Kindergarten: The First Time I Felt Fear

The earliest memory I have? I was around four years old. (The same age as my daughter)

And I remember this feeling: scared, sad, alone.

Strangely, that same season also gave me my happiest early memory:

Kindergarten.

Where I first learned what joy felt like, and what fear did too.

Waiting

I had a younger brother, just a couple of years younger than me.

My mom usually picked me up from school. Not just picked me up, waited, watched, and worked.

She’d sell food under the "Kubo" (where all the parents wait for their kids) —lumpia, turon (sweet fried banana rolls), baked bread, and my favorite: brownies.

The smell of the warm bread she baked, just for me and my brother, still lives somewhere in my memory.

But one early afternoon, no one came to get me.

Class ended. My classmates left. One by one.

Until it was just me and my teacher.

She asked if I knew my way home.

I said yes.

So I walked.

The Long Walk

I remembered the path.

My mom and I had walked it so many times before.

But this time, it felt different.

I was afraid, even if I didn’t show it.

Every car, every tricycle, every barking dog felt loud—too loud.

I remembered my mom’s voice in my head: “Mimingat ka” (Be careful).

She used to say that all the time. Especially when I’d climb trees at age 3 like I had no bones.

No wonder she was always so anxious.

It’s funny now, I feel the same way when my daughter does anything remotely wild.

Anyway, that walk felt like forever.

Then, finally, I saw the elementary school I’d be attending soon.

Home was close.

And then I saw her.

Reunion

My mom was rushing toward me.

Her face was full of fear and guilt and love.

She dropped to her knees and pulled me into her arms.

And that’s when I finally cried.

Really cried.

Not because I was scared… but because I didn’t have to be brave anymore.

There were other feelings in there too, ones I couldn’t name back then.

Sadness, I didn’t understand.

Maybe even grief.

Realizations (20+ Years Later)

Now that I’m a mom, I understand.

I look back and realize I wasn’t just feeling my fear…

I was absorbing hers. My mother’s.

She was anxious. She was exhausted.

She was doing everything - working, feeding us, mothering two kids, and still showing up.

I get it now.

Why am I writing this?

Because for 26 years, I’ve wondered why the people we love… sometimes forget us.

And now I know: they were just trying to survive, too.

Life Is Not a Movie

We grow up thinking we’re the main character and everyone else is the supporting cast.

But the truth is: everyone is living their own story.

Everyone is just trying to get home.

I spent a long time living in a dream…

But I’ll save that for another letter.

For now, I’ll say this:

Even though I wish I didn’t have to go through that moment,

I’m grateful I did.

Because it gave me the ability to feel deeply.

To read emotions.

To sense patterns.

To become the woman and mother I am today.

A Letter to My Mother

Ma,

I know why you couldn’t pick me up that day.

You were caring for my brother. You were working. You were doing everything.

You were trying.

It’s okay that you forgot.

I wanted to tell you that I made it home on my own.

Not to make you feel guilty…

But to make you proud.

I wanted to show you that I was brave.

That I could do it.

And I wanted to make you smile. I always wanted that.

Ma, I want to be a good mom to Jamilla.

Because of you.

You are strong. So independent.

You gave everything, even when you had nothing left to give.

You faced pain, betrayal, and exhaustion… and you never let it define you.

You were overprotective because I needed to learn independence.

You weren’t always present because I needed to find love within myself.

You were critical, so I could build confidence.

Every word, every silence, every choice, shaped me.

And I thank you for that.

Final Thought

I believe I needed that lonely walk home at age four.

Because that little girl grew up…

And now she walks others home.

Through motherhood.

Through journaling.

Through healing.

So to the women who feel too much:

Your story doesn’t begin with pain.

It begins with awareness.

And if you're here, reading this,

You're already on your way back home.

Inspired to reflect?

Here’s a prompt to journal with:

When was the first time you had to be brave on your own?What would you tell that younger version of you now?