January 3, 2026 — Reflections on Voice, Vulnerability, Love, and Choosing Myself at 37
Hi everyone, good morning.
Today is January 3rd, 2026, and it’s another beautiful day to be gorgeous—gorgeous, gorgeous.
I didn’t sit down with a script today. I didn’t outline what I wanted to say. I just turned the camera on, sat with myself, and let whatever needed to come out… come out. This space—this platform—has slowly become a place where I allow myself to exist without editing my emotions or shrinking my truth.
So if this feels long, if it feels winding, if it feels like I’m talking myself through something—then it’s doing exactly what it’s meant to do.
Happy New Year, friends. Thank you for being here with me.
The Question That Keeps Coming Back: Am I Oversharing?
Earlier this morning, I found myself sitting quietly and asking a question that keeps resurfacing:
Am I oversharing?
By building this platform—through YouTube, Instagram, and now this blog—by openly reflecting on my mental health, my career, my relationships, my family… am I sharing too much of myself?
And if I am, what does that mean?
What does that mean for my career as a nurse practitioner?
What does that mean for how colleagues see me?
What does that mean for friendships—past, present, and future?
I’ve heard the warnings before.
“Girl, you’re oversharing.”
“Be careful.”
“Not everything needs to be online.”
And for a long time, those voices lived in my head louder than my own.
But here’s the truth I keep coming back to:
This doesn’t feel like oversharing. This feels like alignment.
What I’m doing now feels like me finally creating the world I’ve always wanted to exist in—a world where people don’t have to hide the messy parts to be worthy of belonging.
I’m not doing this for views.
I’m not doing this for validation.
I’m doing this because I’m making a commitment—to myself, to my future, and to the woman I’m becoming.
Coming Out of the Shell I Lived in for Years
I’ve always been shy. Quiet. Observant. The kind of person who listens deeply but speaks carefully.
For most of my life, I thought that meant something was wrong with me.
I thought being introverted meant I wasn’t confident enough.
I thought being soft-spoken meant I wasn’t strong enough.
I thought staying quiet meant I didn’t have anything valuable to say.
So I stayed hidden.
And now, at 37, I look back and ask myself:
Why was I ever ashamed of being who I am?
Why did I think I needed to be louder, tougher, more polished to be taken seriously?
This journey—this platform—has been me slowly unlearning that shame. I’m learning that my gentleness is not a weakness. My shyness is not a flaw. My emotional depth is not something to control or suppress.
It’s who I am.
And I want others—especially those who feel small, quiet, or unsure—to see themselves reflected here and know they’re not alone.
Growth Isn’t Loud—Sometimes It’s Subtle
When I rewatch my older videos, I see someone who was trying so hard to sound “right.” I hear myself saying “I think” over and over again, apologizing mid-sentence, second-guessing my own thoughts.
And instead of criticizing that version of me, I feel tenderness.
Because that was growth in motion.
Even now, I still say “I think” a lot. And you know what? I’ve stopped trying to erase it. That’s my rhythm. That’s my quirk. That’s part of my humanity.
This growth hasn’t been dramatic or overnight. It’s been quiet, layered, imperfect—and deeply meaningful.
And yes, I’m building this on my own. No team. No fancy setup. Sometimes not even a reliable ring light. But I show up anyway.
Because believing in myself—even when no one else is watching—is something I’m incredibly proud of.
Holding Two Truths: Being a Nurse Practitioner and Being Human
One of the biggest internal questions I’ve been sitting with is this:
How do I balance being a nurse practitioner—someone patients look up to—with being fully, unapologetically human?
I am a nurse practitioner in internal medicine and family medicine.
I care for patients living with HIV.
I serve patients in the LGBTQ+ community.
I provide gender-affirming care to people who are often overlooked or misunderstood by the healthcare system.
That matters deeply to me. It always will.
But what matters just as much is the way I show up—with empathy, emotion, and presence.
I’ve been told before that I’m “too emotional.” And maybe that’s true. I feel deeply—sadness, joy, gratitude, grief. I cry with patients. I feel their stories in my body.
But when a patient cries in my office, I don’t rush to stop it.
I thank them.
Because vulnerability is trust.
Because honesty is healing.
Because being human is not unprofessional—it’s powerful.
Choosing Environments That Don’t Dim My Light
At the end of 2024, during a trip to Japan, something shifted in me.
I realized I was losing my sense of agency. I was in an environment where my light felt inconvenient—where I was told, directly and indirectly, that I was “too much.”
Too expressive.
Too emotional.
Too excited.
Too myself.
And for the first time, I chose not to shrink.
I left the Airbnb. I booked a hotel. I took myself out of a situation that no longer felt safe for my spirit.
That moment taught me one of the most important lessons of my life:
The people and environments you choose should protect your light, not dim it.
Sharing my truth with the wrong person left me anxious afterward. But I’m learning to trust that what is meant to be protected will be protected—and what is meant to be revealed will be revealed.
I trust the universe. I trust God. I trust that my story is held.
Love, Loss, and Learning to Turn Inward
There was a time when I loved someone deeply—someone who couldn’t fully meet me where I was.
I treasured short conversations. I romanticized small moments. I gave love freely, even when it wasn’t fully returned.
And while that chapter didn’t end the way I hoped, it taught me something profound:
I am capable of loving deeply.
But it also showed me how easy it is for me to forget myself in the process.
Still, I don’t regret loving the way I did. I would rather live knowing I went after what I believed in than carry the weight of “what if.”
That chapter was part of my becoming.
37: No Longer Proving, Just Living
At 37, I’ve learned that I don’t need to constantly prove my worth.
I don’t need to chase perfection.
I don’t need to earn rest.
I don’t need to justify my feelings.
The depression and darkness I experienced came from years of trying to be enough for everyone else.
And now, I’m choosing myself.
I’m choosing agency.
I’m choosing presence.
I’m choosing authenticity.
My Mom, My Anchor, My Why
So much of who I am is because of my mom.
I remember when it was just the two of us—when she took out high-interest loans just to give me what she thought I needed. When she sacrificed her own comfort so I wouldn’t feel the weight of our circumstances.
At the time, I didn’t fully understand it.
Now, I see it clearly: that was love.
Today, being able to give back—to travel with her, to show her the world she never had time to see—feels like one of life’s greatest gifts.
My dream is simple: to build a life where she can finally live, rest, and enjoy.
And if this platform helps me get there, then every word I share is worth it.
If You’re Reading This From a Dark Place
I want you to hear this:
Darkness is not the end of your story.
You will find light.
You will find your voice.
And when you do, the weight will lift in ways you never imagined.
You are allowed to feel deeply.
You are allowed to be imperfect.
You are allowed to take up space.
This is me—standing in my truth, with both my highs and my lows—and inviting you to stand in yours too.
Thank you for being here.
Thank you for listening.
Thank you for growing with me.
It’s another beautiful day to be gorgeous 🤍
Day in the life of a Filipina Nurse Practitioner 
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