Finding Home Between Worlds: A Juneteenth Reflection

Growing up, I often felt like I lived between worlds.

I was born in Northern California and spent my early years in Vacaville before moving to Vallejo after my parents divorced. Like many mixed-race children, I learned early that identity isn't always as simple as checking a box on a form.

I wasn't quite Filipino enough for some people.

I wasn't quite white enough for others.

And while no one ever handed me a map and told me where I belonged, I spent years trying to figure it out anyway.

Looking back now at forty-seven years old, I realize I wasn't really searching for an identity.

I was searching for home.

Not a place.

A people.

A community.

A place where I didn't have to explain myself.

A place where I could simply be.

The Gift of Growing Up Different

As a child, I sometimes viewed my mixed heritage as a complication.

As an adult, I've come to see it as a gift.

Living between cultures taught me how to listen before speaking. It taught me how to adapt. It taught me that people are far more complex than the labels we assign to one another.

Most importantly, it taught me empathy.

When you've spent your life feeling slightly out of place, you begin to notice others who feel the same way.

You become aware of the quiet loneliness people carry.

You recognize the longing to be seen.

You understand the power of being welcomed.

The Communities That Helped Raise Me

As Juneteenth approaches, I find myself reflecting on the Black men and women who have helped shape my life.

Some were friends.

Some were mentors.

Some were military brothers and sisters.

Some became spiritual mothers and fathers.

Over the years, I have had the privilege of serving alongside extraordinary Black leaders, worshiping alongside faithful Black believers, and learning from pastors and apostles whose wisdom, strength, and perseverance continue to influence me today.

Their lessons were not always delivered from a pulpit.

Sometimes they came through difficult conversations.

Sometimes through correction.

Sometimes through encouragement.

Sometimes through simply showing up when life was hard.

I learned that leadership is not measured by rank.

I learned that strength and compassion can coexist.

I learned that resilience is often born from hardship.

And I learned that hope is a discipline, not just a feeling.

Why Juneteenth Matters

Juneteenth is a celebration of freedom.

It is a reminder that liberty delayed is still worth fighting for.

It is a reminder that truth matters.

History matters.

People matter.

For me, it is also a day of gratitude.

A day to honor the sacrifices, struggles, achievements, and contributions of Black Americans whose fingerprints can be found on every part of our nation's story.

It is also a day to thank the people who helped shape my own story.

What I Would Tell My Younger Self

If I could sit down with that little girl from Vacaville and Vallejo, I think I would tell her this:

You don't have to choose one side of yourself to belong.

You don't have to earn your place at the table.

You don't have to shrink yourself to make other people comfortable.

Your story matters.

Your heritage matters.

And one day, you'll discover that belonging isn't found in a racial category, a family tree, or a percentage on a DNA report.

It's found in the people who welcome you, teach you, challenge you, pray for you, and love you.

It's found in community.

A Final Word

This Juneteenth, I am grateful.

Grateful for the Black men and women who helped shape my faith.

Grateful for the friendships that crossed cultural boundaries.

Grateful for the lessons that taught me resilience.

Grateful for the communities that welcomed a little mixed-race girl who wasn't always sure where she fit.

And grateful for the reminder that while our histories may be different, our humanity is shared.

Happy Juneteenth.

May we continue building communities where everyone has a place to belong.