As someone who has had postpartum rage and depression, I can tell you that I didn't know what I was doing in those moments. I can tell you that the days, weeks, and months following Ro's birth were a blur. I wish I could go back to that version of me, get her the help she needed sooner, and then enjoy all the moments and wonder of having a baby boy.​
Hindsight and growth later, I am glad someone saw a crack; a fragment just out of place enough to give the people who knew me, who knew my work ethic, pause.
Women suffer in silence because motherhood is seen as this mantle we're supposed to wear easily. It's ingrained. It's instinct. We're women; we're supposed to know how to do this. And when we shatter any part of that image, we're the ones left carrying the full weight of what went wrong.
Anxiety - we're fearful of doing all of this wrong, even though no one really knows what they're doing. Most of us are too exhausted to chase after picture perfect motherhood. We're in the trenches, smelling like pee, and wondering when will this end? 
At some point, the anxiety grows and morphs into something our brain hasn't named yet but our bodies are doubled over, screaming in silence.
Postpartum depression is a beast. I say that with the full weight of what it means.
​I cannot even wrap my mind around postpartum psychosis. I just know that in my darkest days, there was no hope. 

I only know the clips that I've seen. I'm not going to do a deep dive into what's happened; he said, she said. As much as I say I'm far removed from that time in my life, it's still there and I hate that regret is the first thing that comes to mind. I hate that I can see a woman and picture myself in her shoes. I hate that her children suffered so much in the home of people who were supposed to love them, care for them. 
If anything comes from this case, I hope it's a greater spotlight on maternal mental health.
​Women are suffering in their homes; more often than not, silently, waiting for someone to see a crack in their facade. 
Motherhood isn't close to sainthood, or however that saying goes. 
I love being a mom. I choose my children every time. 
But what does that say to them when they grow up? Suffer in silence until someone comes in to save the day. 
This is why if anyone asks, I answer. 
Short answer: I had pregnancy anxiety. I had a baby in the NICU for 43 days. She left with a heart monitor and I was a mess every day that alarm went off. 
I didn't want to go through that again. Surprise pregnancy. Hated every second of it. I thought I was going to die. 
Went into depression. Sometimes, I'd drive to work and wonder if I should just keep driving. 
Someone saw the crack. And I eventually got help. 
I started talking; advocating. 
And in all the years since, I still get emotional reliving some milestones. I think about women who aren't as fortunate. 
And then I think about my children. 
And the children who weren't as fortunate. 

And at some point, we just enjoy the beauty that is summer. Relax and bond as a family. I personally do "all the things" that I've neglected throughout the school year and then once I "think" I'm "done," I start into recovery mode and essentially don't leave my bed/couch. 
But reality hits us with back-to-school commercials and before we know it, we're knee deep in planning mode, cleaning out closets and putting up decor. We have entered the new school year, and it is bright, full of possibilities, and all the whimsy. 
Colleagues are hugged, new teachers are met, and summer is reminisced. Every single staff looks relaxed and ready to begin. 
And tomorrow marks a whole week of school.
Is it bright? Well....it's hot. I'm still smiling. 
Is it full of possibilities? Actually, yes. I hope to stay true to my boundaries. As the school year progresses, I find that Leila the writer, gets written out. Teacher me gets to drive and parent me is the one navigating. Writer me isn't even in the backseat. There are a lot of opportunities that I could go on, wished to go on, but didn't. I'm one who never takes a day off and last year, missed a week due to a fever and a funeral. 

But this summer, I remembered that I am a writer. I have big ideas and have this need to tell stories. I want my children to hear and read those stories one day. I love seeing my daughter eye a copy of my first novel, Love, Defined, that I have displayed in my room. She can see a possibility; a dream realized.
And every so often, I remember that I too can see a possibility; a dream fulfilled. 
While Teacher Leila is comfortable driving the car, parent Leila navigating. I'm going to try to get Writer Leila on board. I need to remember that I am more than my job, my title. I'm my dream too. 

Our theme for the 2025-2026 school year was "greatest school" as in "the greatest showman." Circus. It was literally a circus the first two days; due to the construction, there was a smoke, and the fire alarm that went off. Then a gas leak that made the news. 
I can laugh at the false starts now. I had a stressful year but it wasn't as tough as the previous year. I'm not sure if I had gotten used to the "circus" or if I had already reconciled with the fact that there are things beyond my control and those that I could control, seemed fine by my admin. Not sure if that made any sense. But in the midst of the school year, I found myself wondering about my place. I don't see myself as a SPED Resource teacher forever and I applaud those that make it until their retirement ready. I'm over here about to start year 3 of Special Education. 

In December when I went to a funeral, my husband and I talked about how this unfortunately will be a common ocurence. There will be less and less baby showers. More graduations, more celebrations of marriage....and life. 
Our friend's wife passed away in December. She was only 41. 
My father in law died in February. He was only 69.  My poet's eyes thought: she died in the fall of her life while the world was quietly celebrating winter.
​He died in the winter of his at the start of spring. 
They leave behind people who love them; who still grieve for them. And one day, I will write a eulogy on his life and what he meant to me. For now......having my husband and my children share stories helps us move forward knowing that he'll always be a part of us. 

In thinking of both lives and what we leave behind, I had the opportunity to be in a patient panel. I was able to speak on my experience about my NICU, how I was treated as a patient, and all the things I wished people on my medical team handled me. I hope that with our conversations, change can start to happen. 
I still remember writing a goodbye letter to my daughter before I delivered my son. I was convinced I wasn't going to make it. I prepped my Bible with all these post-its and hoped that in a few years, she'll somehow stumble on these and deduce how mama loved her, how I hope her life would turn out, and my wish for her. This is how I came to write Letters to Lenora. I was trying to make peace that I had something tangible to leave my then four year old.
I can't believe it's been ten years. All the same, I'm still wondering about the type of legacies and stories I'll leave behind. 
She's not reading goodbye letters or what-ifs, as much as she's experiencing life with mom. She sees me upset, scared, determined to stand after falling.....I'm not 100 percent sure she'll look back at her childhood with fondness but I want to make sure there are a million and one memories of her and I in them. 

tThe biggest thing in this Chapter, of course, has been my coming home to Tacloban. I'm so grateful I got to go back in my 40s. The last time I stepped foot in the Philippines was for a vacation when I was 12/13. I remember crying in a jeepney, saying my goodbyes and wondering if I'll ever see anyone there again. 
20s - I was broke and the Philippines was NOT on my radar to visit. I was learning how to be an adult; how to be married; how to live. 
In my 30s, I was consumed by motherhood and anxiety. Not that I'm less anxious now, but I didn't think traveling internationally was a thought in my head with children. Covid happened in the middle of that. So much happened. Seasons changing. I found my voice, my purpose. I went to DC by myself twice. I found advocacy. I changed careers.
I'm saying goodbye to all of the past me, including Chapter 43. I do feel like I've lived so many lives and for each life I lived, I am grateful to be on this side of it. 
Seeing Tacloban in my 40s meant I could ask questions plaguing me. I wrote a LOT. Jotted notes, recorded family conversations, stories. 
I wanted to see the Philippines through my children's eyes and it was filled with wonder. Not just beaches with sand that twinkled, and crystal clear waters, but they heard stories about their mom, their grandmother, their family's history. They were able to walk streets that lined our family's memories. They played with other children; they saw trinkets and ate different foods that lit up a part of their taste buds.
What an experience to witness. 
And then there's the fact that I wrote.
Earlier this year, I submitted my first poem in 3 years. I got an acceptance. In the quiet moments, I often wished I could make writing full time and have sustainable income from it. But I never found the time for myself. After school ended and right before Tacloban, I started to write again. A little here and bits and pieces there. It wasn't until the middle of my trip did I start to assemble poems, start thinking of different collections, visiting different work in progress. 
Friends, I have at least 4 projects percolating. I submitted a micro-chapbook. My manuscript is still out there waiting. I have poems in the wings ready to submit this week. My coming home physically to the Philippines brought me back to myself; my writer self. The one who had been in the wings waiting for a turn at time. A time where silence can be broken by keyboard keys. 
So.....I am proud and humbled by Chapter 43.
But I'm so excited about this Chapter. It'll be the best one yet.
At least, the one where I feel like I'm becoming myself again. 

Until next time, 
​Leila

The Philippines is roughly 13 hours ahead of Texas time. I told my kids that we went to the future as our plane was descending. Both my children were quietly observing the islands appearing beneath them. What were in their heads, I wondered? Meanwhile, my thoughts were racing. Would they appreciate its beauty? Would they look past all that isn't familiar (toilet, acs, foods, etc) and ask a million questions about their mom's history? Would I pretend its okay to enjoy this place as is.....and not what I've built up several times in my head? 
We landed in the afternoon and were met with family I don't recognize. A cousin from my dad's side and her family. On our way to my mom's family - the one I wanted to see and hug - we stopped to look at the MacArthur's landing. I'm now realizing the nod to this pit stop. His 'I shall return' promise is etched in stone. And ours.....our promise came 30 years and 2 siblings short later. 
But as we drove up to a house that I don't recognize - our old home was destroyed during Typhoon Yolanda, the voices and faces opened a vat of childhood memories.
There is my aunt: practically our second mom who made sure we were ready for school and doing our best as my mom was in the States living her dream. She's still exactly how I pictured her. Short, strong, and kind. 
My uncle in his cool little stool watching the roosters. Still a background to strong females in my life but nonetheless, a presence worth noting and knowing.
There was one of my older cousins who doted on us, still just as lovely and sweet. My son instantly bonded with her children. It was a homecoming I hadn't pictured but one that I'll remember.
Not even day one on the island and I was trying my best not to cry or be overwhelmed with all the things.  

I have probably hundreds of pictures on my phone from the minute we were on the plane out of Houston's International airport on the first day of our trip, to the moment we were back home to Texas. I wish I could go back into one of those photos to relive these thousand and one million moments. I don't think we ever for a moment felt homesick for Texas. 
But when we got home, I can tell you that the kids and I missed the roosters waking us up, followed by the pandesal guy (a man with a portable oven carrying bread). I know that dude is for sure missing us - we ordered like crazy, twice a day, for the whole time we were there. 
There are quiet moments like that. The church bell ringing in the distance during our trek through downtown. 
The car horns that asked permission to go around.
Voices of waray - a language that I don't ever hear in the States all around me. A cacophony of familiartiy, childhood, and a home that I forgot existed right were I stood. 
It was a privilege and an honor to introduce my children and husband to the place that birthed and grew their mom. Yes, I consider East Texas my hometown, but this place, my birthplace, is unmatched and has a special place in my heart. 

What I can do for you now is to show you those small moments. Yes, swam in the ocean. Yes, my children had coconuts. Yes, we rode in a pedicab and a jeepney. I did all of my checklist of 'touristy things,' but I was so happy to be able to live like locals with my children for a while. They played badmitton and basketball with their cousins and a neighboring kiddo. They chased down the pandesal guy. They had street food and elegant hotel faire. I hope they saw both sides: the ones who were able to afford the things and the ones whose hands reached out for ours. 
The days we spent not chasing waterfall, I asked each family member to catch me up on their lives. There wasn't a person on Tacloban City that didn't have a Typhoon story. You can still see the damages etched in some walls, in some people. We drove by cemetaries with mass graves. Every survivor told their loss, their resilence, their strenght. What they did in the before, the prayers during, and the surveying of the dead in the after. 
So many stories. 
And I know there are so many more. 

So what can I tell you about Tacloban City, Leyte, Philippines? 
Well.....eventually, I'll get to write poems about it. For now, I am thankful that instead of fading childhood memories, I finally get new ones (and with photos) that I can look back on. I did promise my aunt and cousins that it would not take my family and I 30 more years to return. 

And then I fell in love and my view of faith started to change when I was diagnosed with Preeclampsia. Motherhood truly changes you. I don't know if 30 year old me and 20 year old me would have gotten along. While my faith didn't truly waver - I still believed - I saw faith through Mary's eyes. I prayed over my child, over the sickness and multiple visits to the hospital. I would do anything for her. But I instinctively knew that she wasn't truly mine. She was her own person with her own dreams and hopes. One day, she will leave, make mistakes and do all the things while I watch from a distance. 

And then I had my little dude.
​I had postpartum depression and saw and felt darkness and despair. It was a different type of prayer, a different type of helplessness in the middle of wanting to be faithful. 
Faithful exactly to whom? To a Divinity that chose to ignore my cries at the time?
To a Father who didn't understand what a burden and hardship motherhood can be?
I bargained. I cursed.
I lost myself.
And in finding my way back did I realize that that in itself is faith in action. The unknown, the questions, the wavelengths. Faith is not linear. 
I am still a Believer in Christ. But the Christ I know questions, throws tables and bargains. A Man. 
The Christ I know died on the cross for the 20 year old me who judged everyone she deemed unworthy. 
The Christ I know sat with me in the NICU praying over a baby covered in tubes.
The Christ I know reached out while I was in the dark not to comfort or shine His light, but to give me strength to pull myself out. To will myself to live. ​

My dreams as a writer evolved as well. I wanted to be a romance writer and only write happily ever afters. But I hated writing the 'plot twist' of how the girl or the guy shows up to do unrealistic things such as moving across the country or choosing to be a Vampire instead of a human all in the name of love. I wanted to write 'realistic ever afters.' Endings true to the character and not how we hoped it would be. I wanted to write the 'next great American read,' that high schoolers across the country would pour over and discuss. 
I ended up writing the cliche 'write what you know.' If it wasn't so obvious by now, let me tell you a little of who I am in my 40s.
I write about motherhood; how this journey has shaped me, wrecked me and made me be who I am now. My preclampsia, my postpartum depression, my anxiety all of that is woven in everything I write. 
I write about who I am: a Filipina. An immigrant. A naturalized citizen. A Texan. I am simultaneously proud to be a Texan and fear that I've become complacent that this is just how things are and nothing we do will ever change who's in charge. I still show up to vote anyway. 
I write to advocate for issues I hope my daughter takes for granted one day. She wouldn't and shouldn't have to think twice about her reproductive rights. She wouldn't and shouldn't have to choose career or family. She wouldn't and shouldn't have to sacrifice her mental health. 
I write musings about my children; how their parents are trying to break not just generational 'curses' but intercultural challenges. 
I write for that 9 year old little girl dreaming about being a writer. Her biggest dream was to walk to a bookstore and find her name written on the cover.
​Guess what? We've done it and we'll do it again. We've been asked to share our stories in a panel, to an audience of 500 people. We've been interviewed. A stranger who heard you speak stopped you getting on an elevator to tell you about what your story meant to her - a new mama. And in Her Divinity, the Universe decided weeks before your planned return to the Motherland that all your musings and writings was noticed and your body of work in poetry, in advocacy was looked at. 

And maybe that's the point.
20-year-old me thought faith meant certainty.
30-year-old me thought faith meant endurance.
43-year-old me thinks faith is having the courage to keep showing up anyway.
To keep asking questions.
To keep writing.
To keep loving.
To keep believing that our stories matter.
I am no longer the girl who thought she had all the answers.
I am the woman who has lived long enough to know that certainty is overrated and grace is not.
I am a mother.
A wife.
A writer.
A Filipina.
A believer.
An advocate.
None of those identities exist separately. They inform one another. They challenge one another. They have all shaped the person writing these words tonight.
And maybe that is what becoming really is.
Not finding ourselves.
But returning to ourselves, over and over again, carrying a little more wisdom, a little more compassion, and a few more stories than before.
The girl who dreamed of seeing her name on the cover of a book was never really dreaming about a book.
She was dreaming about being heard.
And somehow, after all these years, she still is.

I also think about my childhood and what parts would I say I'd imagined or added/taken away through the years. I have this photo album with the little pictures I'd apparently taken from the house all those years ago. I know that as soon as we land, I'll probably cry after the heat and humidity hit me. I'm prepared for whatever emotions bubble up to the surface. 
31 years.
Can you believe it's been that long? I haven't seen cousins in 31 years. There has been a generation that was born within that time frame. My Lolo died in 2001. I'd like to see the grave of the man who told me stories - whether he meant to scare me, entertain or pass down folklores, he made me want to hear and read and write all these stories. 
My son is 10; he turned 10 in April so he is the age that I was when I left.
My daughter is 14; she turned 14 in March—around the same age I was when I last stepped foot in Tacloban.
The ages strike a nerve. 
The ages strike a nerve.
The longevity and passage of time feels heavier.
And my husband, who has only heard my childhood in snippets, who only hears the language when my parents visit, will be meeting a different version of me. One that existed long before Texas, before teaching, before motherhood, before all the versions of myself that came after.
Nineteen days.
For years, Tacloban has existed in photographs, stories, and memory. A place that feels both familiar and imagined. A place I have spent decades writing about, even when I wasn't aware that I was doing it.
In nineteen days, I'll find out what remains.
What I remembered correctly.
What I forgot.
What time has softened.
And somewhere between the girl who left and the woman who is returning, I suspect there is another story waiting for me.
Nineteen days.
But who's counting?

On this day, 10 years ago, I went in for a glucose test.I was all nerves—gears grinding, thoughts spiraling.
I didn’t know it then, but I was slowly imploding into myself.
Truly, I have few regrets in life. One of them is that because of my pregnancy anxiety and the postpartum depression that followed, I don’t have many pictures or memories of baby R and me. It would take months before I couldn’t stop documenting every minuscule thing he did.
Until then, I was a shell.
I can look at this picture now and remember the impending doom I felt.
I can also look at it and wonder what a difference it might have made if I had spoken up sooner—if I had asked for help sooner.
But I am grateful that I am still here.
Grateful that this is now a memory—one that blurs in and out of focus.
I wish I could reach through time and hold her.
Tell her it will be okay in the end.
I wish I could tell her that time didn’t heal us—
it softened the walls we built.
It made us advocates for maternal mental health.
Ten years.
In a few days, I have the honor of raising a ten-year-old boy who came in unannounced and changed my entire being.
Ten years ago, I was standing at the edge of a storm.
Somehow, I found my way out.
If you want to read more of our story, you can find it in Storm of Hope.