Inner Circle

You know that saying that ALWAYS comes out of my mouth, “Get comfortable with your uncomfortables. It’s where growth lives!”

And let me be clear—I don’t just say that shit, I LIVE it. I practice what I preach on the daily.

This though? This is just a NEW layer of my uncomfortable 😝

Not only am I continuing to show up in front of the camera, I’m also stepping into my cute era.

For the longest time, I lived in my yoga/mom clothes. And honestly? I loved them. They made sense. I’m a mom. I get dirty, I play hard, I get shit DONE… life gets messy. Life of being a boy mom.

But now? I’m playing with “FUCK IT.”

There’s something I’ve been sitting with lately… something that feels both personal and a little bit like coming home.

Before I was Meghan, I was Mary Jane.

I’ve known that since I was little, and I also knew it was a common name in the Philippines—but I never really felt it. It was just a fact, not something I questioned or explored. Not something I connected to. Until now.

Since I’ve started diving deeper into writing my story, something has shifted. This book has been pulling things out of me I didn’t expect—pieces of identity, history, and truth that have been quietly waiting to be seen. And one of those pieces… is my name.

Interestingly enough, some of my closest friends have naturally started calling me MJ. No prompting. No explanation. It just kind of… happened. And it feels right in a way I didn’t anticipate. For those I’ve shared my…

There are moments in life where you don’t realize how much you needed something… until you’re in it.

This past weekend,

I gave myself permission to step away—not just from being a mom, not just from being a wife—but from the constant responsibility of holding everything together.

And if I’m being honest… I don’t do that often.

But this time, I said yes.

Let me give you a little life update… because this one feels important.

I’ve been working on my book.

And when I say “working on it,” I mean… starting it, stopping it, avoiding it, circling back to it, questioning everything, rinse, wash, repeat. Over and over again. Every time I tried to write it before, something felt… off. Like I was forcing something that wasn’t ready to come through yet.

But I always knew—this is something I have to do.

So this time… I just started.

And in starting, something clicked.