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.​

Took off to Austin for an opportunity to speak in a panel for Texas Collaborative for Healthy Mothers and Babies (TCHMB) summit. 
This was scary. I've sat in on interviews. Did a video. But to sit on a stage to talk about my lived in experiences to a room full of healthcare providers.....
nerves were high. I told myself to make it out of the room this morning. Then make my way downstairs. 
Each step over the course of 12 years from where and when my birth story began lead me to here. Steps that had to be broken down; full of tough love reflections and celebrations. I made it to the ballroom - celebrate that, breathe out the nerves. Rein in the tears.
They called us up. I made it to the stage. Celebrate that tiny and important win. 
I spoke up - even through shaky words and tears; I got through it. I celebrated that with hugs from strangers who listened. 
12 years ago, I made the steps inside my doctor's office, with the thought that I was going to be admitted (hospital bed rest). I made the short steps to the hospital next door. 
Steps to and from the NICU. A series of milestones in the steps she took as she grew.
I couldn't have imagined these steps for myself. And here we are. Here I am. And I am left wondering, if these are the footsteps my baby is going to follow, may she know the strength in her steps and the stories behind them. May she walk with courage and grace and celebrate the small victories along the big wins. May she remember that her tiniest footprint has created the biggest impact on me.... and in the people who listened to her birth story. It's not just mine; it is hers as well.
​❤️❤️❤️ 
#preeclampsiasurvivor  #preeclampsia #ppd #maternalmentalhealth #motherhood #mommasvoices

Wherever you are, Wendi Aarons, thank you so much. This book has been a fun read and as a SAHM the first 6 years of my babies lives, could relate to the loneliness and pettiness of all the mom proms. I cannot wait until I have reached the age of "wisdom" and go unfiltered and unapologetic. I love that motherhood made me an advocate but truly admire that it made you angry enough to push for change and bravely speak on those at womens right marches and conventions. I will use whatever voice I have to speak out and continue to share my motherhood, preeclampsia and postpartum depression stories. Change starts with me. 

I saw my class list yesterday and immediately did the thing that every teacher does. I found some lower grade level teachers and asked about my list of names. How were they last year? Reading level? Were they friendly/bullies/insert a label here. 
And perhaps because I met some of these "labels" last night at our "meet the teacher," I am apologizing to the Universe in the form of this post. 
I met a label who was surrounded by his hard shell and a mama who was worried about his low reading level. 
I met another label who didn't say one word to me, her dad filling out my form and her big sister doing most of the talking - telling dad about her sister's birthdate, asking questions about where the supplies should go, and then worrying about whether her little sister has enough supplies with her. I wanted to hug that girl; that family. 
Labels we assign to things to categorize and organize. 
I know we are more than our labels. And if my daughter's 5th grade teacher were to assign my daughter a label for her 6th grade teacher, it would be 'chatty,' 'sweet,' 'needs redirection.' Labels that I would be saddened to hear as a mom about her child.
And what about me? I would have been the one that the teacher wouldn't have remembered. The quietest kid who was neither brilliant nor smart enough to stand out. 
And as a teacher - what did these students hear about me last year? Were they excited when they saw my name on the welcome email? Or did they cry about having to get me? 
We are more than our labels and yet we cannot help but categorize ourselves, peers and people into what we believe to be true. To make them fit into a box. 
I am going into next year with an open mind and heart. Yes, labels do help us categorize. No, we shouldn't put our students' in these preconceived boxes and never let them out to explore what more than can be; who they could become if they weren't given the negative labels. They are just kids after all. 
So I apologize, dear Universe and will try to do better. And if there was to be a category that I was going to be forever stuck in - it would be the 'pushy teacher,' - the one who never gave up and pushed for higher expectations and expecting that her students would go above that and more. I would want to be the teacher that last year's students' set out to find. I saw several students go down my hallway and see their disappointed faces when their teacher from last year wasn't there, and new teacher faces peered at them in curiosity. 
And truly, my heart burst when I saw 2 of mine from last year find me in a completely different wing of the school to tell me who they have this year and the friends who will be in their class. They gave me hugs and we wished each other a great year. 
One would have been labeled 'high achiever,' gentle giant and would make his teacher smile and boast about him all year long.
The other one, my sweet little, would have been labeled 'at risk,' in many different ways. But every day, she worked hard, and I was so proud of every little milestone that we carved out together that she met. And I would love to have her again in my class next year to see how much she grew. That's the one to watch out for. The ones who grow stubbornly at their own pace. The ones who are not only try-ers but do-ers in all the best ways because they didn't have a teacher that assigned them one label all year long. 
If you are a new teacher and you get your class list and a lower grade sees a name, please note that and then put it away. Yes, it can be helpful but there could have been different personalities involved in that classroom that you know nothing about. And we don't usually remember the days when it was ordinary, and everyone did what they were supposed to do. We usually flag and keep the memories of that one day the student did this or that. Remember that there are 180+- days of school. I don't remember all of it. I probably can tell you and describe about 5 days that I was frustrated/upset/insert negative emotion here. And if anything as stressed and crazy those 5 days were nothing compared to the stories I heard about from the class next door. We all have bad days, and I had the best class last year who gave me enough grace and love that I was able to pour so much to them. Will your year look like mine last year? Probably. Probably not. 
Will my year look like last year's? I hope so. I hope in my bad days that I know are coming I remember that sweet little who showed me the different ways she handled stress and how we were able to calm down together.
I hope I remember that high achiever who became confident and read books to his friends and classmates. 
I hope I remember last night's 'meet the teacher,' and the way I was sought out and hugged. 
However you got into teaching and wherever you are in your teaching journey, I think we can all agree that that is probably the best feeling as both a parent and a teacher. Your child's teacher meant so much to your kiddo that they ran down the hall to greet them. In your stressed out moments that will come, that's the one to label. The imprints and impact we are leaving behind. 

Wishing all you educators and parents a great school year. 

I am aware that the days and memories I get to have with my children is not something that women here in the US and those around the world get a chance to have with a preeclampsia diagnosis. This is my own story and I am forever grateful for my medical team and my family. I fully embrace all my preeclampsia survivors and the families that they left behind. You will always be in my thoughts and the reason I keep sharing. 

With news of preeclampsia being in the forefront lately (links below)- and for which I am so grateful and ecstatic over - the word in and of itself takes me back to a place I use to not want to acknowledge. Preeclampsia was my nightmare world. It was this fear that gnawed at me every time I looked at my daughter. During my second pregnancy, I felt like a ticking time bomb and knew that I would eventually (and I did) implode. 

​It has been 7 years since I was diagnosed with Preeclampsia. 7 years since I prayfully, frustratingly bargained my soul and body for a chance to have a healthy preeclampsia-free pregnancy. 7 years since I went on numbingly into the emergency room knowing the end goal: another preeclampsia diagnosis, another premature baby, another NICU stay. This was a fate I was destined to have. Mine and my children's canon event. 

I was fearful of preeclampsia that the anxiety of it almost crushed me. Even though I was diagnosed at 26 weeks in my first pregnancy, I celebrated each week that we passed. It wasn't until my second pregnancy, that I knew the bomb was ticking and set to go off.

And boy, the implosion was nowhere near what I imagined it to be. The intensity and magnitude of it, I will save that story for another day. 

​Suffice it to say that for a long time, I wrestled with my childbirth experiences. I was burdened with guilt about giving my children this legacy. And it took a while to talk about it. It still hurts. Even if I don't remember all the big things, the specifics......my body remembers, and I can feel myself curling inward, tensing and ready for that inevitable weight that'll come and crush me. 

SEVEN years. 

I am amazed at how far my premmies have come. 

I am humbled at my journey to here. 

I am grateful that I had help and support to pick up the pieces of debris left behind. 
I know I'm not 100 % whole. There is and will be the before and after version of myself and the bridge to the past isn't as simple as looking backwards or through a looking glass. There are parts of myself that will never be put back. And that's okay. 
​And our story isn't pretty or perfect.

But it's our story - mine and my children.

​I will be forever grateful for anyone who listens to my story. The story of us. 

Recent news:
Olympic athlete Tori Bowie died of complications from childbirth : NPR
​
Blood test can identify risk for preeclampsia, the leading cause of maternal death | PBS NewsHour

To hear my story and a chance to listen to several others, please go to Hear her Texas/DSHS Texas: Hear Her Texas | Texas DSHS 

https://youtu.be/DK2T6U4G4ow

I said I wasn't going to do a 'resolutions,' and I do mean that. However, I could not resist doing a list....because I like lists and my brain cannot function without making a list of things to write in my lovely new 2023 planner. I don't know about you but seeing the section for 2023 goals be blank just makes me so sad and anxious. 

1.) Read 23 books. Currently listening to audiobook, Weightless: Making Space for my Resilient Body and Soul by Evette Dionne --> which tells you the kind of state of mind I'm at right now. 
2.) Submit to 23 places (journals, press, chapbooks, etc).
3.) visit 23 NEW to us places with family (campgrounds, museums, parks, etc).
4.) Take a photography class. 
5.) Reconnect with old friends.
6.) Weekly Filipino recipes (Filipino Fridays).
7.) Run 23 miles (not all at once - over the course of the year)
8.) Take a cooking class.
9.) Go on monthly dates with Hubs.
10.) Take a self defense class. 
11.) Go on 6 dates with E (ODD months).
12.) Go on 6 dates with R (EVEN months).
13.) Road trip with the sisters.
14.) Sew together a bag.
15.) Donate Plasma before next birthday.
16.) Schedule a wellness women checkup (it's been years, sadly) and a
17.) mammogram before next birthday. 
18.) Shop the closet and donate the ones you aren't wearing - have hangers on backwards and correct the ones you've worn. Reassess after end of each season (Winter: March, Spring: May, Summer: September, Fall: November). 
19.) Dance class!
20.) Campout with extended family. 
21.) Take a vacation with friends.
22.) Spend time in silence/meditate/pray daily and
23.) practice daily gratitude. 

I was "voluntold" to teach Faith Formation for 5th grade students at my parish and today was our very first meeting. I told them (I have 17 5th graders) that I am a "cradle-Catholic" and had strict parents who took us to church, made sure we did all our Sacraments (Baptism, Communion and Confirmation). We even went to a Catholic school while in the Philippines. 
Faith is not linear. I've had multiple "God moments" and felt His presence. I've had PLENTY of dry spells and question/bargaining years. And all of that is okay. I posed this question on the board:
what does "faith" mean to you? 
I had them write it down and reflect on it for a few minutes. What does it mean? And if they didn't know...that's okay. If they were still wondering what it all means...that's okay too. And if they wrote down, "I am only here because my parents signed me up and I do not believe...that's okay too.
This is for them and not for me or for others to look at or judge.
No faith journey is the same. No one (myself included) has all the answers. Who am I to question their heart and where they are?
I told them a very short history of my faith, some of my downs and a God moment. I told them if I were to die today, I want to be known for trying. I tried to walk the walk. I tried to love up on everyone. I try to be kind and helpful. Some of my tries aren't good enough and I acknowledge that. Some of my tries are half-hearted and out of duty - those I will also acknowledge. But I tried and that's all that matters, to me. You can't say I didn't try at relationships, friendships, a new adventure or whatnot. I showed up and that is what faith means to me. Showing up, just as I am. 
I told them that while this is their faith journey and theirs alone, I will try to be what they need me to be - friend, mentor, teacher. 
And maybe that is a heart of naivete speaking. More than anything, whatever we all learn from this journey together is to show up when it counts.