Grieving Childhood Innocence

Today, quite by accident, I found vintage episodes of Sesame Street on Netflix.

I clicked on one.

And somehow, for a little while, I was a child again.

There were the familiar characters, the old sets, the little segments I had not seen in decades -- and to my surprise, I remembered so many of them. Images that must have been tucked away somewhere in the quiet corners of my memory suddenly came alive again.

Only this time, I could pause.

I could stop the screen and look closely at things that, as a child, simply passed before my eyes. A room. A wall. A familiar face. A tiny detail in the background. Things that probably meant nothing then somehow felt precious now.

And somewhere between remembering and watching, something inside me broke open.

Oh, how I miss my childhood.

I found myself thinking about the little girl who used to sit happily in front of the television and watch Sesame Street. She didn't know very much about life yet. She didn't know about heartbreak. She didn't know what it would feel like to be rejected by someone she loved with her whole heart. She didn't know that there would come a time when people she once shared a life with could make her feel small, unwanted, forgotten, or alone.

She didn't know how lonely some days would become.

She was just a little girl watching Sesame Street.

And today, looking back at her from all these years away, I suddenly felt so sorry for her.

Not because her childhood was unhappy. Quite the opposite. I remember being happy. Perhaps that is precisely why the memory hurts so much.

There was an innocence to that happiness.

That little girl had absolutely no idea what was waiting for her.

She did not know there would be storms. She did not know that some of them would come from places she once believed were safe. She did not know that there would be losses she could never have prepared herself for, or that one day she would understand what it means to miss someone who is still alive.

She didn't know that sometimes love does not protect us from being hurt by the very people we love.

And as I watched those old episodes today, I wanted desperately to reach through all those years and find her.

I wanted to sit beside her.

I wanted to put my arms around that little girl and hold her tightly.

I wanted to whisper, Anne, there are going to be storms.

Some will frighten you. Some will hurt you. Some will change you.

There will be things you wish you had seen coming. There will be roads you wish you had never taken and people you will wish you could have understood sooner. There will be moments when you will wonder how a heart can hurt so much and still keep beating.

But I am here.

I know you.

I know what is waiting for you because I am the woman you will become.

And if I could, I would stay beside you through all of it.

Maybe I would warn her about the things that could be avoided. Maybe I would tell her to trust herself more. To recognize certain storms before walking into them. To protect her heart without hardening it.

But perhaps more than anything, I would simply love her.

I would nurture her.

I would protect her tenderness.

I would tell her that she never has to earn the right to be loved.

And I would stay beside her for as long as she needed me -- through childhood, through growing up, through motherhood, through heartbreak, through all the strange and beautiful seasons of a life -- until the twilight end of days.

Of course, I cannot go back.

The little girl is gone from that room. The television she watched is probably long gone, too. The years have carried away so much.

But today, Sesame Street somehow opened a tiny door through time.

And through that door, I saw her again.

I saw the little girl I used to be -- innocent, happy, unsuspecting -- watching those familiar characters without knowing anything about the complicated life ahead of her.

And I cried for her.

Perhaps I cried for myself, too.

For everything she would eventually lose.

For everything she would survive.

For all the days when she would feel forgotten.

For all the times she would have to gather the pieces of herself and continue.

And yet, as I sit here now with tears in my eyes, another thought comes to me.

Maybe I cannot go back and protect that little girl from what was coming.

But I can love her now.

Because somewhere inside this 57-year-old woman, she still exists.

The little girl who laughed at Sesame Street is still here.

The child who trusted life before she knew how complicated life could become is still here.

And perhaps when I feel lonely, instead of only grieving for her, I can sit beside her in my heart.

I can tell her what no one could have told her then:

Anne, I know what happened.

I know how much it hurt.

I know there were days you never imagined you would have to live through.

But look at us.

We are still here.

And if I could truly meet that little girl for just one afternoon, I think I would sit beside her on the floor and watch Sesame Street with her.

I wouldn't tell her everything.

Perhaps a child should be allowed to keep her innocence for as long as she can.

I would just hold her close.

And when the episode ended, I would kiss the top of her head and whisper:

Enjoy this, little Anne.

Laugh.

Be happy.

You don't need to know about the storms yet.

And when they finally come, somehow, you will find your way through them.

I know.

Because I am you.

And then maybe I would stay for one more episode.

Just a little longer.

Because after all these years, I have missed her, too.

Casa Arcoiris de Anna - 8/2/26

It has been almost a year since Casa Arcoiris was turned over to me.

When I look around today, I do not simply see cabinets, shelves, books, furniture, or carefully chosen colors. I see a dream that refused to die.

There was a time when I could not even look at this house without feeling an ache deep inside my heart.

The memories were simply too painful.

This home, which was supposed to bring me peace, instead became the place where I experienced one of the deepest disappointments of my life. It was entrusted to someone I believed I could trust -- someone who was not only my architect, but also family. I paid every centavo in full before I left for the United States, believing that when I returned months later, I would finally be coming home.

Instead, I came home to abandonment.

An unfinished townhouse.

Unfinished work.

Things that did not function.

Things that had to be repaired.

Promises that had quietly disappeared.

For months, I lived believing that progress was being made because that was what I was repeatedly told. But the truth eventually revealed itself. While I was away, this dream had been neglected. What I thought was slowly becoming a home had instead been left behind.

There were days when I stood inside these walls and simply cried.

Not quiet tears.

The kind that leave you asking God why something so beautiful had to become so painful.

This townhouse witnessed moments when I questioned my strength.

Moments when I wondered if I should simply let the dream go.

Perhaps it would have been easier.

Perhaps selling it would have spared me from the emotional weight of rebuilding what should never have been broken in the first place.

But something inside me refused to surrender.

I chose to fight.

Not out of anger.

Not out of revenge.

But because I knew that what had happened was wrong.

Justice eventually came, imperfect as it may have been. The court ruled in my favor and ordered that a significant portion of what I had lost be returned to me. No amount of money can restore the trust that was broken or erase the painful memories attached to this journey. But it has given me the opportunity to continue rebuilding this home the way it should have been from the very beginning.

Looking around today, I know Casa Arcoiris is still not finished.

There are still empty shelves waiting to be filled.

Corners waiting for greenery.

Spaces waiting for little details that will make this house feel softer, warmer, and even more like home.

There is still so much I want to do.

And perhaps that is what makes these photographs so meaningful to me.

They do not show perfection.

They show progress.

They show healing.

They show courage quietly taking shape.

The Filipino saying, "Malayo pa, pero malayo na," has never felt more true than it does today.

I still have a long way to go.

But I also cannot ignore how far I have already come.

When I look at these rooms now, I no longer see only the pain that once lived here.

I see evidence that broken dreams can still be rebuilt.

Not exactly as they were imagined.

But perhaps with even greater meaning.

Every book I place on a shelf.

Every plant I add to a corner.

Every appliance I install.

Every picture I hang.

Every improvement I make with my own decisions and hard-earned savings is quietly reclaiming something that was almost taken away from me.

This home was never handed to me.

It has been fought for.

Prayed over.

Cried over.

Worked for.

And rebuilt.

One decision at a time.

One room at a time.

One prayer at a time.

People often say that a house is made of concrete, steel, glass, and wood.

I have learned otherwise.

A home is also built with perseverance.

With faith when faith is difficult.

With courage when giving up seems easier.

With hope that stubbornly refuses to disappear.

That is what Casa Arcoiris has become for me.

Not merely a townhouse.

Not merely an address.

But a reminder that even after betrayal...

Even after disappointment...

Even after dreams seem to collapse beneath your feet...

You can still choose to stand.

You can still choose to build.

You can still choose to believe that beauty can grow where heartbreak once lived.

Casa Arcoiris is still becoming.

And perhaps...

so am I.

💖