Good afternoon.
Today, I found myself driving across the bridge toward a holiday party — hands steady on the wheel, heart anything but. I brought a salad my boyfriend made for me, one of those quiet acts of love that grounds me when my anxiety starts to spiral. I brought wine. I brought a book my cousin wrote — something deeply personal, something I’m proud of. I brought pieces of myself into a space where I wasn’t sure how welcome I would feel.
I went anyway.
Because lately, my healing has looked less like avoidance and more like showing up — even when my chest is tight, even when grief rides quietly in the passenger seat.
There was a chance I would see someone who once meant the world to me. A friend I thought would be forever. A friendship that ended abruptly, without closure, without conversation — only silence. The kind of silence that echoes long after the door closes.
And still, I chose to go.
Not because it was easy. Not because I felt brave. But because I promised myself I would stop shrinking to make other people comfortable.
Anxiety, Grief, and Choosing Yourself
Anxiety has a way of narrating everything. It told me I was going too early. Then too late. It told me I was asking for too much. Then not enough. It made me question every text, every pause, every change in tone.
And yet — I showed up.
I showed up for the people who invited me. I showed up for the friends who have always held space for me. I showed up for myself.
When I saw him, it was awkward. Brief. No conversation. No acknowledgment beyond a glance. And while part of me felt relief — because I wasn’t ready — another part of me grieved deeply.
It’s a strange kind of heartbreak to watch a friendship you cherished dissolve into nothingness. To realize that something you still value may no longer be valued by the other person.
That grief doesn’t disappear just because you’re functional. Just because you’re accomplished. Just because you’re a healthcare provider who holds everyone else together.
Being a Filipina Nurse Practitioner Who Takes Up Space
I often ask myself if my content is too much. Too vulnerable. Too visible. Too honest.
Especially when someone reported my videos to HR. Especially when my voice felt like a liability instead of a strength.
But here’s what I know:
I didn’t find my voice to stay quiet again.
As a Filipina Nurse Practitioner, I exist in a space where people like me are still underrepresented, still questioned, still expected to assimilate quietly. My presence — my story — matters. Not because I’m perfect, but because I’m real.
Patients don’t just come to me for prescriptions and lab results. They come to me to feel seen. To feel validated. To exist without apology.
And maybe that’s why I keep doing this. Not for likes. Not for approval. But because someone out there needs to see a provider who looks like them, feels like them, struggles like them — and still chooses to live fully.
Cringe, Courage, and Agency
Yes, I know. Some people will call this cringey. Some people will judge. Some people will misunderstand.
But cringe fades. Regret lingers.
Agency — choosing yourself over and over again — that’s what lasts.
I’m learning that choosing to exist means allowing joy and discomfort to coexist. It means honoring grief without letting it define me. It means walking into rooms knowing I may not be met halfway — and still standing tall.
Moving Forward Without Closure
The hardest part of all this is accepting that not every relationship gets a clean ending. Not every person will meet you in vulnerability. Not every friendship survives growth.
I reached out. I invited conversation. I waited.
Silence answered.
And now, my work is to let go — not because it didn’t matter, but because I matter too.
I can hold gratitude for what was and still choose to move forward.
A Love Letter to Becoming
The Bay Area has always been a place where I discovered myself — first in Berkeley, now again in San Francisco. It’s where I learned I could evolve. That I could be many things at once.
A provider. A creator. A daughter. A partner. A woman still healing.
I am choosing to exist — loudly, imperfectly, authentically.
And if that makes someone uncomfortable, I will still keep going.
Because my story isn’t meant to be hidden. And neither is yours.
— Filipina Nurse Practitioner Diaries
Day in the life of a Filipina Nurse Practitioner 
Leave a comment