Where the Bullet Points End and the Story Begins

Hi. Welcome. Or... I don’t know. Should I say “Welcome”? That feels too neat, too polite. Too brochure-y. And if there’s anything I’ve learned in all my years being a mother, a partner, a worker, a writer, a survivor... it’s that nothing about life, love, politics, work, or grief is brochure-y.

Anyway, you’re here. So... thank you. And I guess I owe you something honest.

This little corner of the internet (this site) is a long time coming. It took me decades of unpaid thinking, accidental surviving, and reluctant healing to finally pull together a digital room where all of me could sit at the same table. The professional me. The tired-but-still-trying me. The funny-in-a-dark-way me. The bibliotherapist. The former Dollar Mule. The mom of three. The woman who’s loved badly. The woman who got better. The woman who still doesn’t know what to do with Mother’s Day.

In this economy, inner peace is found where the Wi-Fi doesn’t reach and the sidewalk looks like my trust issues.

On this site, you’ll find my resume. You can download it if you’re looking for someone who knows how to hold chaos gently, whether it’s a project, a support team, a crisis, or a customer who just wants someone to actually listen. I’ve been doing this work (Digital Project Management and Customer Experience) for years now. Long enough to know that people don’t quit companies. They quit being ignored.

Operations? Check. Project rescue? Sure. Writing with clarity? My version of therapy. :)

But the real reason I made this site isn’t just to show you my experience. It’s to show you my context. Because that’s what’s usually missing from everything these days, isn’t it? Context. Nuance. The part of the story that isn’t clickable or monetizable or meme-able. The part we skip because it hurts to sit in it too long.

Here, in the “Open Journal” section, I’ve decided to stop skipping. You’ll find think pieces, my open journal entries (some of them loud, some of them quiet, some of them unfinished) about the things I live with. The ghosts. The guilt. The grief that doesn’t announce itself but leaves dishes in the sink for three days. You’ll find my reflections on politics, not from a place of credentials, but from the place where most real politics happen: the kitchen table, the streets of Davao, the corners of our Facebook comment sections where people are shouting from their wounds. I write about parenting too. And work. And love. Or at least my attempts at all three.

I write the way I live: trying not to flinch, but flinching anyway. And laughing, somehow.

Because the body needs to laugh or it won’t survive the next memory.

Wearing confidence like it’s not duct-taped together with caffeine and childhood issues.

If you’re here because you found me through one of my essays, thank you for reading with more than your eyes! If you’re here to hire me, click here and you’ll see what I’ve done and what I’m good at. But also, take a second to read what I notice. That might matter more in the long run.

If you’re here because you’re curious, or lonely, or trying to piece together how someone like you keeps going in a world like this, well... me too!

So yeah. This is me. This is where I am now. A little tired. A little healed. A little dangerous in my honesty. And still figuring things out.

Thanks for dropping by. Hope you stay a while. But no pressure. You don’t owe me your time.

Just like I don’t owe anyone a happy ending.

—Kooks D.

Still trying to spell “therapist” without accidentally spelling “the rapist”

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