Day in the life of a Filipina Nurse Practitioner

@inspireauthenticliving by fnp.jas

Growing up in a Filipino household, I learned early that strength meant silence. You don’t talk about mental health. You don’t show struggle. You hustle, you provide, and you pray. And now, as a Filipina Nurse Practitioner, a brown woman in a profession where people like me rarely exist — that same strength gets tested every single day.

I treat anxiety in my patients… but I’m also learning to heal my own.

Here are 21 truths about anxiety — reimagined through my journey as a Filipina immigrant daughter, minority healthcare leader, and someone still figuring it out.

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1️⃣ If anxiety decides your day — it’s the boss

As the youngest daughter and as a nurse in the ICU, I was taught: Don’t mess up.

When I became an NP, I kept waiting for the day anxiety would disappear. There are mornings when I stare at my scrubs, frozen. Being the only brown woman in a room full of suits and white coats can make my body think I’m walking into a battlefield.
But now I say: I’ll bring you with me… but I lead.
But life got bigger than that. I’m learning I can show up scared — and still show up. When anxiety rides along, I choose to drive.

When I started practicing, I thought,
“I’ll feel confident once I stop being scared.”
But anxiety whispered at every new assessment, every big decision.

The day I stopped waiting for calm…and showed up shaky anyway?
That’s the day I took my power back.I don’t have to kick anxiety out to do meaningful work.
I just have to keep walking.

2️⃣ Speak to yourself like a good coach, not a strict judgmental tita

No more, “Ano ba ‘yan? Why aren’t you better?”

Growing up, I heard:
“Ay, don’t be dramatic.” “Strong girls don’t cry.”

I was raised with the Pinoy “tough love” approach:
“Bawal magkamali. Don’t embarrass the family.”

But harsh self-talk didn’t make me strong — it made me scared.
Now I talk to myself the way I talk to my patients:
“Hey, you tried. You can improve. You are still worthy.”

Kindness makes courage possible.

I’m unlearning those voices and replacing them with my own:
“Breathe. You’re doing your best. You’re worthy.”
Now it’s: You’re learning, Jas. You’re trying. You belong.

3️⃣ Anxiety and excitement feel the same

Before a presentation, my hands shake. Am I scared? Or thrilled?
I tell myself: This is your heart knowing you are stepping into more.

When my heart races before a big meeting with doctors or leadership, I remind myself: this is also possibility.

Before every milestone — board exams, first big job, meeting my partner’s family — my hear pounds like there’s danger.

Then I ask myself,

“What if this isn’t fear… what if this is excitement?

Same heartbeat.

Different story.

4️⃣ Microdose discomfort

I wasn’t raised to take up space — but I practice small acts of courage daily: raising my hand, introducing myself, advocating for patients like me.

As someone who identifies with lived experience existing in a world where we often are hidden, I was expected to be fearless.
But courage didn’t come from leaping —
it came from tiny steps:
speaking up once in a meeting,
asking a question in clinical,
raising my voice for a patient who needed me.

Small bravery counts. It builds the big kind.

5️⃣ Anxiety is something I feel — not who I am

I am not “the anxious Filipina nurse.”
I am someone who cares deeply — and my nervous system sometimes goes into overdrive.

Anxiety used to feel like my identity.
“Anak, you’re just sensitive.”
“Shy ka kasi.”But I’m not weakness.
I’m a woman observing a very old survival system.
And that makes me powerful.

6️⃣ Emotions are waves

I grew up near the ocean — now I surf the fear instead of drowning in it.

Panic feels like drowning.
But waves rise… then fall.
I tell myself: ride this — you’ve survived bigger oceans.

Emotions are waves — surf them.

In Filipino culture, we often swallow emotions:
Tiisin mo… carry on.

But the more I fight anxiety, the harder it crashes.
When I ride the wave instead —
it always passes.

Always.

7️⃣ Act without guarantees

Filipino families want safety: stable job, predictable life.
Becoming an NP? Starting a path with no role models? That was risk — and worth it.

As a minority in healthcare, I often feel like I must be:
perfect, prepared, unshakeable.
But perfection isn’t protection.

If I waited for certainty,
I would still be studying, still hiding, still dreaming.

I choose action — even when my voice shakes.

Imposter syndrome says: What if you fail?
Purpose replies: What if you lead?

8️⃣ Stop putting out fires that aren’t burning

As an immigrant child, I learned to plan for every disaster.
What if we can’t pay rent?
What if the car breaks down?

Now my brain tries to stomp out fires that don’t even exist.
I’m practicing saving my strength for the flames that are real.

Filipino anxiety sounds like:
“Anak, what if they judge you?”

“Anak, what if it doesn’t work out?”
What if it does?
“What if people talk?”
I remind myself: most fears are ghosts — loud, but not real.

9️⃣ You don’t need certainty to move forward

I don’t know what tomorrow will bring — but I trust the woman I’m becoming.

Life was unpredictable growing up.
One emergency… and everything changed.
So uncertainty still feels dangerous.

But the truth is:
I’ve survived every Y-outcome so far.

I trust future-me to handle life when it arrives.

1️⃣0️⃣ Anxiety was once protection

Hypervigilance helped me survive growing up poor, staying alert in unsafe environments. My nervous system is learning we are safe now.

Hypervigilance came from real danger — racism, homophobia, financial instability.
I thank my body for surviving those years.

Hypervigilance was once my armor —
those instincts kept my family afloat.My nervous system isn’t broken.
It just hasn’t realized we’re safe now.
Now, I teach it peace.

1️⃣1️⃣ Befriend the anxiety

I used to treat anxiety like a monster.
Now I treat it like a scared little girl —
the younger version of me —
who learned the world can hurt.She doesn’t need fighting.
She needs comfort.

Instead of “Go away,” I ask: What are you trying to protect me from?

Instead of “Go away,” I say:
“I know you’re here because you want me safe.”
Then I gently let it sit in the backseat.

1️⃣2️⃣ Don’t wait to feel ready

Healthcare needs more Filipina NPs — so I take anxiety to work with me.

My patients deserve someone who understands what it means to be unseen.
So I show up — even when my voice trembles.

If I waited for confidence,
I would have never become a nurse,
never applied to NP school,
never advocated for that patient crying in silence.

Purpose doesn’t wait for perfect emotions.

1️⃣3️⃣ Confidence comes from surviving

I was afraid of speaking up in front of physicians.
Then one day, a doctor dismissed a patient’s pain —
and I spoke anyway.
Even when my voice trembled.

It didn’t go perfectly.
But I walked out stronger.

Confidence = “I handled it,”
not “nothing bad ever happens.”

If things go wrong and I survive anyway, I become stronger and kinder.

If something goes wrong and I don’t die?
Confidence unlocked. +1 armor. +1 resilience. +1 softness.

1️⃣4️⃣ Protect what you feed your mind

Sometimes after a long shift, I doom-scroll:
news, trauma videos, medical horror stories.
Then I wonder why my chest is tight.I’m learning to choose content that nourishes hope —
because my brain deserves peace too.

Less fear-based media. More voices that look and sound like me.

Less doom scrolling, less comparison, less “perfect life” feeds.

1️⃣5️⃣ Schedule worry, give it a time slot

Filipina anxiety loves to scream at 2am.
I tell myself: We’ll worry about that later, Jas. Sleep first.

My brain loves to replay conversations,
wonder if I’m disappointing someone,
anticipate failure.

So now I write those worries down
and tell myself,
“Sige, we’ll worry about that at 8PM.”

Most fears expire when they’re not entertained.

1️⃣6️⃣ Count breaths, not problems

Filipinos aren’t raised with mindfulness
—we’re raised with busyness.
Sit still? My lola would think I’m sick.

But slow breathing and counting to 50
helps me return to my body —
a place I rarely used to visit.

One inhale: “I’m here.”
One exhale: “I’m safe.”

Repeat — until my nervous system remembers it too.

1️⃣7️⃣ The wrong people keep you small

Some relationships make you shrink:
those who mock accents,
dismiss cultural values,
question your success.The right people help your nervous system exhale.
They celebrate you — hips, curls, loud laugh and all.

If I have to shrink my culture, my accent, my joy — it’s not my community.

I spent years hiding myself, my authenticity, to make others comfortable.
But real community celebrates the full spectrum of who I am —
not just the parts they understand.

1️⃣8️⃣ Fire the insecurity guards

Let the compliments in.
Let the achievements count.

As a woman of color in scrubs,
I’ve heard:
“Are you the assistant? The translator?”
Even after introducing myself as the NP.

So when someone compliments my work,
I used to respond:
“No, I just got lucky.”
“Maybe they were being nice.”I’m firing those inner guards.
I’m letting the truth in:
I earned my place.

When someone compliments me, I used to deflect:
“Oh no, it’s nothing…”
Now I try:
“Thank you — I worked hard for this.”

1️⃣9️⃣ Not everyone is for you

Not everyone will understand my culture,
my heart, or my mission for health equity.

When they back away, criticize, or underestimate…
Salamat.
They’ve spared me time and energy
I can give to the communities I’m here to uplift.

Some people will leave when they realize you are no longer willing to be small.
That’s not loss. That’s liberation.

Those who leave were never your people. Salamat, next.

2️⃣0️⃣ Real strength is letting people in

Growing up, vulnerability felt like weakness.
You keep quiet.
You endure.But my real healing happened
when I allowed myself to lean on friends,
my partner, colleagues who care.

We heal faster together. Find those who honor your softness.

Letting others support you
is a revolutionary act.

Community is medicine.
We heal faster together — when we let ourselves be witnessed.

2️⃣1️⃣ Own your story

I’m not “behind.”
I am a trailblazer — carving a place where future Filipina NPs will stand with less fear and more belonging.

I’m not just the first —
I am a foundation.
One day, a young queer Filipina will walk into a clinic, see me, and think:
“Oh… I belong here too.”

Yes — I grew up poor.
Yes — I am a first-gen Filipina trying to open doors in healthcare.
Yes — anxiety is still part of my journey.

But I’m not behind.
I’m not failing.
I’m not “the exception.”

I’m the proof
that we belong in every room
— as providers, as leaders, as healers.The story is mine to write.
And I’m just getting started.

And that alone makes every anxious heartbeat worth it.

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Why This Matters

Being in healthcare as a woman of color isn’t just a career — it’s carrying the dreams of the village that raised you. It’s the pressure of representation. It’s the responsibility to make spaces safer and more inclusive for those coming next.

I advocate for mental health because I didn’t see people who looked like me doing it.

I create accessible healthcare because my family didn’t have it.

I speak loudly now so that the next Filipina NP won’t be asked to prove she belongs — she’ll simply walk in and know she does.

Anxiety isn’t a flaw — it’s a survival skill that outlasted its war.
My presence in this profession is not accidental — it’s history in motion.

I want every young Filipina who dreams of becoming a Nurse Practitioner to know:

You are allowed to take up space — even if your voice trembles.
You are allowed to succeed — even when you’re scared.
Your identity is not a barrier — it is your power.We are building a more inclusive future — one anxious, brave step at a time. 🇵🇭✨
Kasama kita. I’m with you.

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If you’re like me…

Brown girl in white coat
Provider from poverty
Healer with anxiety
Culture-bearer with big dreams

…this is your reminder:

Your voice matters.
Your presence is needed.
Your anxiety is not your limitation — it’s your proof that you care.

Let’s keep rewriting the story.
For ourselves.
For our patients.
For every young Filipina who still thinks success belongs to someone who looks different.

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