Amidst this political and religious backdrop, I also grew up in a country fractured by the vast separation of water, an archipelago of 7,100 islands. These geographical chasms fostered tribal thinking, each island a cultural fiefdom unto itself. Unity was elusive, diversity was the heartbeat, and our island’s cultural scenes were as varied and colorful as the changing hues of its tropical sunset. In this fertile ground of diversity, supernatural beliefs flourished like wild orchids in a rainforest, their stems intertwining with the invasive roots of colonialist religion, giving rise to a unique kind of folk Catholicism. The imagination of the collective consciousness of my people blended the dogma of the Holy Trinity with the fantastical world of mythological creatures. Even as our oppressive government encroached upon our freedoms, and in spite of the looming presence of the Angry Christ etched upon our spiritual lives, flying female vampires still prowled the night and medicine women and witches continued to cast their spells in the small provincial towns and barrios. Mischievous magical beings of the land revelled in the playing of their tricks in the mountainous regions of the north, towering giant spirits continued to guard the remaining trees in the city and the sirens persisted with their singing of the seductive songs on rocky islets found in between islands. In a group of islands where the elements occasionally revealed their might through volcanic eruptions, destructive typhoons, monstrous tidal waves or devastating landslides, we continued to believe in magic. Somehow, the belief in these superstitions and tales of the supernatural had a comforting effect. The townspeople adhered faithfully motivated by the fear of potential curses that might befall them should they deviate.

The amalgamation of Martial Law’s Authoritarian reign and subsequent suffocation of free speech, the fear of the Catholic God that had been imposed on the country through its turbulent history of colonization, the inner tribal conflicts, and the ever-present specter of supernatural forces in the environment forged my consciousness where fear, anger, and wonder danced together. 

In the land of free women, barefoot tracks etched trails through the wilderness
They were tracks belonging to untamed women
with the strength of wolves and the grace of jaguars

“For too long, the mythological traditions have relegated Her to the shadows, leaving Her wisdom buried beneath the weight of patriarchal narratives.”

At an early age, I had to navigate a complex world where I had to find trust in an environment where there was abuse of power, find my soul's expression while  the truth was being suppressed,  establish my feminine identity where  individuality was eroded, and listen to the voice of my innate divine feminine wisdom while the patriarchy vied for dominance.

As the seventh child and youngest girl among eight siblings, I had the advantage of having the path to creativity laid out in front of me by my older siblings. I was pretty much left alone and given a lot of leeway to follow my curiosities without too much interruption by adults. I understood very early on, that the simplest way to exist in this chaotic world was to be chameleonic, to blend in without making any waves in this challenging and impoverished landscape, as every corner seemed to bear witness to stark injustices. I also intuited that there was a divine power at work in spite of the chaos, and as long as I aligned my inner compass with my heart, it would compel the universe to conspire in my favor.

To the outside world, my choices may not have always seemed logical or prudent, but there was a rebel inside me that refused to accept a secondary, subservient role in a society that sadly cast a shaming shadow over my truth and silenced my voice. The assault that would only serve to fuel the sacred disruptor within me, an invisible wild woman presence, relentless in her drumming beneath my feet. It was a primal drumming that I now recognize as the sacred pulse of the Goddess Source, My Diwata. Following the beating of this drum, I became a dancer. Embracing my passions, I delved into theater as a director and performer. The performing arts was home to me, it was a vibrant cultural scene, and the  stage served as a place for self-expression and healing. At the age of 15, still within the confines of authoritarian rule, when speaking out was not only an act of defiance but also an act of courage, I was to find my own expression using the metaphors that could be safely expressed in theater. While training as a theater actress at the University of the Philippines, I joined a theater workshop with a group that embraced the ideals of Brazilian visionary Augusto Boal’s “Theater of the Oppressed”, an approach to community based education that harnessed the transformative power of theater. In my case, theater was more than just an artistic pursuit, it was a channel through which my secret wild woman mythology roared to life. With my siblings already entrenched in this group, it felt only natural for me to follow suit. Not only was I able to experience protest theater, but I was also able to take on facilitator skills for conducting theater workshops under the group's community outreach programs. 

When I was 18 years old, while sitting in circle with actors during a theater workshop, a distant memory resurfaced - a memory that would define the course of the next two decades of my life. It was my consciousness coming to terms with a deeply painful experience - a sexual abuse that had occurred when I was just 4 years old. This recollection which was wrought with anger and pain ignited a path for me, a path of transcendental healing, a deep dive into the world of initiation. It was during this transformative period that I decided to venture into the world of filmmaking. My choice to explore filmmaking was not about forging a conventional career in the field; it was born out of a burning desire to share my story and give voice to those who've suffered in silence from similar abuse. That was when I created my short film titled "Descansos." The term "Descansos" as eloquently mentioned in the book "Women Who Run with the Wolves," by Clarissa Pinkola Estes signifies resting places. In a literal sense, they are locations where loved ones commemorate the departed with the act of lighting candles or offering flowers. Applied to our life journey, "Descansos" is about looking back at our own lives, charting our experiences on a timeline, and marking the places where we've undergone profound transformations or face life-altering challenges. 

My college thesis film "Descansos" was my way of remembrance, lighting a candle at the place where I had metaphorically died. It was a part of  my journey of healing with the film as platform to speak of the unspeakable.. "Descansos" became my launchpad into a new adventure that took me to New York, where the film premiered at the New York Asian American International Film Festival. Subsequently, I relocated to Los Angeles to be with my boyfriend at that time, who was also my cinematographer for the short film and a constant ally in my healing. Over the course of the next two decades in Hollywood, my journey became intricately entwined with the reclamation of my sexual energy and the reinstatement of my freedom of expression- the very energies that had been taken from me during my childhood.