This month, as we honor Asian American and Pacific Islander Heritage Month, I find myself reflecting deeply on the story that brought me here—not just to this moment in my life, but to this country, this purpose, and the work I now feel called to do.

My story doesn’t begin with me. It begins decades ago on a war-torn path in the Philippines—during one of the most brutal events of World War II, the Bataan Death March. My grandfather was there. Exhausted, starving, beaten, and near death. History tells us many didn’t survive that forced march. But in a miraculous moment of grace, my grandfather was spotted by his own brother, who was marching in a separate unit. As my grandfather was about to collapse, his brother lifted him—literally carried him—and saved his life.

That single act of love and sacrifice created a ripple. My grandfather lived. He went on to have more children. Eventually, he was able to bring his daughters, including my mother, to California. My mom, ambitious and full of hope, studied business. And when she returned to the Philippines, she married my dad—her childhood neighbor and long-time crush. Together, they immigrated to the U.S., arriving in Cleveland, Ohio with nothing but $20 in their pocket, no car, and an unshakable work ethic.

My father became an engineer. My mother worked in finance. They raised four boys—of which I’m the youngest. And from that humble beginning, they built a life rooted in faith, sacrifice, and perseverance. Today, they have ten grandchildren, and three more through marriage. And every part of who I am—every value I hold, every opportunity I’ve had to serve others—stems from the journey they began.

It’s easy to celebrate success. But this month is about celebrating the sacrifices that made success possible.

Asian and Pacific Islander stories are often quiet, humble, and filled with unspoken courage. Our parents and grandparents didn’t have the luxury of social media to tell the world how hard they were working. They just did it. They endured racism, language barriers, culture shock, and the weight of building something from nothing. And they kept going. For us.

This month, I want to say thank you. To my late grandfather—for surviving so I could live. To my parents—for starting from scratch and giving me a foundation of love, hard work, and hope. And to every Asian and Pacific Islander family whose roots run deep with similar stories of grit and grace.

And as I reflect, I also realize that even the work I do today—helping organizations and people discover who they truly are and how to share that with the world—is deeply shaped by that legacy. Because branding, in its purest form, is really about identity. It’s about owning your truth, honoring your story, and finding the courage to let it be seen.

For me, it’s never been about flashy marketing or clever slogans. It’s about helping others do what my family did—stand firm in who they are, and build something lasting from it.

So yes, From Bataan to Branding isn’t just a poetic phrase. It’s a quiet truth that lives inside me. My grandfather’s march through unthinkable suffering became the first step of a much longer journey—one that would eventually shape who I became, and why I care so deeply about the work I do.

This month, I carry that story in my heart. And I honor the millions of others like it—stories of courage, faith, and family—that continue to shape this country in profound and beautiful ways.