The pages of his book were wrinkled and faded. Every well-loved book showed the same wear and tear. Soon enough, though, my grandfather’s hands would show a similar “well-loved” look. Just as his romance books enveloped these amazing stories of love, what he left in my hands holds an unexplainable feeling. He was my personal noodle chef and official dance partner every night I couldn’t sleep a wink. We had a language barrier as he spoke in Ilocano, and my baby talk didn’t quite suffice. Still, our love languages lined up perfectly. Quality time and physical touch were what we were fluent in-- we were best friends. I first noticed his wrinkled hands while he was reading his romance books on that rickety rocking chair in the corner of our living room. He sat in front of the window for light, his glasses highlighting the wrinkles that folded underneath his eyes. He held me near as he looked into my worried eyes. “Maturog kan, apo,” he whispered as he patted me to sleep, the book still in his hands. After a few months, his books began to collect dust. He was weakened in his bed, eyes dim. The aroma of noodles no longer filled the house. Our stereo stopped playing our selection of songs. He lay in bed for the longest. At the time, my family would try to push the children out of the way-- to give him rest. One day, though, he held each of us individually. He hugged us each as tightly as he could with his strength. The tubes in the way, but the warmth he was filled with was still there. A few days after that, it seemed as if he turned the last page of his beloved book. I couldn’t quite understand it at that ripe age of four or five, but noodles haven’t tasted the same since. I have yet to find eyes as sincere as his were. A few years later, I would attempt to write about the depth I saw in his eyes and how he affected me even at such a young age. That was my first “prompt,” so to speak, and the first of hundreds that I would start. Moving forward and knowing the meaning of grief from such a young age is an experience that has shaped me tremendously. I’ve seen my family deal with the loss as each year passes. Fears of forgetting what his voice sounded like, or the image of his smile. My grandfather passed away, but that doesn’t make him completely gone. Year after year, I find myself falling in love with the same books he read. I’ve found a passion in medicine, hoping to offer the kind of healing my grandfather received during his last moments. Along with that, I am continuing my studies– dedicating each assignment to the grandfather I feel cheering me on. Allowing myself to learn more and more about him through countless stories. Allowing myself to grow as an individual in every field I can. With my grandfather’s book being loved endlessly, my book is still being written. On those blank pages, there will be many clumsy mistakes. From typos and messily written notes in the margins, my book will be personal and simplistic. In that, new marks will appear, and wrinkles will form just as soon, just as my grandfather’s well-loved story did.

I went to the Philippines at four years old, right before starting kindergarten in America. Until then, I was only surrounded by Filipinos and the diverse cultures my parents introduced through their friends. Huge parties with plenty of food for everyone were what the first four years of my life became filled with. In the Philippines, it felt no different. I had millions of titas (aunts), titos (uncles), lolos (grandpas), and lolas (grandmas) coming around to visit. The small village, constantly bustling and rowdy from the children running around, felt more and more like home. A language barrier existed between my cousins and me, but we were too young to pay any mind to it. I felt comfortable in the brown skin and dark hair I possessed. The moles that littered my face were no different from anyone else's. I still refer to trips to the Philippines as “going back home,” because memories like that have no other title. Going back to America gave me culture shock, despite only being gone for a month. I started school where blonde hair and blue eyes were more common than my darker features. Seeing everyone branch off into their own groups instead of the sense of togetherness I was so used to was foreign. I was mistaken for Mexican more times than I could count because only a few people knew about the Philippines. Once it became known, though, the idea of a Filipina was soft-spoken, submissive, and small. I have been spending my life trying to fight that stigma. I participated in band, highlighting a sound that couldn’t be so easily masked. I wrote for the school newspaper, trying to find my voice that others viewed as measly. And I tutor students now, guiding them to be the best version of themselves without letting anyone else decide their path. I am the eldest daughter of my family and the role model of my younger cousins. I have completed my Associate’s Degree in Biological Sciences and am transferring to a four-year university to complete my Bachelor’s all in hopes of pursuing medicine to help individuals heal from the inside out. The idea that Filipinos are only a friendly face has tainted our hardworking nature and hours of dedication. The continuous strength and perseverance have been downplayed tremendously because of that image. But even so, I wouldn’t trade my roots for anything else. Witnessing the determination of my parents, the love within my family, and the playfulness that lives in each heart, I have learned that my identity does not lie only in the three S’s mentioned before. Instead, I am always rewriting the views that others have of my culture. And here, I lead my path in these three S’s: strong, sincere, and selfless.

I visited the Philippines during the summer of the 7th grade. This was my second visit. I was whacked in the eye with a water pump due to my own mistake. I was rushed to a small hospital in Roxas, which was about a 10-minute drive from my province. Luckily, the doctor in the office was a distant relative of my father. Others wouldn’t have been so lucky. After being examined, I was given toothpaste to heal the cut and stop the swelling. This was a normal procedure in the hospitals of my home country. I had a black eye for the duration of my visit and it was my first injury in my life. Time and time again I have been exposed to the unfair treatment that occurs inside hospitals in the Philippines. Most patients in dire need of treatment are shut out because of their financial status. Most are unable to afford a room to stay in or even the medication needed to heal. Most aren’t offered treatment even if they are bleeding out in the waiting room. Most only want to heal. All of them deserve to heal. This is why I am determined to study medicine. I am a privileged Filipino-American who is able to receive treatment when needed and that identity is what has pushed me to pursue medicine. I am currently majoring in Biology with a set mind to specialize in either cardiovascular studies or neurological science. I want to know the ins and outs of medicine in order to further the knowledge that is within my small village. I desire to transform how each person views the hospital and make it a place where people will heal regardless of what setbacks lie ahead. This is the purpose of my life because I am Filipino-American. Because I am aware of the state of hospitals in the Philippines. Because I have seen and experienced what it’s like to be helpless and hurting. Because I know that each person deserves to heal. Because we are human.

“What is your fatal flaw?” The question rang in my ears. We began our Tragic Hero unit in AP English Literature and were reading Oedipus Rex by Sophocles. She started the lesson by allowing us to see if our stories held tragedies themselves– because we were our own heroes in each piece of our lives. Our fatal flaws stemmed from not being able to let go, self-sabotage, and denial. I asked my peers what mine may be. The one that stuck out to me the most was when a friend of mine said, “You give too much to people that don’t deserve it,” as well as, “You’re easy to take advantage of.” Her words shocked me and they lay heavy on my shoulders. The weight was unbearable. It kept me up as thoughts circled in my head. How could I be so vulnerable? Do people see me as an easy target? Should I change the way I act? I accepted this fatal flaw of mine and I learned that this quality is something I value. I value that others are able to come to me if they are not feeling their best. I value the way that I can become a safe place for others by simply being there for them. I wouldn’t say that I am taken advantage of at all. I allow others to take all they need from me because I want to. Sure, I am afraid of not having anything left for myself, but I will feel content each time I give. I love and appreciate people in this way because I know no other way. Having this quality allows me to have a deep level of understanding with others. I am able to communicate in ways that others can’t because of their surface-level connections to each other. The trait of giving “too much” is something I protect. It’s something that is precious to me because I aspire to be present for those that are at their lowest. Another flaw of mine that I learned of from a friend was my selflessness. He explained that he still remembers when I stayed up to help him structure an essay that was due. I forgot about this entirely. It was a small thing to have a sleepless night, but he remembered it in detail. Something that was so small to me stuck to him because of that flaw of mine. Even so, the two traits are not completely flawed at all. They are traits that some may admire about me and although they may be my downfall someday, I want to cherish them. I protect myself sufficiently, but my way of caring for others has no bounds. I hold these traits with pride as I will be a physician that hopes to connect with her patients. Down the line, I will continuously be someone others seek help from and I will gladly be there for them as they are struggling. Any workplace that I am placed in will not always be perfect and I am ready to accept that. I will both give help and receive it when either of us is having a hard time. Being selfless and giving too much is not a fatal flaw, rather, it is the trait that I hold close as I mature as an individual.

I looked up at my father with tears in my eyes. His face showed his confusion. He didn’t know what was wrong with me and couldn’t help as my cheeks puffed to let out a sob. It was the first time I realized that teaching isn’t for everyone. That I can’t always make up for mistakes. That my biggest challenge has always been myself. We sat at the kitchen table and my math homework lay on it with my hand tightly gripped on a pencil. I was determined to finish the assignment before leaving for school. My dad saw the stressful aura and came over to help with the problems I might’ve been stuck on. After just a few minutes, my eyes started to well up with tears. I didn’t want to hear my dad’s explanations and my focus was weakened. I couldn’t understand what was going on with his words. I was too drowsy to attempt a fight back. I couldn’t be angry at him. His English wasn’t the best. He tried to tell me a new way to solve the problem. His intentions were pure. Even still, he couldn’t teach me and I couldn’t learn from him. The challenge wasn’t the math homework at all. The challenge was accepting my way of learning and how badly I want to teach others with patience. Although he didn’t show it outright, I knew he was angry and confused. He saw my tears and questioned why they were there. I couldn’t explain how I felt and had no way to make him understand. Needless to say, the car ride to school was silent. My pleas for any help were nonexistent. I did everything on my own. In the summer of third grade, my little brother was born. He’s energetic and caring in ways I cannot describe in words. He’s thoughtful and too observant for his own good. When he started school, he would need help with homework frequently. My parents attempted to teach him once and he was left in sobs. As I was finishing up my own work, I walked over to where I heard the sniffles. He looked up at me with desperation and sadness. It broke my heart to see him so defeated. His once brightening smile was replaced with a frown. I shooed my parents away and told them I’d take over. They left. I taught him slowly and patiently. When he didn’t understand the material, I went over it again. When he asked questions, I answered carefully. Since then, my brother comes to me with questions and asks for help consistently when needed. My parents’ teaching style didn’t match either of us. My teaching style isn’t perfect either. I get frustrated at times, but I calm myself down when I realize how confused my brother may be. It’s never wrong to ask for help, and maybe that was the challenge I had to overcome. It’s strength that leads to understanding your own faults. It’s kindness to yourself that learns to accept those shortcomings. It’s courage to help others unconditionally. It’s a passion to want to teach others despite the barriers between you. Overcoming it all with patience is what brings us together.

“Just stop thinking so much.” That phrase has continued to tear me down from when I was just a child. At multiple points in my life, I’ve thought that I was the problem for struggling and feeling the way I did. As my mind ate away the color on my face and the marks on my arms grew darker, my brain attempted to hold up a dam for the thoughts that kept flooding in. A deep void in my heart began digging toward the dimmest parts of my soul. Am I crazy for feeling this way? There are so many people fighting for their lives, do I have the right to feel so down? Are my feelings valid? Is it okay to keep hurting like this? After some time, I realized that it was okay. It is okay to feel and it’s even better to heal. Despite the lack of support at times, I began to see how I never needed to tell others of my battles for validation. Social media distorted mental health issues as insanity and created this narrative to downplay difficulties in our everyday lives. Trying to find someone I could relate to or share my experiences with was tiring and endless. No one around me seemed to understand why my brain was wired like it was. Their only advice would be along the lines of, “Don’t worry too much,” or “Think more happy thoughts.” The worst sayings spoken to me were, “Everything is going great for you, don’t think like that,” and “You have so much good in your life, some aren’t as well-off as you.” It seemed as if I was invalid and weary out of selfishness until I found someone that would listen to me. I began attending my local church frequently. It was a small change, but my soul felt cleansed. My conversations with God were transparent and real. Some nights felt heavier than others, but my eyes would slowly shut into a deep slumber. My tear-stained pillowcases were not a new occurrence, but instead of painful sobs, they were filled with relief. My belief in God strengthened and it wasn’t until every lockdown that I truly deepened my relationship with Him. Through my spiritual journey, I’ve learned to give love, patience, and kindness to all in an even stronger sense. In that, I share my testimony as a way to show hope and how God’s love is stronger than any battle. This does not mean that my mental health issues have completely disappeared. I continue to break down at the tip of my cup, but my true goal is to normalize mental health issues in the church and see them as a common struggle instead of something so outlandish. I pray that we do not shy away from speaking out on our struggles and fears. My friends were the first ones to notice the change in my demeanor. They were also the ones that told others about my crippling mental health. This change created both rifts and stable bridges among my relationships with many. There is a boundary that I never cross with those dear to me in an attempt to save them from “crazy town”. My strongest relationships, though, are built on connection. My mental health issues prove no hindrance in most whilst others brush off my problems as if they were always invalid. It truly saddens me to see how having these burdens seem overwhelming to those that wanted to be close to me before learning my roots. I have also learned how many of those around me struggle with anxiety, depression, and eating disorders. I have come to truly appreciate my newly found support system. Knowing that some may not have that necessity pains me greatly. In that, I have begun reaching out as a way of comforting everyone that I can keep in touch with. I continue to look for a way to cross safely over the walls I’ve built. In that, my learning experiences are still far from being finished. For the longest time, the medical field felt like my home. After experiencing the struggles that mental health brought, my passion has only ever gotten stronger. Learning how the brain works and exploring new ways to treat every patient with care is my utmost priority. Bringing more awareness toward mental health and transforming our healthcare system to cater to each patient instead of throwing addictive prescriptions is something I strive to do. Our suffering should have never been seen as an economic benefit in our healthcare systems. These structures have even caused fear toward hospitals and seeking help. What’s worse are the mental health facilities that neglect patients whilst showcasing this caring environment instead. With methods of isolation and newfound attempts to hide struggling patients, our healthcare system has failed to cater to our basic needs as we suffer. My hope is in new practices and a wider spectrum in care. Let our healthcare systems learn our deepest struggles and how to treat them effectively. With suicide rates only ever-rising, our fights against those mental health issues should not end here. Having outlets like writing and music created a safe place for me. My hobbies and interests have been transformed after experiencing my deepest lows. Their importance in my life soared because of my need to express myself. My truest hope is to let others show themselves without being afraid of judgment and others washing down their darkest times. Advocating for mental health and letting others know how valid they are is what I truly desire to do. Each of us has a plan written by a wonderful God and carrying that out is where true beauty is. Our brokenness and fragile state are what He transforms in His careful hands. With mental health being looked at more recently, I hope that our voices are heard with care and attentive ears. Let each voice be heard, even if some of us are not here physically.

My grandpa left me with romance books, his jackets, and his lovely laugh. While some may consider these as just memories, I see them as his legacy. At the solid age of five, I lost not only my grandfather, but my home, my chef, and my best friend. Despite my short time with him, I already knew that his love would be almost impossible to replace. That beautiful love, warmth, and rosy tint was the greatest legacy I could ever experience. Although many strive to leave behind large sums of money, a corporation built on their hard work, or even a child that could live out their dreams, a legacy to me is an indent onto the heart of someone that admires you just as you were created to be. For most of our lives, we wonder how we could leave some kind of print on the world some of us spend decades on. A legacy, a legend, sometimes a myth. While it may seem that some will leave a deeper impact than others, each individual leaves something behind for others to discover. The term “valuable” differs from person to person. To me, the tiny books that my grandfather left were the most wonderful, but some may see them as childish and immature. Though, for a legacy to be meaningful, just one person is needed. The gift of one’s life after they pass is a legacy. Each person is worth so much more than books, money, or paper; however, whatever they leave behind becomes even more priceless. Just as many say, “They’re worth so much more after I’m a goner.” This cruel lyric, saying, and line depicts what a legacy truly is-- the mark we leave once we leave this world. To think of what I want to leave behind can leave me breathless. There are so many things that I would love to experience and so many people I want to touch deeply, but we are given so little time for what we truly desire. Truly, I want to leave behind countless pages of my journals and unsent love letters. The drafts that sit on my laptop and the older pictures I bury deep inside of my closet will be left behind as my legacy. Although time is as unexpected as when the clouds will pass, being in the medical field will always overtake my plans as I live. The strict conditions will only push me to my potential limits and allow me to leave even the tiniest mark on each patient I work with. Although this life can be described as ephemeral, whatever one leaves behind will last longer than a lifetime. A heart-warming and treasured experience would always be the most delightful legacy to be left with.