October 2021 began with gray skies and a chill in the early mornings that hinted at the -ber months. In the province, life was still caught in the push and pull between rising COVID-19 cases and attempts to resume economic activity. Schools remained closed, children learned from home, and markets operated under limited hours. But inside the San Jose household, something else was taking shape.
Carmela had never been more focused.
The corner of the family sala had been converted into a mini command center: dual monitors on a sturdy desk her brother helped build, notebooks stacked high, a weekly planner taped on the wall. Her lola's antique lamp sat beside a digital clock. Plants lined the window sill, and beside her laptop, a cup of warm turmeric tea steamed gently.
She was organizing the official rollout of KATALISTA's next branch: KATALISTA Academy, a formalized training platform for virtual workers. She knew this was the next step if the business was to grow into a legacy.
While others her age worried about graduating or dating, Carmela was setting up a system for national impact.
"I think we can run the pilot batch in three provinces before the year ends," she said during a strategy meeting with Raziel and two new team members.
Raziel nodded. "And I've finished the analytics dashboard for the mentors. It tracks engagement and feedback in real time."
Carmela's eyes lit up. "Perfect. We'll use that as a selling point when we present to LGUs."
Outside, her mom called her for lunch, and she excused herself with a quick smile. But even over lunch, her mind didn't stop racing.
"Anak," her mom said while scooping rice. "Do you think you're working too hard?"
"Not too hard, Ma," Carmela replied. "Just... finally moving in the direction I'm meant to."
Her brother, the high school teacher, chuckled. "You're running a company. I still remember when you used to hide under the table when visitors came."
They all laughed, and Carmela smiled. It was different now. The girl she used to be had returned with knowledge, foresight, and scars—enough to change their fate.
---
That afternoon, she joined a webinar hosted by the Department of Trade and Industry on tech startups. Most participants were from cities—Quezon City, Makati, Taguig. Carmela, listed as joining from Laguna, stood out.
During the breakout session, the moderator asked participants to introduce their ventures.
"Hi, I'm Carmela San Jose," she began calmly. "I run a virtual professional platform focused on rural communities and digital livelihood. We're currently operating in five regions."
She noticed a slight pause, then nods of interest. She was no longer the shy student listening at the back of the room. She was a founder, and people were starting to notice.
After the session, one of the speakers sent her a private message: a venture capitalist based in Cebu who asked if she had ever considered angel investors.
She politely declined for now.
"Still bootstrapped, still private," she typed. "But thank you for the offer."
---
Her personal life, however, remained delicately quiet. Raziel had become a regular presence in her evenings. They played online chess, exchanged book recommendations, and sometimes talked about the future.
Not just the startup.
Not just the career.
But their future.
"I don't want to pressure you," he told her one night, his voice low. "But I want you to know that I'm ready when you are. Whether that means waiting another year or five."
Carmela smiled, touched by his patience. "Let's keep building for now. If what we have survives all of this—the time, the distance—then maybe it was always meant to be."
He agreed. And that understanding, that trust, gave her peace.
---
Mid-October brought the beginnings of what Carmela called "the real challenge"—scaling.
Hiring needed structure.
Payroll needed automation.
Training needed consistency.
She reached out to a few contacts she had made through the webinars and startup circles, asking for templates, tools, and resources. Slowly, her team formalized into departments. They weren't just freelancers now. They were professionals. And she was their leader.
During a virtual town hall, she addressed the growing team for the first time.
"I started KATALISTA because I saw people like us—smart, skilled, capable—but without opportunity. We're changing that. One training at a time. One job at a time. And we're not stopping here."
The applause, though virtual, felt real. Faces smiled back at her. Some waved. Others clapped silently with their hands held high to the webcam.
It was surreal.
It was right.
---
Toward the end of the month, Carmela received news that would change her pace yet again. Her youngest cousin tested positive for COVID-19, and the entire household had to go into strict home quarantine.
She shifted her operations fully online, doubled their hygiene protocols, and supported her family through the anxiety.
Thankfully, the case was mild.
Still, the experience reminded her of how fragile everything was. How even the strongest systems could be disrupted by a single event.
That night, in her journal, she wrote:
*No matter how big I build, I must always remain grounded. No plan is stronger than life's curveballs.*
---
Halloween arrived quietly. Children stayed indoors. No trick-or-treating. But inside the San Jose home, Carmela set up a mini "movie night" for the family, complete with popcorn, fairy lights, and a projector borrowed from her brother's school.
They watched old comedies and classic Pinoy horror films. Laughter filled the room, momentarily replacing the weight of the times.
And as she looked around at her family—her mom, her brothers, even her dog sleeping at her feet—Carmela felt it:
This was her why.
She wasn't just building a business.
She was building a life.
One that would protect, nurture, and grow with her.
And October ended with a renewed sense of purpose. Not from expansion. Not from money. But from love.