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.
💖
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