06/07/2026
๐๐ต๐ฐ๐ณ๐บ ๐ต๐ช๐ฎ๐ฆ, ๐ธ๐ข๐ณ๐ฏ๐ช๐ฏ๐จ ๐ญ๐ฐ๐ฏ๐จ ๐ณ๐ฆ๐ข๐ฅ ๐ข๐ฉ๐ฆ๐ข๐ฅ...
๐ฉ๐๐๐๐๐๐ ๐ป๐๐ ๐ฏ๐๐๐๐, ๐ฐ ๐ญ๐๐๐๐
๐พ๐๐ ๐ฐ ๐จ๐
People often ask me where I'm from.
The truth is, my heart has always belonged to two places.
I was born in Tarlac, where my earliest memories were painted in shades of green, running barefoot through endless rice fields, chasing dragonflies until the sun began to set, climbing guava trees with my cousins, and helping my mother harvest fresh string beans and kangkong.
Those were the days when happiness didn't need money.
It was found in muddy feet, scraped knees, and laughter that echoed across the fields.
I remember helping prepare Kapampangan delicacies like duman, watching my family cook with incredible patience and pride.
Mealtimes were always an adventure. My father and I even had our own little competition, who could finish eating first. Looking back, I don't remember who won most of the time.
I just remember laughing.
One dish I will never forget was my father's version of sinigang, made with young cassava leaves. It was intensely sour, but somehow it tasted like home. And siinging atin cu pung singsing was like an assignment I should learn to sing.
As children, we turned almost anything into toys. I made bracelets from bamboo leaves and earrings from star apple leaves. My uncle would make colorful windmills just to convince me to take my afternoon nap.
Life was simple.
Life was beautiful.
Then life changed.
We moved to my mother's hometown of Guiuan, Eastern Samar.
If Tarlac gave me the freedom to simply be a child, Guiuan taught me how to become responsible.
As the eldest, childhood looked different.
Play became something you earned after your chores were done.
My late grandmother was incredibly strict. At the time, I didn't always understand why.
Today, I do.
She wasn't simply raising me.
She was preparing me for life.
She enrolled me in manicure and pedicure classes, not because she wanted me to open a salon, but because she wanted someone to take care of her nails.
She sent me to dressmaking classes, where I learned to alter and repair clothes by hand because we didn't even own a sewing machine. I borrowed a neighbor's manual machine whenever I could.
She taught me to cook, not by giving recipes, but by making me cook alongside her.
The only thing I never learned from her was singing.
That gift belonged to her.
She loved to sing.
She even taught me prayers in Spanish. They were beautiful, but she recited them so quickly that I could never memorize them completely.
Looking back now, I smile.
Because every lesson she gave me has quietly followed me into adulthood.
Sometimes my siblings laugh and say, "You're becoming a little bit like Lola."
Especially when I start disciplining my son, my nephews, or my nieces.
Maybe they're right.
And honestly...
I'm okay with that.
When I think about my grandparents, I realize they gave me much more than memories.
They gave me gifts I still carry today.
My maternal grandmother could convince anyone with her determination.
My grandfather was an incredible communicator who could hold people's attention with the simplest stories.
Perhaps that's where my love for storytelling began.
On my father's side, I inherited a deep appreciation for Kapampangan cuisine. Family gatherings revolved around dishes lovingly prepared from scratch like buro, kilayin, and countless recipes that celebrated patience, craftsmanship, and sharing.
From my mother's side, I learned the delicacies of Eastern Samar, the recipes prepared for fiestas, Christmas, and every special occasion that brought families together.
Growing up between these two worlds taught me something priceless.
Culture isn't something you choose.
It's something that quietly shapes you.
I grew up speaking Waray from my mother, Kapampangan from my father, Cebuano from my grandfather, and even picked up a little Ilocano from my grandparents in Tarlac.
Sometimes people tell me I'm not Kapampangan enough.
Others only see the Waray in me.
But I've never felt the need to choose.
Because I am both.
I carry the warmth, generosity, and strong family ties of my Kapampangan roots.
I also carry the discipline, resilience, and quiet strength of my Waray upbringing.
One side taught me to dream.
The other taught me to endure.
Together, they shaped the woman I am today.
Maybe that's why I created Annette's Footprints. I hope to preserve the stories of people, places, food, and culture so they won't be forgotten.
If one day someone remembers a place because of a story I told, then I know I've done something worthwhile.
Because I believe every place leaves a footprint on our hearts.
Every family leaves us with stories.
Every meal carries history.
Every grandmother passes down wisdom.
And every ordinary childhood has a story worth preserving.
This is mine.
๐๐๐๐ฉ'๐จ ๐ฎ๐ค๐ช๐ง๐จ? ๐
๐พ๐๐ง๐ ๐ฉ๐ค ๐จ๐๐๐ง๐?
