**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/

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. 

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.​

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 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 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. 

I have been watching my children take swim lessons for the past 2 weeks. In the beginning, my oldest plunged feet first and did her best to swim. She looked forward to her daily lessons and seemed to shine brighter afterwards. My little one is the skeptic, anxious one; he negotiated every jump, every move, every lesson. I wasn't able to hear from my vantage point but I could see him talking to his instructor, shake his head and nod when she moved just a little bit closer. This is me heading into the school year. 
I will be (hopefully) teaching kindergarten and I am skeptical of my abilities and super anxious about what our daily routine will look like. But because littles watch what we do, I know my daughter has a lot of me in her. This is me plunging into a teaching career at (almost) 40. I know I will do my best and I know that I will look forward to my kiddos. I loved doing virtual teaching. Those kiddos, I will forever think of as my very first class....even if TEA (Texas Education Agency) won't recognize the year I spent with them (long story). I loved seeing their excited faces and listening to their stories. I loved that they looked forward to talking to me about their weekends/holidays. If I try to be my best self, just as I did last year, then I should expect the same outcome. And after all, these are kindergartners. 5/6 year olds who are just as scared leaving their moms and dads and guardians at home to spend the full day with a stranger. I know on the very first day of school, we will all be thinking, "will they (she) like me?" 
And I already love them for that. 
Yesterday was their last day of swim. We did a 2 week "power course" which was 20 minutes of one-on-one instruction daily. By the end of the 10 days, my daughter almost "graduated" from the beginner and moved to the high tier end of advanced swim and safety. There are 10 tiers and she will be promoted to the 7th tier. 
I only had 1 goal for the little man: for him to get out of the pool safe and to be able to put his head under water. I remember when I took him to the beach when he was a year old and he cried the entire time the water lapped at his feet. He is not my beach bum, nor my water loving buddy. Essentially, his dad. 
But by the end, I watched with so much pride in my heart when he jumped into the pool and turn around, hang tight to the edge and climb back out. I watched him put his head under water and happily swam with a bar for balance/buoyancy and watched his legs kicking behind him. 
Growth, patience, and lots of support and encouragement from both me and his instructor and he was able to not only meet the expectations I set for him, but soared on his own.
And that's the lesson I am taking away for myself this fall.
There will be tears. There will be anxious starts. I will negotiate. I will set goals for myself. But I know with lots of growth, patience, support, and encouragement, my class and I will not only exceed what my goals are but we will be able to soar. 
May I remember this thought this fall. And if you are going into the teaching profession or go into writing full time.....may you remember this as well.

We can do it, friends. 

And if you are able to, please consider donating. My kinders and I thank you:
https://www.amazon.com/hz/wishlist/ls/1814GM0N87XGN?ref_=wl_share

​I was in San Antonio yesterday for my first ever production. I'm not quite allowed to share photos I took on the set. That'll come later. I did manage to grab this shot and  as there are no people and I'm not going to share the context, I will leave it here. 

​I'm currently replaying everything I've said about my #motherhood #preeclampsia #ppd story. There were things I wished I said. Words I wish I could go back and edit for clarification (and hope they completely cut it out of my segment). 
Regardless, I am still coming down from being surrounded by the most amazing people I probably will never see again. 
10 years ago, I never expected that my beginnings (my daughter's beginning) would continue to be replayed and reshared and shaped me into advocacy work. I never thought I'd share how I felt about my son. But I needed to reconcile the guilt, the anxiety, the rage and the traumatic birth and I began to heal by sharing how I felt. 
And in the beginning, I was sharing into this abyss, not knowing that on the other side of that, were people willing to listen and people needing to see survivors and even still, moms who caught bits and pieces of my heartache, asked questions and later shared how they advocated for themselves. 
Because of me. 
When all I did was speak up. 
And I get that there is bravery there. But there a stories upon stories that need to be told and shared. I don't know how much of my bravery changes things but I do know I'll never stop being an advocate.