never bullied. I’ve been blessed with good friends—genuine people—through every phase of life. That’s not to say I haven’t encountered ignorance or stares, but I’ve never let them fester into pain. And I believe that strength came from the way I was raised.

My parents never made a fuss about my birthmark. There were no hushed conversations about how to "handle" it, no attempts to shield me from the world. I was simply me. They let me grow and shine in my own time, allowed me to develop confidence naturally, and stood by my side without overprotecting. Looking back, I know their calm acceptance was a gift. Because of them, I walked into the world believing there was nothing wrong with me—and that made all the difference.

Would I still be kind and empathetic without my birthmark? I’d like to think so. But this mark has amplified those traits. It’s taught me the kind of humility that isn’t loud or performative, but grounded. It’s shown me how important it is to embrace others for who they are. It’s reinforced the truth that self-love isn’t vanity—it’s survival. It’s made me more “me.”

Now, at 45 (soon to be 46), I feel like I can truly say I know myself. I’ve lived, loved, lost, struggled, succeeded. Maybe I don’t have all the answers, but I’ve danced with life enough to understand its rhythm. And here’s what this journey—with my birthmark as a quiet companion—has taught me:

1. Beauty is everywhere. I’ve learned to find beauty in people, in moments, in imperfections. Not everyone may earn that title, of course—some people test our grace—but I’ve grown to appreciate that beauty often comes wrapped in the unexpected.

2. Compassion isn’t weakness. It's strength. I understand what it means to feel out of place, to be seen as different. That awareness has made me more attuned to the silent struggles of others. I don’t pity; I empathize.

3. Confidence changes everything. Once I truly accepted myself, everything else shifted. It gave me the courage to dream, to lead, to connect, to heal. It allowed me to stand tall—not because I’m flawless, but because I’m whole.

4. Humility keeps you grounded. I don’t walk around thinking I’m better than anyone. I know what it feels like to be misunderstood, and I carry that understanding into every conversation and connection.

5. Authentic relationships matter. I never concealed my birthmark growing up. As a result, the people in my life—friends, partners, colleagues—have always loved the real me. And that’s priceless. Even now, when I occasionally wear makeup for work or events, it’s never to hide. I wear it like I wear clothes—an accessory, not a disguise.

This mark has helped me filter the world. It has been my personal truth detector, my measure for sincerity. If you can see me for who I am—beyond skin—you’re welcome in my world. If not, keep walking.

Earlier this week, something beautiful happened. I was washing my face before bed when I noticed that, as I’ve lost some weight, my birthmark appeared darker and more vivid. Instead of feeling bothered, I paused, smiled, and went to bed with a full heart.

For those unfamiliar, birthmarks are skin markings that appear at birth or shortly after. They come in many colors and forms—flat, raised, faint, prominent. There are two main types: vascular birthmarks (linked to blood vessels) and pigmented birthmarks (caused by extra pigment in the skin). Mine is a pigmented type known as a Mongolian spot, which usually appears as a bluish patch. They’re more common in darker-skinned individuals, and typically found on the lower back or buttocks—not often on the face, and especially not on someone fair-skinned like me. But I suppose my birthmark likes being different too.

One thing to know is that Mongolian spots are sometimes mistaken for bruises, which can lead to misconceptions. I’ve had my fair share of curious glances and awkward questions: “What happened to your face?” “Is it permanent?” And while I’ve never been bullied, I know many others with visible differences have faced worse.

Some people with birthmarks choose to cover them up. Others wear them like medals. And both choices are valid. There’s no one-size-fits-all approach to loving your appearance. What matters is that, underneath it all, you love yourself.

It’s okay if you’re not there yet. It’s okay if you struggle. It’s okay if your relationship with your birthmark—or any visible difference—is complicated. What’s not okay is letting the world convince you that you’re less because of it.

To anyone reading this who has a birthmark, or any visible difference: know that you’re not alone. You are seen, you are worthy, and you are beautiful in your own right. Your happiness is your choice. Don’t let fear write your story. Don’t let society’s obsession with sameness dull your shine.

And if you’re a parent to a child with a birthmark—don’t panic. Love them, support them, and remind them often that they are enough, just as they are. Your calm, confident love will shape their world more than you know.

I’ve always said that everyone has flaws—mine just happens to be visible. But honestly? I wouldn’t call it a flaw. I’d call it a gift. A gentle reminder that I was made with intention, with uniqueness, and with grace.

You don’t have to love your birthmark immediately. That love can take time. But never forget: your mark doesn’t define you—your heart, your spirit, and how you treat others, that’s what matters most.

So on this International Birthmarks Awareness Day, I stand proudly. Marked by pigment, yes—but more so, marked by compassion, wisdom, and an unshakeable sense of self.

Love yourself first. The rest will follow.

Called to Serve: Preparing for My Mission Trip to Vietnam

 Sunday’s Mission Formation Session #2 filled my heart in ways I never expected. As I sat in that room, surrounded by familiar and new faces, I realized just how powerfully God was already moving among us. Our Vietnam team, though the smallest group with just fifteen members, felt larger than life. There was a palpable energy in the air — an overflow of love, laughter, ideas, and giving hearts that left me deeply grateful. Choosing Vietnam as my mission destination was not only the right decision; it was a divine appointment. Even before setting foot on a plane, beautiful friendships are already beginning to blossom, and the blessing of being part of something much greater than myself is unmistakable.

Reflecting on that Sunday, I am struck by how God uses ordinary moments to weave extraordinary beginnings. None of us knew exactly what to expect when we first signed up for this mission trip. Some of us are seasoned travelers, others are embarking on their first overseas mission, but we all share a singular purpose: to serve with open hearts and willing spirits. Despite our different backgrounds, ages, and experiences, we have been knit together in the common hope of making a difference. Formation Session #2 was a vivid reminder that it is not the size of the group that matters, but the depth of its love and commitment.

From the very start, laughter has been the soundtrack of our preparations. It breaks the ice, eases the nerves, and creates a sense of family. The room is always filled with chatter and excitement, and yet underneath all the energy lies a deep reverence for the task ahead. We are eager, yes, but we are also prayerful, recognizing that what we are about to do is sacred work. Serving others in a foreign country requires humility, flexibility, and a heart ready to be broken and remade. I am under no illusion that this trip will be easy. Language barriers, cultural differences, unfamiliar surroundings — all of these will stretch us. But it is precisely in the stretching that growth happens. It is in the unknown that faith is tested and strengthened.

I have often heard it said that mission work is as much about being changed as it is about changing others. As I prepare for Vietnam, I find that sentiment ringing truer than ever. God is already changing me. Through every planning meeting, every prayer shared, every story told by past missionaries, I feel my heart expanding. I am learning to let go of control, to embrace the beauty of stepping into someone else's world, and to see Christ in every face I encounter. I am learning that mission is not about bringing my ideas of how things should be, but about listening, learning, and loving with no agenda other than to be present.

The friendships forming within our team are a testament to the spirit of this mission. Already, we are more than just fellow travelers; we are companions on a spiritual journey. Trust and camaraderie are building rapidly, rooted in shared purpose and mutual encouragement. In these new friends, I see reflections of God’s kindness and creativity. Each person brings unique gifts — some have a knack for organization, others for storytelling or music, some for comforting and encouraging — and together, we form a beautiful mosaic. It amazes me how quickly bonds can form when hearts are aligned in service. I have no doubt that the experiences we are about to share will forge lifelong friendships, tested and strengthened by the challenges and joys of mission work.

Choosing Vietnam was not a random decision. It was something I prayed about deeply. I wanted to go where I felt called, even if that meant stepping far outside my comfort zone. Vietnam, with its rich culture, complex history, and vibrant people, beckoned to me in a way that was hard to explain. I knew very little about the country beyond what history books taught, but I felt a tug on my heart — a divine invitation to learn, to love, and to serve. Now, as the trip draws closer, that tug has become a steady pull, reassuring me that I am exactly where I am meant to be.

Our team has spent countless hours preparing — spiritually, mentally, and practically. We have prayed over our mission, studied Vietnamese culture, learned basic phrases, and brainstormed ways to connect with the communities we will serve. We have packed and repacked supply lists, coordinated logistics, and fundraised tirelessly. Yet, amidst all the planning, we are keenly aware that the most important preparation is internal. We are preparing our hearts to be vessels of Christ’s love, ready to pour ourselves out fully without expectation of return.

One of the themes that has emerged throughout our formation sessions is the idea of being present. True mission work is not about rushing in to "fix" things or imposing our own ways. It is about meeting people where they are, walking alongside them, and sharing life together, even if just for a short time. It is about seeing the image of God in every person we encounter and allowing ourselves to be taught and blessed by them. I am humbled by this perspective, knowing that while I may go to serve, I will also be served — by the hospitality, wisdom, and resilience of those we meet.

I find myself thinking often about the faces we will see in Vietnam: the children we will play with, the families we will support, the elders whose stories we may hear. I wonder about their hopes, their struggles, their dreams. I wonder what lessons they will teach me about faith, perseverance, and community. I wonder how God will show up in unexpected moments, in the quiet conversations, the shared meals, the laughter, and even in the tears. I am both nervous and excited, knowing that mission trips rarely go according to plan, but always go according to God’s plan.

Already, I am grateful for the many ways this trip is shaping my faith. Preparing for Vietnam has deepened my reliance on prayer, strengthened my commitment to service, and widened my perspective on the global Church. It has reminded me that faith is not meant to be a comfortable, private affair, but a dynamic, outward expression of God’s love for the world. It has reminded me that the Body of Christ is beautifully diverse, spanning languages, cultures, and continents, and that every act of love, no matter how small, echoes into eternity.

As the departure date approaches, my prayers grow more fervent. I pray for the people of Vietnam, that they may feel the love of Christ through our presence. I pray for my team, that we may serve with humility, joy, and perseverance. I pray for safety, health, and open doors. Most of all, I pray that we remain attentive to the Holy Spirit, willing to be led wherever and however God chooses.

In many ways, this mission trip feels like a beginning rather than a culmination. I sense that Vietnam is just the first chapter in a larger story that God is writing in my life — a story of surrender, of stepping out in faith, of embracing the unknown with trust. I am excited to see how this journey will unfold, not only during the days we spend abroad but in the months and years that follow. I hope to return not only with memories and photos but with a renewed heart, a deeper faith, and a greater commitment to living a life of mission wherever I am planted.

Sunday’s Mission Formation Session #2 was a beautiful glimpse of what is to come. It reminded me that the greatest adventures often start with simple yeses — yes to God’s call, yes to stepping outside of comfort zones, yes to being part of something bigger than ourselves. I am filled with anticipation, gratitude, and hope as I look forward to Vietnam. I know there will be challenges. I know there will be moments of exhaustion and maybe even doubt. But I also know that God is faithful. I know that He has called each of us by name and that He will equip us for every good work.

As I continue to prepare, I hold tightly to the promise that when we offer our small loaves and fishes, God multiplies them beyond what we can imagine. I am bringing what I have — my time, my heart, my willingness — and trusting that it is enough. I cannot wait to see what God has in store, not only for the people we will serve but for each one of us who has said yes to this incredible journey.

25 Years of Love: Our Silver Anniversary Story

 

Looking back on the past 25 years, it’s hard not to be overwhelmed with emotion. What a long way we have come. From the uncertain early days of young love to the solid, enduring bond we now share, our story has been nothing short of a fairy tale—complete with magical beginnings, trials and triumphs, and most importantly, a love that has stood the test of time.

Ours isn’t the kind of story you often hear, but it’s the one that shaped our lives forever. We met online, in a time when that wasn’t quite the norm. There were no dating apps or swipe-rights—just simple messages exchanged between two curious hearts, oceans apart. I was only 18 then, just a girl really, but something about Ed’s presence—even from behind a screen—felt safe, genuine, and exciting.

When you’re young and in love, logic tends to take a backseat, and I’m so grateful it did. Because I made a decision that would change my life—I traveled thousands of miles to meet him. My heart still remembers the nervous excitement of that first flight, the anticipation, the uncertainty, and the hope. And when I saw him waiting for me, everything just clicked. It was as if the universe had been guiding me to this moment all along.

It didn’t take long for Ed to know what he wanted. On that very visit to the USA, he proposed. It wasn’t extravagant, but it was real, honest, and beautiful. I said yes without hesitation. From that moment on, we chose each other. We chose to build a life together, even though we had no idea how tough the road ahead would be.

We started with so little. We were young, in love, and broke. We lived paycheck to paycheck, stretching every dollar and doing what we could to survive. I remember our pasta and chicken days so clearly—not because of how hard they were, but because they showed me what love and partnership really mean. We made those cheap meals into feasts, not because of the food, but because we had each other. We shared dreams and hopes over simple dinners, and somehow, it was always enough.

There were moments when things felt overwhelming—bills piling up, responsibilities growing, and no guarantee of how we’d get through the week. But we always managed to find a way. We didn’t have riches in the beginning, but we were rich in love, resilience, and a commitment that never wavered. And slowly, with grit and grace, things began to change. We worked hard, supported one another, and little by little, we built a life. We climbed from rags to a version of riches—not just in material terms, but in the richness of experience, growth, and joy.

In time, our love story expanded with the arrival of our children—two of the greatest gifts we’ve ever received. Watching them grow has been the most beautiful journey within our journey. From their first steps to their first words, school days to teenage years, and now, watching them evolve into incredible young adults—it has been a privilege. They are kind, thoughtful, intelligent, and so full of promise. I see pieces of both of us in them, and I also see the unique individuals they are becoming. Knowing we’ve raised them with love, stability, and intention is one of our proudest accomplishments.

Through the years, our love has evolved too. It’s grown deeper, wiser, and more comfortable—like a well-worn sweater that fits just right. We’ve faced ups and downs—some days filled with laughter, others with tears. But never once did we stop choosing each other. That, I think, is the secret. We never walked away. We never gave up. We made the decision every day to stand by each other, even when it was hard.

For our 25th anniversary, we always imagined a grand celebration—something lavish and memorable. After all, not many couples make it to 25 years with the kind of story we have. We pictured a big party, surrounded by family and friends, music, dancing, the works. But as the date drew closer, we found ourselves leaning toward something quieter, something more intimate and meaningful.

In the end, we celebrated just the two of us. And honestly, it was perfect. We went on a romantic sunset dinner in a cable car, suspended in the sky with breathtaking views below us and the golden sun melting into the horizon. There we were, toasting with champagne, reminiscing, laughing, and simply soaking in the moment. It was elegant, peaceful, and filled with the kind of magic that only comes from truly shared memories. That evening was a beautiful reminder of who we are—a team, a love story that doesn’t need an audience to shine.

Sitting in that cable car, with the world stretching out beneath us, I thought about everything we’ve been through. The late-night talks, the tears, the tight hugs during hard times, the belly laughs, the parenting wins and fails, the shared dreams and quiet mornings over coffee. I thought about how far we’ve come—not just in distance, but in growth. The girl who flew halfway across the world at 18 could never have imagined this life, but she would be proud. So proud.

There’s something extraordinary about making it to 25 years. It’s not just a number—it’s a reflection of every choice, every effort, every moment of grace. It’s about surviving the hard seasons, celebrating the good ones, and holding each other through it all. And we did that. We are still doing that.

To Ed—thank you for loving me all these years. Thank you for being patient when I was not, for being strong when I felt weak, and for never letting go of my hand, even when the road got rough. You’ve been my best friend, my greatest supporter, my partner in everything. I am who I am because I had you beside me, believing in me, building a life with me.

As we step into this new chapter beyond 25, I carry with me all the memories we’ve created, and all the love we’ve nurtured. I also carry excitement—because I know our story isn’t over. There’s still so much more to see, do, learn, and enjoy together. We’ll travel more, dream bigger, and continue growing—both individually and as a couple.

Marriage isn’t perfect. It’s not always easy. But when it’s rooted in real love, trust, friendship, and mutual respect—it’s the most powerful bond there is. And that’s what we have. A connection that was forged not just by fate, but by every choice we made to stay, to love, to grow.

Twenty-five years ago, we began a journey not knowing where it would take us. Today, I can confidently say it has taken us to the most beautiful places—both literally and figuratively. And I wouldn’t change a thing.

Here’s to our 25 years—silver on the calendar, but golden in memories. And here’s to many more. Because no matter how many years pass, you will always be my person, my home, my heart.

The Death of Pope Francis: A Personal Journey Through Grief, Gratitude, and Hope

 

The death of Pope Francis has stirred a profound grief in my soul—a sorrow I struggle to articulate in words but feel deeply in every part of my being. As I reflect on his life, his legacy, and the light he brought to our often troubled world, I find myself overwhelmed by both the sadness of his passing and the immense gratitude for the life he lived so humbly and generously. 

For many around the globe, Pope Francis was more than a religious figurehead—he was a symbol of compassion, humility, and courage. But for me, he was something even deeper: a spiritual shepherd who seemed to understand the pain and beauty of the human condition, who reached out to the lost, the poor, and the broken with open arms, and who led not with power or prestige but with an open heart.

I can still vividly remember the moment I heard the news of his passing. My heart sank. I felt a chill, a sense of disbelief and loss. Pope Francis had always felt like a comforting presence in the world—a voice of calm in chaos, a bridge in moments of division, and a gentle reminder that above all else, love wins. The idea that such a light could be extinguished from our earthly world left me in tears. I was saddened beyond measure, and it felt like losing a beloved grandfather, mentor, and spiritual guide all at once.

One of the things I will miss the most is his humility. In a world that often rewards ego and ambition, Pope Francis stood as a testament to the power of humility. From the moment he stepped onto the balcony at the Vatican and bowed to the people for their blessing before giving his own, I knew he was different. He refused the opulent papal apartments and chose to live in a modest guesthouse. He rode in a simple Ford Focus instead of the traditional papal limousine. His actions, small as they may seem to some, spoke volumes. They weren’t just gestures—they were reflections of his soul.

But beyond his humble lifestyle was a heart so full of kindness and love that it moved millions. He embraced the marginalized with tenderness, washed the feet of prisoners and refugees, opened the doors of the Church to those who had long felt excluded, and continually preached about mercy over judgment. I remember how he once said, “Who am I to judge?” in response to questions about the LGBTQ+ community. That moment alone showed me a leader willing to shatter norms in favor of love and inclusivity. That was Pope Francis—always choosing love.

His kindness wasn’t just words—it was action. He stood up for the poor, the forgotten, and the voiceless. He called out greed and environmental destruction, challenged global leaders to think beyond politics and power, and reminded us all that the true Church is one that serves. His heart beat for humanity in all its forms, and his love transcended barriers—of language, nationality, and even faith.

I feel deeply blessed that I had the opportunity to attend the Papal Mass celebrated by Pope Francis in Singapore last September. That experience, in hindsight, feels even more precious now. To be in his presence, to hear his voice echo through the crowd, and to see his gentle smile with my own eyes—it was surreal. There was a stillness in the air that day, a kind of spiritual calm that enveloped everyone present. His words were simple yet powerful, his gaze was kind, and his blessing felt like a direct touch from Heaven. I remember closing my eyes during the final blessing, tears rolling down my cheeks, as I whispered a silent prayer of thanks for being able to witness such grace.

That day is now a cherished memory—one I will hold close for the rest of my life. At the time, I did not realize it would be the last time I would ever see him in person. But now, knowing that, I treasure it even more. That Mass was not just a religious event; it was a sacred encounter with a man whose life was a living Gospel.

As I mourn, I also pray with all my heart that the next Pope will carry on the incredible legacy left behind by Pope Francis. I hope and pray that whoever steps into the role next will do so with the same humility, gentleness, and wisdom. The world needs a spiritual leader who listens, who heals, and who dares to love radically as Pope Francis did. His shoes are large to fill—not just in size, but in spirit. But I have hope that God will raise another servant-leader, one molded in the image of Christ, much like Francis was.

Pope Francis was not perfect, nor did he claim to be. But in his imperfections, he reminded us of our own humanity. He apologized when necessary, admitted faults, and welcomed criticism with grace. He knew he was just a man, but one chosen to do the work of the divine. And he did that work with quiet strength and enduring love.

I find comfort in believing that he is now with the Lord he served so faithfully. I imagine him reunited with saints and angels, continuing to pray for us as we journey on without him. My heart finds peace in the thought that Heaven has welcomed him with open arms: “Well done, good and faithful servant.” I am sure those words were spoken to him the moment he entered into eternity.

His death has left me more aware of the fragility of life, and also more convicted in my faith. Pope Francis once said, “Let us not allow ourselves to be robbed of hope.” And so, in his honor, I will choose hope over despair, light over darkness, and love over fear. I will try to live more humbly, more compassionately, more like he did.

Though the world mourns, I find that mourning deeply personal. He wasn’t just the Pope—he was *my* Pope. The one who taught me that faith can be kind, that leadership can be gentle, and that love can be revolutionary. I will miss him immensely. I will miss his warm smile, his thoughtful homilies, his compassionate gaze, and the way he always reminded us to pray for him—his humility so profound that he, the Pope, would ask the people for prayer.

Now, I find myself doing just that—praying for him. Praying that his soul is at peace, that his legacy continues to ripple through the Church and the world, and that his example lives on in each of us who were touched by his life.

In many ways, the best way we can honor him is not just with words, but with action. To be kind. To forgive. To serve. To include. To care. To speak up for the voiceless. To stand with the poor. To love without judgment. These were the values he championed, and they must now become the torch we carry forward.

Pope Francis may be gone from this earth, but his spirit lives on. In our churches. In our hearts. In every act of kindness we offer. And every time we choose humility over pride, service over self, and compassion over convenience, we keep his memory alive.

As I sit with my grief, I also sit with immense gratitude. I am grateful for the years we had him. I am grateful for his courage and clarity, his compassion and conviction. And I am especially grateful that, by divine grace, I was able to witness his holy presence at the Papal Mass in Singapore. That moment will forever be etched in the pages of my life story.

In this time of mourning, I hold fast to the words he himself gave us: “You have to dare to dream. Don’t be afraid to dream of a more just world, to ask for change.” Pope Francis dreamed such a world into being with every act of love. Now, it is up to us to keep dreaming, keep building, and keep loving—just as he did.

May his soul rest in peace, and may the love he shared continue to shine through us all.

My First Mission Trip to Vietnam – A Journey of Heart, Faith, and Transformation

 

This will be my very first mission trip to Vietnam—and it carries with it more than just excitement. It’s a long-held dream finally coming to life, one that has lived quietly in my heart for years. When my children were younger, I knew I couldn’t just leave them and go. My responsibilities at home were always my top priority. Their needs, their presence, their laughter and chaos—those were the center of my world. But now that they’re older, more independent, and walking their own journeys, I finally feel the nudge from within: it’s time.

Still, I’ll admit—this will be the longest I’ve ever been away from my family, and that’s not something I take lightly. I will miss them deeply. I’ll miss the rhythm of our home, the inside jokes, the everyday moments that seem ordinary but are really the threads that weave our lives together. Stepping away, even temporarily, stirs a quiet ache in my heart. Yet at the same time, it strengthens my resolve. Because I know I’m not just going away—I’m going towards something that matters.

For as long as I can remember, I’ve carried a desire to serve in a different country—to go beyond my comfort zone and extend help to those who have so little. Particularly children. There’s something about the innocence of children, their vulnerability and potential, that tugs at my spirit. I’ve always felt called to do something meaningful for them, to offer love and support where the world may have overlooked or forgotten them. This mission trip is the answer to that call.

But as I prepare, I’ve had to ask myself honestly: What can I really offer on this mission trip? I’m not arriving with all the answers or grand solutions—but I am bringing something just as important: a willing heart, open hands, and the desire to serve with love. And maybe that’s all I need to bring.

We often assume that mission work requires extraordinary talent or resources. But I’ve come to understand that the most powerful offerings are often the simplest ones: presence, compassion, and humility. A kind word, a listening ear, or simply showing up with genuine care—these small acts can become vessels for God’s grace. That’s what I hope to give: my time, my attention, my prayers. I don’t just want to give—I want to learn. To listen. To be changed. Because mission work is not a one-way act of charity—it’s a sacred exchange. We offer what we can, and in return, we are offered transformation.

In truth, while I go with a heart ready to serve, I am aware that I will also receive—perhaps even more than I give. I may receive new perspective, as I step into a different way of life and see how joy, faith, and love thrive even in places where material things are scarce. It’s easy to get caught up in our own world and forget that abundance is not always visible. Sometimes, it’s found in the strength of a mother who sings to her child despite hunger, or in the laughter of children who have so little yet radiate so much light.

I may receive wisdom from the very people I hope to help. Their stories of endurance, of grace under hardship, will no doubt humble me. And I may also receive healing—because in stepping away from my routine, I’m making space for God to whisper, to restore, to move in my heart in ways I may not expect. And perhaps most beautifully, I will encounter Christ in others—in their hospitality, their hope, their struggles and triumphs. These sacred encounters are what make a mission trip not just something we do, but something that changes us from the inside out.

As I go, I am also more aware than ever of the posture I want to carry—not one of pity, but of mercy. This difference matters deeply. Pity, while well-intentioned, can come from a place of distance. It can feel passive—feeling sorry for someone without truly seeing them. Mercy, on the other hand, is active. It gets close. It walks alongside. It costs us something—our time, our comfort, our assumptions. Mercy is rooted in love and humility, and it sees the other not as less, but as equal, worthy, human. I don’t want to serve from a place of feeling sorry—I want to serve with a heart willing to be moved, to be inconvenienced, to kneel down and love as Christ would.

In reflecting on this upcoming journey, I’ve also been thinking about the ways I’ve already encountered Christ’s love in my own life. There have been seasons where I was broken, when grief and pain clouded everything—and yet, even then, love found me. I remember one particular time when a friend simply sat with me in silence. No fixing, no advice—just presence. They held space for me, prayed with me, and reminded me that I was not alone. That was Christ, showing up in human form. That was Christian love in its most powerful expression.

And so, I carry that memory with me as I go. I want to be that kind of presence for someone else. I want to be the person who doesn’t just show up to help, but who sees, listens, and loves. Who respects and learns, who receives and gives in equal measure. Because that’s what mission is. It’s not just about doing good—it’s about becoming good, becoming more like Christ in the way we relate to one another.

I don’t expect this mission trip to be easy. I know I will be challenged, perhaps even shaken. I know I will cry, and I know I will laugh. I know I will miss my family and long for home. But I also know that I will return changed. With a fuller heart, a broader vision, and a deeper sense of God’s presence in the world.

This is my first mission trip to Vietnam, but it’s not just a trip—it’s the beginning of something more. A new chapter of faith in action. A dream long delayed, finally fulfilled. A gift I’m both giving and receiving.

And I pray that in all of it—in the going, the serving, the missing, the loving—I may carry the heart of Christ wherever I step. That in every smile, every story, every shared meal or prayer, God’s love will be made known. That’s all I could ever hope for. And that’s enough.

From Spa Bliss to Sales Blitz: My Weight Management Trial Wake-Up Call

 

Curiosity led me through the doors of a Weight Management company not too long ago. Like many others trying to make wellness a priority, I was open to exploring treatments that could support my health goals in a gentle, non-invasive way. I had heard about their XX treatment—a relaxing session supposedly designed to reduce bloating and target stubborn fat areas without needles, surgery, or sweat. On paper, it sounded like the perfect complement to a relatively healthy lifestyle. But by the end of the session, what began as a calming experience turned into something else entirely: an aggressive sales pitch with a jaw-dropping price tag.

When I first arrived, everything looked and felt reassuringly professional. The center had a spa-like atmosphere—clean, calm, and softly lit with that signature air of quiet luxury. My consultant greeted me with a warm smile and led me into a private consultation room where we discussed my lifestyle, eating habits, exercise routine, and body goals. I appreciated the attention to detail and the personalized approach. It didn’t feel rushed, and I felt heard.

The treatment itself was just as pleasant. It started with a full body composition analysis using high-tech equipment that scanned my fat distribution, hydration levels, and metabolic age. From there, I was guided through the session, which began with a thermal heat therapy designed to boost circulation and promote fat burn. The warmth was intense but soothing—like being cocooned in a heated blanket. After that, the detox wrap was applied, tightening gently around targeted areas while I lay down to relax. I could feel the tension in my body release, and by the end of the session, I genuinely felt lighter, less bloated, and surprisingly refreshed. The therapist was kind, communicative, and professional throughout, explaining what each step was supposed to do.

And then... everything changed.

As soon as I stepped out of the treatment room, barely back in my clothes, I was whisked into a different space to “review my progress.” But instead of a post-treatment reflection, I was hit with a hard-sell package that knocked the air out of me. The recommendation? Seventy sessions—yes, seventy. They suggested thirty sessions for my waist, twenty for my arms, and twenty more for my thighs. At $700 per session, this totaled $49,000.

Let that sink in for a second.

I’m not overweight. I didn’t come in with drastic body concerns or expectations of dramatic transformation. I simply wanted a gentle nudge in the right direction—perhaps a one-off indulgence or the occasional treat to go alongside my efforts to eat clean, move more, and take care of my body. But instead of support, I was handed a glossy brochure listing a price that could fund a luxury holiday, a new car, or a year of elite personal training, clean eating programs, and spa sessions combined.

There was no time offered to reflect or wait to see how my body responded over the next few days. It was all about signing up immediately, locking in the package before I could back out. The pressure didn’t ease. The tone shifted from friendly to transactional, and it became clear that the treatment was just the bait for a very costly hook.

The experience left a bitter taste in my mouth—not because the session itself was bad, but because I felt reduced to a dollar sign. The nurturing, wellness-focused atmosphere had turned into a high-stakes sales floor.

What’s even more frustrating is how these places often hide behind glossy marketing and celebrity endorsements. You’ll see familiar faces—usually actresses or models with flawless skin and flat stomachs—beaming in promotional posters, telling you how great the treatments are. But let’s be honest: many of these ambassadors have never been overweight a day in their life. They’re not the ones struggling with hormonal changes, emotional eating, post-baby weight, or the impact of sedentary work life. They don’t represent the average person walking in looking for genuine support. Instead, they represent a beauty ideal that feels out of reach for most of us.

And when that ideal is being used to sell expensive packages to people who may be feeling vulnerable about their bodies? That’s where it starts to feel manipulative. Because if someone like that “needs” seventy sessions, what hope does that leave for the rest of us?

But here’s the question that kept echoing in my head long after I left: Even if I wanted to toss that kind of money towards this—would this be a sustainable way to lose weight?

The answer, in my opinion, is no.

Yes, treatments like XX might help you feel lighter temporarily. They might reduce water retention or give the illusion of inch loss for a day or two. But they don’t tackle the real work of long-term health. They don’t change your habits, heal your relationship with food, improve your gut health, build muscle, or give you the mental discipline to maintain results. What they offer is a band-aid—not a cure. A temporary fix, not a lasting transformation.

Sustainable weight management doesn’t come wrapped in plastic or warmed under infrared lights. It comes through consistency, movement, nourishment, hydration, stress management, and sleep. It comes through understanding your body and showing up for it, day after day, even when the progress is slow and unglamorous. And most importantly, it comes from loving yourself enough to seek health, not just aesthetics.

So would I go back? No. Not because the session was terrible—it wasn’t. It was actually quite soothing. But the experience that followed broke the trust. It felt like a bait-and-switch, wrapped in lavender oil and soft towels.

Would I recommend it to others? Only with a strong warning: go in with your eyes wide open. Know what you're getting into. Enjoy the pampering if that’s what you’re after, but don’t let anyone make you feel like you’re broken or “less than” unless you fork out tens of thousands of dollars.

There are far more empowering, accessible, and lasting ways to take care of your body. Ways that don’t involve high-pressure sales, celebrity illusions, or unrealistic price tags.

Because real wellness doesn’t cost $49,000. It costs time, commitment, and a little bit of self-love.

Healing from Childhood Trauma and Abuse

 

Childhood trauma and abuse leave deep scars that shape how we see ourselves and the world. Growing up in an environment filled with neglect, manipulation, or violence does not simply fade away with time. Instead, these experiences resurface in adulthood as anxiety, depression, low self-worth, trust issues, and difficulties in forming healthy relationships. Healing from such wounds is a long and often painful process, but it is possible. It requires courage, self-awareness, and, in many cases, the ability to distance oneself from toxic relationships—even when those relationships involve family.  

The pain of childhood trauma is not just about isolated incidents of abuse or neglect but rather the cumulative effect of growing up in a world where love and safety were conditional, if present at all. Some were physically harmed, while others endured emotional and verbal abuse—many experiencing both. Some grew up constantly criticized, belittled, or compared to others, leading them to believe they were never enough. Others were raised by narcissistic parents who only valued them when they served a purpose, disregarding their needs at all other times.  

For many, including myself, the greatest betrayal came not from being neglected but from being actively harmed by those who were supposed to protect us. Rather than offering guidance, support, or love, they inflicted pain and then blamed us for our reactions. My own father, rather than standing by me as I sought healing, resorted to threats—attempting to shame me into silence by vowing to expose my struggles. But his threats hold no power over me anymore. My past does not define me. If anything, it is proof of my strength and resilience.  

What I have come to understand is that abusers fear exposure more than their victims fear judgment. They build intricate facades, deceiving those around them while ensuring their victims remain silent. But silence is no longer an option. Speaking out about childhood trauma is not about seeking pity—it is about reclaiming power.  

One of the hardest truths to accept is that childhood trauma often breeds dysfunctional behavior in adulthood. When children grow up in abusive, manipulative, or neglectful environments, they internalize those experiences. They learn to tolerate toxic behavior, struggle with self-worth, and sometimes even replicate the patterns they once endured. But cycles can be broken. Healing begins with acknowledging the past and recognizing how it has shaped us. It means identifying toxic behaviors within ourselves—whether it’s people-pleasing, emotional numbness, or self-sabotage—and actively working to change them. It means unlearning the belief that love must be earned through suffering.  

For me, the realization that it was okay to walk away from those who refused to change—even if they were family—was a pivotal moment. For years, I tried to be the “good child,” seeking approval and hoping that love and kindness would change my father. But his latest actions—publicly undermining my achievements while continuing to favor others—made it clear that he had no intention of changing. His reasoning for dismissing my efforts, claiming that my contributions were not as worthy as someone else’s, was the final straw. It took years for me to accept that no matter how much I achieved, it would never be enough for him. That is no longer my burden to carry.  

For those of us who have endured childhood trauma, one of the greatest struggles is learning that forgiveness does not mean allowing continued abuse. Society often pressures survivors to “forgive and forget,” particularly when it comes to family. But true forgiveness is about releasing the burden of anger—not about tolerating mistreatment. Recently, I found myself grappling with guilt, questioning whether cutting ties with my father was the right decision. I worried that by choosing peace, I was somehow failing in my faith. However, two priests reassured me that prioritizing my well-being was not only acceptable but necessary. One of them offered words that stayed with me: *"Healing starts with detachment. Do whatever it takes to heal; self-care is your priority. You are on the right path."*  

Hearing those words freed me from the guilt I had carried for so long. I finally understood that walking away from toxic family members does not mean I am abandoning my values—it means I am honoring my worth.  

Healing from childhood trauma is not a linear journey. Some days, the past feels like a distant memory, while on others, it resurfaces unexpectedly. But healing is possible. It requires time, patience, and a willingness to confront pain rather than suppress it. I have learned to set firm boundaries, recognizing that protecting my peace is essential. Therapy and spiritual guidance have helped me process my experiences and find clarity. I have chosen to surround myself with love, understanding that true family is not defined by blood but by those who uplift and support me. Letting go of the need for validation has been liberating, as I no longer seek approval from those who will never give it. And returning to my faith has given me a sense of peace I never imagined possible, reminding me that I am loved, valued, and fully capable of healing.  

To anyone who has endured childhood trauma: You are not alone. Your pain is real, but it does not define you. You have the power to break the cycle, to heal, and to create a life filled with love, peace, and joy. The journey will not always be easy—there will be moments of doubt, grief, and anger—but every step toward healing is a step toward freedom. And freedom is worth everything.