**The post below was originally written in May 2021. I feel like there is this whole world and an ocean between this time and today. In the years following this blog post, I can say I've become a paid public speaker thanks to Momma's Voices and have gone onstage to share our story. I've written a memoir and poems. I've been on camera and our story lives on somewhere in the files of Texas Health and Human Services department. I got to share my story in the halls of Congress. When I wrote what I wrote in 2021.....I couldn't even fathom this current chapter. I wouldn't have dared to guess or hoped of all the things in between, the people I've met. I am both grateful for that time and am humbled by the outpouring of support, of love and strength. 
Today begins both Asian American Pacific Islander Heritage Month, Preeclampsia Awareness Month and Mental Health Awareness Month. I would be remiss if I didn't acknowledge the ways all 3 identities and experiences have shaped me.

I come from an island made of jungles,
built by fire, 
conquered and colonized but our
tongues hold our ancestral cries. 
I am a survivor.

​It also welcomed strength, unlike anything I’ve ever felt before. There would be no crying at our reality or our missed bonding time as you were wheeled away into a Neonatal Intensive Care Unit (NICU) over an hour away. Instead, I had to summon whatever will and adrenaline coursing through my body and demanded it heal so I can be closer to my heart. Tears would come later. And as I sadly learned, tears would come in waves that crippled and made me wonder where that strength went all those days and weeks I spent by your isolate in the NICU.

I don’t know for sure how I lived to see you celebrate your first birthday, when every image I’d see, you were surrounded by tubes and wires and your heart monitor constantly beeping.
Somehow I did learn to move freely. I learned to save my tears in the shower. I learned to whisper prayers of gratitude every night as I watched you sleep.
As I started to accept the idea that there would only be the three of us - you, me and your dad - I learned I was again expecting.
This did not bring me joy. I met this news with anger and I tried for a long time to be happy. You were a beautiful four year old. I survived our first year and I was becoming less afraid of your future.
When I heard the heartbeat, I didn’t want to know the sex. I couldn’t give this heart a name.
I didn’t want to write to-do lists and there was no dream like stupor, either. I was a mom on a mission and my mission was to live so I could go home to you and our life.

​I thought I welcomed him in my arms. I thought I kissed his head as he was wheeled to the NICU. I thought I was doing okay until I wasn’t.
Until I didn’t hear him crying even when he was next to me.
Until suddenly, the idea of leaving you and him seemed like a rational action.
Motherhood has defined me in ways I never knew I'd be defined by.
While I knew motherhood gives you a different identity and purpose. Mine came with a two time Preeclampsia survivor, a parent to premature babies, and NICU graduates. I also had to include on postpartum depression survivor - an identity that I didn’t know I’d endure and survive.
​
And while the story of ours is still writing itself, I am hopeful that you and your brother can overcome any obstacles in life. After all, the strength I had to push through my storms were reflected in your eyes. You gave me courage. I choose to live bravely because of you. My purpose isn’t to understand why the story of ours began the way it did but how our story could give a voice and comfort to another.

For more of my preeclampsia and postpartum depression story, please see here: https://www.amazon.com/gp/product/B073MVG4R4/

You ever have one of those days where you can't quite figure out why there's a buildup of energy and emotion?
I wanted to fight someone yesterday. I lashed out at people I cared about. And I didn't know why.
I'm not one to sit down and share my feelings easily. I handle my own emotions and carry on....... and yes, there will be a one-off moment where I'm wired, cranky, overstimulated, overwhelmed and frustrated ... but there was this rage about something I couldn't voice.... something I couldn't place.
And today, I just happened to really take a good look at my April calendar.
13 years and 1 day ago, I took my 31 weeker home. This was the happiest day of our lives.
Almost 9 years ago, I was breaking down into hives and hiding my panic attacks from ptsd. I was 32 weeks and felt an implosion coming. Around this time, 9 years ago, I was on the verge of what would later be postpartum depression, and my body remembered the rage.
I was so angry and exhausted; frustrated at everything and everyone.
9 years ago, at this time.... I was writing my goodbye letters to my little girl.
And my body remembered everything.
My heart and soul and their scars remembered what my mind thought was gone... forgiven, forgotten. I was (am) free from those dark days and it's been a long time since I've experienced this sort of loss, rage, sadness and guilt.
Yesterday, I couldn't place myself.
Today, I am listening and validating.
I was not ok.
I am now doing ok.
Time is still healing us.

When I was a young girl, I too thought of my parents as just "parents." They were there to teach, support, and help us. I don't think I knew what my parents wanted to be when they grew up. Their dream and passions were just a foreign concept. We were their world and nothing more.
So of course, I understood when my girl was telling me what her passions are and seriously stated that she didn't think I had any passions. After all, I work so much - both in and out of the home. She catches me reading books and knows I had written a book or two. But she's never seen me light up nor she read anything of mine.
I was not offended, mostly a bit surprised and a little hurt.
I stated my passion is you. I finally told my girl that I was a mental health advocate because of her. My journey from whispering into the night to ask if I was alone to then sharing my story to 500 + strangers on a stage. I've talked about her in front of a camera. I've spoken about her spirit at a march. I went to DC to share our birth story. My hopes and dreams for women who went through the same journey has been written.
And it started because of her.
She dreams of wanting to inspire the world and I told her she already has. At least, I hope ours is inspiring someone.
One day, we'll have that hard conversation about my postpartum depression.
One day, I'll show her why I wrote what I wrote.
One day, I'll tell her why I do gratitude nightly prayers.
But last night, I hugged both my babies & simply said I love you.
And if one day doesn't come.... at least they'll know mama wrote it down. A YouTube video and a slew of articles of our story exists. They'll always know they were my inspiration.

#stormofhope #ppd #preclampsia #nicubabies

This was me:
My first novel, a YA Romcom (Love, Defined) written in college and published by a small indie publisher in 2015. I have learned so much and even though it's small, I am thankful I still get some royalties.
I wrote Storm of Hope as a way of healing, following a second preeclampsia diagnosis and postpartum depression. This memoir of sorts is a combination of poems and journal entries. Written around the birth of my son 2016, self-published in 2017.
In my moments of darkness, I wrote goodbye letters to my daughter. They were thrown away during my healing journey. I did, however, think about a story that revolved around letters that a mom might leave behind for her daughter to find. Letters of hope, love and forgiveness. This was a hard one to write and I managed to wrap it up in a novella, Letters to Lenora. I had submitted this story to an anthology, got accepted and within a year, got my rights to it back. I self-published this one in 2021.
I am still a caffeinated mama who gets awestruck at fireworks.
I am faithful to Christ, but I question my faith every day.
Most especially, the role that church plays in its hand at the evil happenings in the world. I am amazed daily that my daughter has such faith in herself and God..... even if her mom has to swallow every bit of cynical retort.
I'm still writing; just less happy thoughts on faith and romance.
In 2025, I would love to write another novel, publish my full poetry collection and be confident in how I speak at panels, in person, with friends and strangers.
Each of the above was written in different seasons (college, ppd, the hopeful after). Stay tuned for what else I can do.

It snowed here in Houston! The last time this happened, the power went out. It was hard to enjoy the cold whenever you have to come in to a cold house.
The warmth from the oven (baking bread this morning) and the heater on has definitely made the transition from outside to inside so much better.
My early birds and I enjoyed the quiet weather in our backyard before hearing the neighbors.
They threw snowballs and listened to the crunch beneath our feet.
We marveled and noted when the snow swirled around us as a gust of wind blew past.
We stood in silence.
We laughed with delight.
I tried to capture as many photos to hold on to this moment. This bliss. This pure peace in the whiteout.
And we trudged back inside, drank our hot chocolate and coffee while looking through the photos.
Hope all my Southeast Texas friends are staying safe and warm. Enjoy the peace the snow brings...... it'll melt away fast before we know it.

Today is Inauguration Day and I'm not watching any of that. Which I'm part grateful for that I don't have to control my blood pressure but makes me a bit sad. I love watching history as it is happening with my children. We talk about the days leading up to it, the day of, and the "promises" that the President says to appease his voting block. We've done this for his past term and Biden's. I love the traditional aspects of leaving a note for the next President, the welcoming and ushering in a new family.  
When I heard they moved it indoors and that upset a lot of people, I had an image of a king who closed his castle doors. Because isn't that what this is like? To be so far removed from the 'every day' common person that you only want the people who can speak of praises around you and can afford to buy you more castles in your kingdom?
Today also happens to be Martin Luther King Jr day. I think I'll spend our brief time going over the words of a King, a reverend, the face of justice and activism. In the spirit of his day, we usually donate to a cause (it's also a day of service). We will keep our eyes and hearts on California. 
I'll keep on writing, reading, and teaching my children historical events. Maybe write a poem or two about today. 
But somehow or another, we will keep going.
Here is to 4 years.

Just finished by a book! I started the year reading a novella from one of my favorite indie authors, Penny Reid. There are absolutely too many romcoms in this list - if that gives you an idea of what my 2024 was like. I wanted something sweet, funny, happy ever after stories to listen and or read to versus all the nonsense dumpster fire that has been work. I don't even know when I downloaded Matthew Perry's memoir and listening to him throughout knowing he is gone, has been a weird mix of nostalgia and gathering his thoughts as sage wisdom that the dead is trying to tell us. I loved his stories; it's a culmination of his life work, his loves, the lens he was looking through as alcoholic, an addict and then the 'glasses' of sobriety. It was a tougher read mostly as he was one of my favorite actors and as he narrates his story, you can hear the hope he has for himself.....and then knowing that in a year's time, he wouldn't be here. 
I am choosing to end the year with two quick reads, because quite frankly, I am running out of days in the year. First, 'the trouble with reality.' It's a quick read and was written during Trump's first Presidency. I was looking through the pages hoping to find something wise as I feel like we are truly living in different realities depending on who you talk to. It reads like a type A friend giving you advice; mix  the realness, bullet points, etc. It's how that "your truth isn't the same as mine" but both are valid and can be true. There is no "your view," "my view," and "the truth," as people would like us to think.....rather, it is here is how your world view shapes your stories and therefore the news that you seem fit to consume would go against or isn't the same as how the world view and stories from my perspective may seem 'too liberal,' 'too conservative,' or 'too extra,' however you look at it. 
So "oh bullshit," to close out the year. Which seems like a fitting send off to the year - its about lying, denial, perceptions....you know, just bullshit. Especially great to read after 'the trouble with reality.'
It's all shit and we are all trying. 
Without further ado......here is my books of 2024. 

Dear friend, it's me, Leila. I'm sorry I have been neglecting you. I feel like I've been neglecting myself these days. Some writer news: I got word that my manuscript, love, lumpia and words, advanced to the next round of reads. According to their email, my collection is among less than 20 % of those 500 who submitted to make it to the next round. 20 % of 500. 99 other collections out there next to mine. My heart leaped and then dropped. This collection is something that I've worked on for years although, it has been collecting dust for the past 2 years. 
Writing isn't competitive. Writing is subjective...poetry, especially. And I'll take whatever "win" I can and move on. The problem is....I don't know if I have it in me to write these days. 
I will say the last time I wrote with raw emotions was in the midst of this collection. In 2021, at the height of the anti-Asian, AAPI hate.
So there's that. 

Writer friends, I hope you are still dreaming big and writing all the things. And as far as my mama advocates, I am still so honored to fight and advocate alongside you. 

Hoping this space grows a little more. Until then, 
I'm under construction myself. 

This week has been a whirlwind. On Tuesday, I sat in on a panel sponsored by Mommas Voices and again spoke about my traumatic birth experiences. I got to "meet" new faces whose stories were not quite the same as mine, but we've all come to this moment and space due to our motherhood journey. Bonus: I didn't cry. I merely listened, answered the question and added to them, as needed. 
And on Thursday, I went to my first Filipino American National Historical Society event. I was moved that there were a lot of people who wanted to listen to our panel - this one was how folktales or mythologies impacted our own stories. At first, it didn't feel like I should be sitting next to two women who have written their books with such beautiful Filipino mythology retelling. Who was I? I was this mom who just spoke about her mental health and preeclampsia to anyone who would listen. I wrote poetry and haven't written in quite a while. Someone told me that all the things I was doing was a big deal but as pumped as I was, it just didn't feel like I was measuring up.  
As these thoughts came so rapidly, I made myself stop. It helped that there were people - FILIPINOS - my people who in their own way told me to stop and be proud. I'm a Filipina. I write about mental health so that another Filipina (young or old) can see that they are absolutely not alone. 
I'm a Filipina - the women next to me are Filipinas - and we are, through our own journeys - are proof that we don't have to fit in boxes that society and our families try to put us in. We can simply create our own paths. And yes, it is rocky and filled with hardship, but that's life.
​And as I was sitting there staring out into the crowd, I was reminded of the journeys Filipinos in general have taken to get to where we are now. In the callbacks to our ancestral heritage, we came from warriors and peace keepers. We are children born out of jungles and ash. In our bloodline, our ancestors have seen fighting and liberation. Some of our brave ancestors took a boat and made it across the Pacific. Their stories and DNA are the reasons why some of us are born with a sense that there is something out there to be discovered; there is something here or there to be written about. We should honor the storytellers just as much as all the warriors that came and fought. 
And in them, I am me. I'm a Filipina and in less than 24 hours, I will be 42, and my lists of accomplishments are a big deal. 
- I've written a book (Love, Defined): - how many people can say that?
- I had preeclampsia twice and survived; postpartum depression, rage, anxiety and wrote a memoir consisting of journal entries and poetry (Storm of Hope). 
- I have spoken in a panel to a crowd of 500 people about my traumatic birth experiences (TCHMB summit).
- I was invited to film a series (Hear Her Texas) so that health care providers and educators can use my story as educational tools for how to treat their patients going forward. 
- I was asked to speak for a walk where people whose stories matched mine was able to walk with me (Promise Walk Dallas). 
- My poems have been in mental health anthologies and journals.
- My takes on Asian American and identities has been studied in a college setting. 
- I went from a WIC Nutritionist to stay at home mom and then decided at the age of 37 that I was going to be a teacher....and I did. I am. 

I'm Pinoy. An immigrant who moved here at 9 years old and these accomplishments are a big freaking deal and I should own them instead of merely waving my hand and go yeah, but so and so did this..... 
And I know I'm nowhere near done yet. 

The time is almost here ......my birthday is in 44 days and the reflections of chapter 41 as I head into my 42nd chapter will begin.


​Of note, the only "highs" I can think of is for my advocacy. I went out of my comfort zone and traveled solo - to Florida in November and to D.C. in May. I even got to sit at a panel for the TCHMB summit.  My lows......I haven't written, or submitted, or asked the Universe to send me a muse as I'm prone to do every other month or so. In fact, aside from this blog post, my last recent blog was in March...about my advocacy work. 
I did manage to write 24 poems in 24 hours for the Poetry Marathon, but towards the end, I was absolutely not making any sense and I can't find where I've written those poems down in my early morning musings. 
I miss writing. I miss being in a community of writers and poets. I even started to miss Twitter, excuse me, X. 
I understand that time, teaching, being a mom and wife, are a huge part of why I stopped, but I know several moms, wives, and teachers who are making a go and setting time for their writing. Amidst all the mess and chaos of my own (and family's) creation, there is a story that needs to be told. And I already know the beginning and have a rough framework of the middle and end. 
Perhaps, I am going through this self-reflection tour since I'm listening to Joanna Gaines' The Stories We Tell and she's harping on about well.... stories and how we should both honor them and then speak or write about them. Or the fact that for a lovely 24 hours, I was part of a writing community and we rallied and supported each other during the early morning hours when sleep would have been easier than writing.
It could be looking through this sad website and noting that the last publication was a year ago for a poem I had written in 2021/22. Or my daughter finding my 80 some pages of Asian American poems, doodling all over it and asking why it's dusty. That last poem was also dated in 2022.
Perhaps, it's also my anxiety screaming that in about 21 days, I am going to sit in front of some peers who have written, who are versed in storytelling, and I'm going to be talking about storytelling.... even though I, myself, have not written a single note in almost 2 years. And the last things I wrote was for a 24-hour poetry marathon and those 24 poems were nonsensical. I think I can salvage about 5, but the rest does not need to be seen. 
It is this imposter syndrome that is currently going through a list of "good excuses" to bow out. But I know fear isn't a good reason. I've been asked so many times to be out of my comfort zone and I may not have liked it at the time, but I don't regret it. 
One of my biggest fear is getting lost. Don't ask me why. I was never lost as a kid. But I have this fear of not being able to find my way out and back to home. My commute is the shortest way possible. I do not like "scenic" routes. I stay on the highways and follow the directions most navigations tell me to go. Alternate routes give me anxiety. 
In November, I traveled solo to Orlando and guess what? I got lost somewhere in the airport. I would have had a panic attack, except, my husband was on the phone talking me down, and I was meeting people somewhere in the airport. We all got lost and managed to circle around for 3 hours. At the airport. But we managed to get to our destination.
In May, I flew again, this time to D.C. No one was meeting me at the airport. I just had to get to the hotel on my own. And I got there by myself. During the day when we w were scheduled to meet with Representatives for our State, I had time by myself. I walked down a block and found a peaceful garden not too far from Congress. I wouldn't have been able to do that if I hadn't already gotten lost and found my way through.

I recognized fear in those moments and then I remembered that bravery isn't just flying to cities to meet strangers who have had the same birth experiences or talking to someone about mental health struggles. Bravery is walking towards serenity and recognizing that all these trips, I was finding more and more about myself and that I have stories and poems stored up in all of these walks. I have walked up and down NICU corridors. I have shuffled my feet down emergency rooms.  I have prayed at every turbulent flights from Manila, from D.C. and all the states I have walked on. Stories of guilt, miracles, depression, hope, anxiety, fun tidbits, crushes, love, lost, grief; and in all these stories I have lived, where and who am I, if not the writer penning all these? 
​Fear and overcoming them has led me to today. I wished for my 41 to live authentically. I'm not even sure what that means or if I have lived it this year. Was I "authentic" or true to myself as a mom/teacher/wife/advocate? I haven't written a darn thing and, that in itself, is not authentically me. Anxious, yes. Hyped up and amped up, always. Writing those feelings down so I am not as amped up, hyped up and anxious....I should have been. Instead, I went head down, eyes closed and jumped in. This year, I'm finding that I was living 'fearless,' or 'bold,' or better yet, I was "braver" than I've ever been my whole life.
Bravery looks different, just as fear is different for people. My fear hasn't ever been "will someone like this story?" or "what would I do if I got rejected?" Poetry gives you a thicker skin. So many rejections in so many years. 
Rather, I've always been fearful of "is this the story that is truly what I needed to say?" "Can I do justice to my imagination and heart?" "Would people see my heart here?" ​

Maybe I've just read too many self-help books and romcoms about bold heroines or maybe I've been binge watching too much Bridgerton.....whatever it is, I am still looking through this stack of unpublished poems, looking at the dates and truly wondering where did I go? And my biggest fear is that I am lost, and I don't know who I am or where I went, when I'm sitting still just looking at these old stories and poems. Hopefully, I'll find that I wasn't really lost after all.  
Maybe I got it backwards....in finding bravery this 41st chapter, maybe, just maybe, I'll figure out how to "live authentically," in chapter 42. 
Or and this could just be my very cynical self (but hell, if I'm going to be authentic, might as well start now), I am perhaps looking at the very stirrings of a midlife crisis. 
​Stay tuned.​