Day in the life of a Filipina Nurse Practitioner

February 28, 2026 — Last Full Day in the Philippines

Hi everyone. Good morning. Today is February 28, 2026 — the last full day before our flight back to San Francisco. It’s the end of February, you guys. A day that feels both heavy and hopeful.

I’m excited to go back to San Francisco. Truly. But this trip… this healing journey… has been one of the hardest things I’ve ever allowed myself to face.

It’s another beautiful day to be gorgeous — but today, beauty looks like honesty.

This last day here in the Philippines feels bittersweet. Part of me longs for the quiet life I imagined for myself — a life of peace, simplicity, and emotional safety. A place where I wouldn’t feel discomfort. But what this trip has taught me is that healing isn’t quiet. Healing is confronting the places where love felt conditional. Healing is realizing that life is hard — especially when the person you most want comfort from doesn’t know how to give it in the way you need.

One of the deepest wounds I’ve had to face is my relationship with my mom.

I came here wanting to spend time with her. To build memories. To be a better daughter. To finally feel chosen.

But the truth I’m slowly accepting is that I often feel unseen by her. I feel like my achievements go uncelebrated, while my mistakes are magnified. I’ve felt jealous — jealous of the time and energy she gives to others when I’ve crossed oceans just to be with her. I’ve shared personal things in confidence, only to hear them echoed in conversations with neighbors and friends. And each time it happens, something inside me questions: Am I safe here? Am I allowed to exist without being exposed?

Today, while filming a quick vlog, I overheard conversations about me — my life, my feelings — shared openly. In that moment, I felt small again. Like a child trying to earn approval that may never come.

This trip also held dreams — like launching the Filipina Mama & Daughter Diaries. We had beautiful moments, especially in Bangkok. But I’m beginning to understand that this dream may be mine alone. And that’s okay. What matters is that I tried. I showed up. I chose connection.

I’ve also realized that my independence — living alone, building my own life — wasn’t just strength. It was protection. A shield I built when emotional safety felt uncertain.

There were frustrations too — the house construction issues, unmet promises, things built carelessly. But what hurt more than the flaws in the house was feeling like my voice didn’t matter. Like my concerns were seen as complaints rather than valid experiences. Like once again, I was “too much.”

And maybe the hardest truth of all:
I cannot change my mom.

I’ve talked to my brother. I’ve reflected. I’ve cried. And I’m realizing that I may never have the relationship with her that I’ve dreamed of. I may never feel fully chosen by her.

But I can choose myself.

As I sit here on my last day in the Philippines, I can say this: I am not fully healed. But I am clearer. I understand now that healing isn’t about forcing relationships to look the way we want. It’s about grieving what isn’t, accepting what is, and choosing peace anyway.

Maybe I won’t disappear again.
Maybe I won’t shrink to be loved.
Maybe I will stop proving my worth to people who cannot see it.

Maybe this is what healing really looks like.

Thank you for being here with me.
Love you guys.