I celebrated my birthday a few days ago. I normally do a reflection on how Chapter 43 was. I believe I began the chapter at a beach in Florida. The sun was shining; I remember feeling grateful that I was able to hop on a plane with my children and navigate the airport by ourselves. I was able to see both of them be brave and try a new thing: boogie boarding. It's like surfing the waves, but you're on your stomach the entire time. My little guy absolutely loved it. He was scared to try and fell off a few times but he was so happy he pushed himself. He talked about it the whole trip home. 
It reminded me then (and now) that what we often think is no "big deal" could be another person's "hard thing." 
​

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

It's been almost a week since coming back to Texas. We're still jetlagged; waking up at 4 or 5 am sometimes to sit in the quiet and slowly letting sleep overtake us after sunset. 
I have so much to say about my 'homecoming.' There are after all, 30 years of memories that have been building up, and then the anticipation of breathing in the first breath of a childhood, but I don't have enough words to describe or know how to encapsulate what that first moment felt like to me. Landing into the island that I've pictured and visited in my dreams over time......
but of course, I am a writer so I will try. But I'll have to do these in pieces.  

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. 

For my writers/poets/dreamers, do you ever go back and reread your past works? What stood out? What made you smile? What made you be glad that no one else is reading this? Anything that made you cry or go, aha! I see the seed was planted here and then I wrote about it over here.....many years and experiences later.

I'm feeling all types of nostalgic and retrospective. Perhaps, it's the looming "homecoming" trip that I've been building (and rebuilding with anxiety) in my head. Or the fact that I'm just now in a space where I can look at my life - look at my children; and give myself space to weigh the big milestones they both accomplished this year. 

We said goodbye to Junior High and moving to High School. I'm suddenly aware that my 3 pound 4 oz little baby is going to leave the safe space and haven I created to be off in the world. 

In the NICU, we were given 3 big milestones to check off before we knew for sure that discharge/coming home was going to come up and be a reality. 
1.) Can she breathe on her own?
2.) Is she able to feed without help? No NG tube. Can she suck a nipple or bottle?
3.) Can she regulate her temperature by herself? If she is cold, does she cry? If she is hot, can she feel that? Or are we constantly monitoring her temp for her via a wire?

Let me tell you that the first one was easy to check off. She didn't need any help with her oxygen. Even though her lungs were still underdeveloped, she breathed on her own and didn't need the O2 mask. 

Feeding took time. She was used to her NG/nasogastric tube and would cry when she tried to suck. In time, she was able to nurse and or take from a bottle. And eventually, she started to gain weight and grow.

It was the temperature regulation that took the longest. She was either too cold and needed to be warmed. Or too hot. She cried either way and medical interventions would happen around the clock. Eventually, she figured it out and left her little incubator. She was upgraded into an open "box" - I actually do not know the term for it. And sure enough, after or around Easter, she was wheeled into a different space just for her to continue to grow. 

I'm imagining High School is going to be like that for us. Can she breathe on her own/navigate life? It's still too early to say. Heck, I don't even know how I'm managing sometimes.

Can she eat/feed on her own? She sort of knows her way around the kitchen but skittish when opening up the oven to bake. Neither one of us trust her with a knife.

Can she regulate her emotions and temperature without help? This one is also a process, isn't it?
We've taught her the value of advocacy; to use her voice, regardless of what it sounds like. In fact, she advocated for herself and asked to see a therapist, and we've been with one since 6th grade. She knows her worth. She asks questions. She is learning who she is.
But autism adds another layer to all of this.
I'm less worried about whether she can speak up for herself and more worried about whether she'll recognize when someone isn't treating her with the same kindness she offers them. Will she know when a friend is being hurtful? Will she recognize manipulation, sarcasm, or unspoken social rules?
Some of those lessons will come with time and experience. Others may always require a little more intentional teaching and support.
And that's okay, too.
And so, while looking toward her future, I found myself looking back through old files. What started as an attempt to clean out my Google Drive quickly turned into something else: a conversation with earlier versions of myself.
Did I know ten years ago that I'd be here? In this space marveling at what a life I've lead? 10 years ago, I was bargaining to God in the midst of a postpartum depressive episode.Going back further than that, did I imagine, while looking at her fragility, that in 14 years I would be amazed at how strong she has become? How milestone after milestone would be checked off, and how we would be entering new seasons in all our lives?
I couldn't have dreamt of this while I sat quietly in the NICU. 
I wouldn't have allowed myself a glimpse of these possibilities.
And yet,
And yet, sometimes I wonder if I've dreamt all of this.
Did I really go through so much trauma?
Did my body really get ripped apart and have two premature babies taken from me?
The scars say yes.
The poems say yes.
The 14-year-old getting ready for high school says yes.
Ten years ago, I was bargaining with God in a NICU.
Today, I'm helping that same little girl pick her classes.
Milestone after milestone, somehow, we've made it here.
I don't often brag about myself, but lately I've been amazed by the life we've built.
The mustard seed of faith I clung to all those years ago—the one I carried in trembling hands through hospital rooms and sleepless nights—grew while I wasn't looking.
It grew into two remarkable children.
It grew into stories.
It grew into poems.
It grew into a life.
And for all the versions of me that almost gave up, I'm grateful they stayed.

I had a conversation about identities. We are clearly (at least I hope) not the same person in our 20s that we are in our 30s and 40s. So much has happened in the two decades since I decided I wanted to write a book. I grew up wanting to be a teacher like my aunt but underneath that want was a dream to be a writer. I held on that dream for so long. My first poetry acceptance was sometime in junior high/high school. I don't remember what it was about or to whom I sent it to but I remember getting a letter with my poem and that acceptance letter.
College me befriended an Evangelical at Texas Women's University and I started to explore my faith; mostly questioning the Catholic faith and why we believe and do all the things. I was to put it mildly, so into this searching for God and who I was supposed to be that I know I set some pretty rigid and high standards for what friendships and relationships should look like. To be perfectly honest, I judged everyone. I was not a person you probably wanted around. ​

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.

In 19 days, I'll be on a plane heading to Tacloban City. I can't help but think of 9 year old me running around Tacloban with my sisters and cousins and what her life would have been like if my mom wasn't a nurse or wasn't in the US. There have been multiple versions of me throughout my life, and so much of who I became traces back to that origin story.
​But then again, I've had several points that I've considered canon events. 

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.

At the beginning of the year, I made a commitment to write 52 blog posts. I even made a schedule with titles for each one.
And then I had the flu.
And life around me was too chaotic for my brain to even want to pretend to process.
It is now March, and not including this one, I’ve written a total of three blog posts.
I’ve been distracted both at work and at home. I feel like I need just an extra day to do something creative—or at least, a day for myself. After teaching all week, I usually spend Saturdays curled up on the couch, moving only for food and restroom breaks. Yesterday, though, I walked around the neighborhood with my daughter and took in the beautiful spring weather.
While the breeze and the sounds of nature around me inspired me—made me pause and give thanks to the universe—the constant thoughts of to-do lists, future worries, and everything else kept intruding.
Even now, there are things I want to say and celebrate, but there’s just too much noise.
I once wrote a poem about this—this constant cycle of thoughts—but if I go looking for it, I know I’ll fall into a rabbit hole and forget what I was searching for in the first place.
These are the things, by the way, that go on in a creative ADHD brain:
the need for an outlet,
the need for background noise,
but also the craving for silence.
The jealousy of being able to sit still.
Closing this post to say:
one more down, 49 more to go.

Exactly two weeks ago, I wrote about my two labels: mother and poet, in response to the murder of Renee Good.
Two weeks ago, I also got sick — and I’m still trying my darndest to recover from the flu. In that same span of time, my coworker shared her decision to resign. I sat in a continuation ARD that ended in disagreement, and our reconvene ARD has now been pushed to next month due to weather. Two weeks of hugging my babies, cooking, cleaning, smiling at my students, and pretending the world isn’t currently on fire.
And of course — another name. Another murder. Videos I want to look away from. Narratives that keep spinning until days turn into weeks again. A cycle of brokenness and heaviness that feels too much to bear, but too important to ignore.
Tonight, I decided to share my immigration story. Because at the heart of all of this is immigration.
I am a child of an immigrant.
I am an immigrant.
My mother was a nurse who came to the U.S. when I was little. I remember having a map in my room in the Philippines and tracing the distance between where I was and where she was — though I didn’t truly comprehend what that distance meant. My childhood was spent tormenting my older sister and bossing my younger sister around. I listened to my Lolo tell stories about the devil in the trees and the ocean. Later, I realized this was his way of creating boundaries without ever naming them — a way of keeping us from wandering too far into danger.
I remember the balikbayan boxes my mom sent home, the chocolate kisses I gobbled up. Memories of a lifetime that sometimes feel surreal. The older I get, the more I wonder which parts of my childhood are memory and which parts are reconstruction.
At some point, my mom came back for us. I barely remember the journey itself. On May 12, 1992, we landed in Houston — my parents, my sisters, and me. I was nine years old. I remember driving through our new East Texas town, watching the curve of the road open into the horizon and endless pine trees. To this day, it’s still my favorite drive, especially at sunset.
From 1992 to 2001, I was immersed in American life. English was spoken more and more at home as my Filipino accent slowly faded. We did have a small, tight-knit Filipino community, so we never completely lost touch with our roots. Our church hosted a multicultural festival every May where our mothers showcased traditional dances and dresses. Sadly, our generation didn’t take the time to learn them — we showed up for pancit and lumpia, then ran off to join our American friends.
During those years, I was very aware of how different I was — the only Filipino in my grade, one of only a handful of families in a town of 32,000 people. I was semi-conscious of microaggressions: Where are you really from? The jokes about Asian women. I chose to ignore them. Ignoring was surviving. Most people didn’t realize I was still an immigrant — still on a visa.
I remember trips to Houston to see our immigration lawyer. Helping my parents study for their citizenship test and realizing we had learned most of it in school. I remember the naturalization ceremony — hundreds of people in one room, pledging allegiance, crying, holding flags, pinning their hopes and dreams to a country they believed in.
I remember 9/11. A month later, I drove to a recruitment center after a dentist appointment, curious and afraid all at once. I remember my first vote in 2004. I’ve voted in every primary and general election since.
What people often don’t see from the outside is how deeply patriotism and nationalism are woven into American culture from the beginning — the Fourth of July celebrations, the history books centered on exceptionalism, the promise of the “American Dream.” It’s why so many immigrants come here and dare to hope. My mother worked long hours. I can’t begin to quantify the sacrifices she made to bring her family here and give her grandchildren opportunities she never had.
While it still makes me laugh that I cook more Mexican dishes than Filipino ones (thanks to my husband), I remain the closest link my children have to our homeland. They know their grandmother’s sacrifices. They know their mother’s culture and language. They come with us to vote. My son loves history and is learning the full story — not only the polished version.
We’ve taken our children to walk the grounds that shaped Texas history: the Alamo, San Jacinto, Goliad. We’ve taken them to Washington, D.C., to see the Constitution, to walk past the Tomb of the Unknown Soldier, to witness the changing of the guard. I want them to understand the weight of the names etched into stone.
All of this to say — my heart is heavy with what I am seeing. I am afraid for my children’s future, and frustrated that my nine-year-old understands the Constitution better than many adults who speak recklessly about tearing it apart.
So the question remains:
What happens now?

*​My immigration story goes like this:

I once belonged 
somewhere.

And now I don’t belong
anywhere.

*excerpt from love, lumpia & words (work in progress)

Short post today. I’m still recovering from the flu — I’ve been sick since last weekend. And I left brunch this morning with news that my co-team lead has resigned, which means I get to spend the next two weeks trying not to cry and/or hyperventilate.
Special Education feels especially heavy these days, and I welcome all the support, insight, and help in carrying the burden. She shared that what makes this hardest is the team — that we’re the part she didn’t want to disappoint — and that, ultimately, we were the only real “good” of this year.
Wherever you are, friends… rely on your good backups. Having a team that knows the sweat and tears poured into a year like this is invaluable.
Onward to finishing the year, I guess.

This post was supposed to be about routine—returning to normal as a teacher and a parent. A check-in. A reset.
And then January 7th happened.
I fell down a familiar rabbit hole, doomscrolling and sitting with words that kept surfacing: mother and poet. Two labels I carry. Two labels many women carry quietly.
I found myself thinking about legacy—about what remains after the noise fades. After reading Renee Good’s family post about closing their GoFundMe, I thought about what people choose to show, and what they leave behind.
I am a teacher in a red dot in Texas. I wasn’t born here, but my upbringing—Filipino and East Texan—shaped me to make no big waves, only ripples where I can. Smile. Be respectful. Stand your ground quietly.
I was nine and a half when I moved here. I had summers without screens, ran wild with neighborhood girls, pretended to be witches. I watched my mother work as a charge nurse—smart, unyielding, kind when necessary, sharp when needed. She came home and still carried the household. A strong woman taught me duty without complaint.
I grew up surrounded by Filipina women who carried power without spectacle. Silent strength. Courteousness. Truths held close.
No waves. Only ripples.
I didn’t realize the weight of microaggressions until adulthood—questions disguised as curiosity. I smiled and answered anyway. I never felt out of place because I learned how to make my own place.
A poet and a mother. That is who died.
A poet and a mother. That is who is typing this.
Mothers do not stand idly by. We protect. We shape what comes next. I want my daughter to know she comes from a long line of quiet, unyielding strength.
I am a mother and a poet. Here are my words today.

How are you making waves today?