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.

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)

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?

Dear 2025, You've been a good year. If I had to rank all my bad years, you wouldn't even crack the top 10. Let's face it, I've had harder years. I traveled a lot more this year than I ever have. My family and I have traveled across Texas, New Mexico, Colorado and Oklahoma. We even made a brief corner appearance in Utah and Arizona at the Four Corners. We went on road trips and flew to the Sunshine State. I am loving this chapter of our lives where our kiddos are a little more independent and it's easier to breathe instead of my past hovering.  
That's not to say that we haven't experienced hard times all year either. I've definitely prayed through some tough moments. As I get the house cleaned and ready to welcome the new year, I can't help but reflect on what we accomplished this year. Here is a look back at our 2025. May the Lord continue to bless us with many more happy memories, lessons, and strengthen our resolve during the hardships. 

January. The year started with us at our annual first of the year hike. This was our 2nd year in a row to hike in the piney woods. A few weeks later, we would have snow! Lows: R had eaten brisket that may have cross contaminated with shellfish. We made it to the emergency room in the icy roads where he was given an epipen and oxygen. ​

February highs: baby shower for a friend! We also went to our annual SciTech at one of the high schools in our area. Lows: my niece went to the hospital for a week for her high risk pregnancy. 

March saw me doing a 5k run in the neighborhood. I did not completely run but I did cross the finish line. It was great to be able to do that with someone who talked through the entire process, so I wasn't focused on the pain and the time. We spent Spring Break camping which was the best decision. I enjoyed the time in nature and camp with my family; we chose one close by a beach and we went sightseeing around the area. My Texas history loving men enjoyed visiting Goliad and being able to walk the grounds that Texas was fought over and founded. A milestone: my daughter (the one who started it all) turned 13!

April highs: my little guy turned 9 and took his first STAAR test. 

May ended with me packing up my classroom and shoving my stuff in a storage unit. Our school started construction into the new wing. We embarked on our weeklong road trip. We made it through Texas by visiting as many state parks as we could and closed out May in New Mexico.

The first week of June and we were still on our adventure. We made it to Colorado where my children got to experience the breathtaking joy of being surrounded by mountains. We rode a train up to Durango and walked around. I'm a beach girl as I was born in the Philippines but there is something so magical and ethereal about walking so close to the clouds and seeing a town opening up below. 

From Durango, we went north to Colorado Springs and took in a sunset walk around the Garden of the Gods. And from there, we made the long way home, stopping in Oklahoma to visit old friends. 
June lows - I ended up having walking pneumonia and was essentially confined to the bed and my home for 2 weeks. 
My kiddos did manage to do summer camp while I was out - he did a week of golf camp while she enjoyed theatre camp. Another low: this was done as a solo parent. My husband ended up going to UAE for work (oil). 

July highs: I did a solo parent fly out to Pensacola where we spent a weekend at the beach. My babies were able to close out their summer vacation learning how to boogieboard and dive headfirst into the ocean. 2 babies were born at the tail end of this month. 
​August: the only highlight that matters. After a month of being in an oil rig, my husband finally made it home. 
September: we finally met the July babies. 
October: I was finally able to take my family to the Filipino Street Festival in Sugar Land. I also took them to the Tween Book Festival (also in Sugarland) and my own babies got to see authors whose books they read and listen to them speak about their experiences and the work from where we sat to where they are now. I loved watching my girl's face and the excitement she felt about the possibility that one day, this could be her. 
November began with a Dia de los Muertos celebration. This year, we decided to start an ofrenda and put up pictures of our loved ones. We also talked about death, what comes after and all the ways we can celebrate and remember the ones who passed. This month also marked my little guy's last elementary school field trip. I managed to get listed as a volunteer teacher to assist. 
December gave me high hopes to close out the year. Our final elementary school winterfest for the little guy and a joyful and much needed rest in our small town. The passing of a friend's wife was not on my list and I'll think about them as I close out the year. 

So, here's to you, 2025. There was a lot of things packed in a year. I am walking into 2026 hopeful for whatever comes next. I know resolutions are at the forefront of everyone's minds, but I truly just want to be healthy, more productive, and walk in and out with little to no regrets. The past few days I've been thinking about how our tomorrows are never promised and grateful that every day I get to wake up to my family who love me unconditionally. I plan on writing more this year, to continue to write and get my work out there; to ensure that my children know all the ways and words that I love them. I've hiked up some steep paths and know that my body can be pushed to do more. I am the only one stopping myself. 
​Closing out to say, what a year. Thank you. 

Thank you for reading all the way through.
Here’s to a new year of words, becoming, hope, and the everyday moments that shape us. I’m aiming for 52 posts this year — one for each week — to keep showing up with honesty, heart, and the stories that matter.
If this post resonated, you can find more reflections here on the blog and in my books of poetry and prose:
📖 [link to my Books here]
What about you? What are you carrying into 2026 with you?

To my loves,
We went to a beautiful service yesterday. The congregation was full, her casket was open and for a moment, I worried about what this memory would bring for you. You both clung on to us. R kept rubbing his face and I knew he was not okay. He was putting himself in his friend's shoes. Right there in the front row, seeing where his mama laid. I was trying to contain as much of the tears, but they came anyway, especially during the part of the service where we sat as music played. 
The pastor spoke a summary of her life; as a person who served others, an educator, a mom and a wife. I had the privilege of seeing her for some big moments in her life: seeing how my friend's face light up as he introduced us to her; watching them dancing on their wedding day; holding her little bundle. These small moments woven into her short 41 written chapters. 

During the service, both the pastor and his wife spoke about her faith. This was the thing that I will always remember her by and why I shed the most tears. Her faith was genuine and tangible. You could see it in everything that she did and I am sorry to say that she was one of a handful (1 of 4, to be precise) that I have ever met in my life that was the embodiment of a Believer; a true Christ follower. I mourned for the things that she could have accomplished and people who she may have helped had she had more time. 
And selfishly, funerals also shine a bright spotlight into our own lives. How are we living? Are we walking testimonies of faith? Or a mirror of disillusionment? Am I fully aware of my mortality and that tomorrow is never promised? Or am I walking around unaware and pretending that I have all this time?

I've never seen a dead body up close. This is actually my fifth funeral and the other times; the casket was closed. After the service, they led us to the aisle to where she lay to say goodbye before exiting the church. I held my little man's hand, and we walked up and I whispered my goodbye.
Truly, what a privilege to have known you. I only wish you had more time with your little man. I know he will be loved on, cared for and hear about your stories; your memories will be preserved. And of all the stories told about you, I know the part about your faith, your walk in Grace and unabashed and unapologetic love for Christ will be the one story most people will tell. 

If you’re still here—thank you.
I write about motherhood, faith, grief, identity, and becoming—both here and in my poetry and prose.
📖 You can find my books here: [link]

I am sitting with some heavy news that I've been trying to process for 24 hours. Yesterday, I was boxing up my classroom - moving rooms in January - running to the conference room to do special education (SPED) paperwork, when a text came through. It was one of those 'that's not true,' and 'oh my,' and all the thoughts that came flooding in and tears threatening to come to the surface. 
Out of respect, this is the only mention of that moment.

This morning, I woke up at 5:29 and the clarity came, albeit brief. But this mama has decided to start documenting what I hope is a letter of love to my babies. 
On our millionth viewing of Hamilton, the words, "who lives, who dies, who tells your story," hit hard and different. There are going to be people who love me and will eulogize me: family and friends, and my own kids. But I also want to leave a permanence - the story of how we began; the story of us, the journey from then to now. I want them to look through this diary of sorts and know truly that mom will never true leave their side. The forehead kisses, the hugs, the 'I love yous," that are sometimes taken from granted, I want them to sit with my words. See our pictures; see my love and I hope it fuels them to continue and do their amazing things. 
While this is still my advocacy blog - more exciting news on that - but then, stripped away of my titles, I'm a writer hoping to leave something behind for her babies. So, if you're still interested in this next part of my random corner of the web (my age is showing), thank you. 

**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/

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

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 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