Day in the life of a Filipina Nurse Practitioner

@inspireauthenticliving by fnp.jas

This morning, I woke up with that familiar heaviness in my chest—the kind that doesn’t announce itself loudly but settles in quietly, making everything feel slower. Breathing takes more effort. My thoughts arrive already tangled.

I’m going to a holiday party today.

And I’m already bracing myself.

Not because I don’t want to go—but because there’s a possibility that someone who once meant the world to me might be there. A friend I loved deeply. A friend I thought would be in my life forever. A friend who is no longer here—not through conflict, not through resolution, not through an honest ending—but through absence.

Being ghosted by someone you trusted is a specific kind of grief.
There is no ceremony for it.
No language that fully explains it.
No clear place to put the love that has nowhere to go.

It leaves you holding questions that never get answered.
It leaves you replaying conversations, searching for the moment where things shifted.
It leaves you wondering if you imagined the closeness, if you asked for too much, if you were too much.

And the anxiety creeps in—not as panic, but as vigilance.
Scanning rooms before you even enter them.
Preparing your nervous system for something that hasn’t happened yet.

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It’s a beautiful day today. Almost offensively beautiful.

The sun is out. The air is crisp but gentle. I went for a walk through one of my favorite pathways in my apartment building—lined with bamboo, quiet and green, reminding me of Japan, reminding me of stillness and restraint and reverence. Nature doesn’t rush. Nature doesn’t explain itself. It just exists.

I realized, as I walked, that lately my life has felt very simple.
And very empty.
And very lonely.

And for the first time, I’m not running from that truth.

There was a time when loneliness terrified me. When my mind would spiral so far ahead that I’d find myself thinking about my own funeral—wondering who would show up, who would notice I was gone, who would speak my name when I no longer could. Those thoughts scared me. My overthinking always takes me to the most extreme edges.

But lately, something has softened.

I am learning how to sit with loneliness instead of fighting it.

I am learning that loneliness is not the same as being unworthy.
That being alone does not automatically mean being unloved.
That quiet does not always mean abandonment.

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I have lost a lot of friends.

Some slowly drifted away.
Some are busy building families, careers, lives that no longer intersect with mine.
Some disappeared without explanation.

The absence is loud. Deafening, sometimes.

And yet—this season of my life has given me something I didn’t know I needed: clarity. Space. A mirror.

When you are no longer surrounded by people, you are forced to meet yourself.

Who are you when no one is watching?
Who are you when there is no audience?
Who are you when no one is affirming your choices, your worth, your existence?

For the first time in my life, I’m answering those questions honestly.

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These diaries—these unedited, unscripted reflections—were born out of fear. I was terrified of pressing record. Terrified of being perceived. Terrified of what my friends, especially the ones closest to me, would think.

I built my life being strong, capable, dependable. As a Filipina, as the first, as the provider, as the nurse practitioner—there was never much room for uncertainty or softness.

So I learned to minimize myself.

To make myself palatable.
To not take up too much space.
To keep the messiness contained.

But when the friendships fell away—when the noise quieted—I realized how much of myself I had been shrinking just to stay connected.

And I don’t want to live like that anymore.

These videos, this writing, this voice—it’s me learning how to exist without apology. The pauses. The rambling. The moments where I don’t know what I’m going to say next. This is me in real time.

Imperfect. Unfiltered. Human.

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As a nurse practitioner, I spend my days caring for others. Holding space for their pain. Advocating for their health. Reminding them to rest, to eat, to breathe, to prioritize themselves.

And yet, I am constantly relearning that lesson for myself.

I recently cared for a young social worker whose stress was manifesting physically. She loved her work deeply. She believed in it. But her body was paying the price. I asked her a question I once had to ask myself:

Who takes care of the caregivers when they stop taking care of themselves?

Today, that question lands differently.

Because grief—even friendship grief—lives in the body.
Anxiety lives in the body.
Avoidance lives in the body.

And today, instead of avoiding, I am choosing presence.

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So yes, I am anxious.

Yes, my chest tightens when I think about walking into that room.
Yes, part of me wants to stay home where it’s safe and controlled and quiet.
Yes, I am grieving something that ended without my consent.

But I am still going.

Because I was invited.
Because I want to be there.
Because I am tired of shrinking myself to manage other people’s discomfort.
Because my existence does not depend on someone else’s acknowledgment.

I am allowed to take up space—even while hurting.
I am allowed to show up—even when my voice shakes.
I am allowed to be seen—even in my grief.

This is not about proving strength.
This is about refusing to disappear.

If I see him, I will breathe.
If I don’t, I will still breathe.
Either way, I will still be here.

And today, that feels like an act of courage.

I am choosing to exist.
I am choosing to stay.
I am choosing myself.

And for now—
that is enough.