She
When a flower does not bloom, you fix the environment in which it grows, not the flower.
—Alexander Den Heijer
In a month that celebrates both the essence of womanhood and the nobility of the Social Work profession, I have been reflecting on my own journey that has led me to the woman I am today, and the work I do as a clinical Social Worker (aka therapist).
Now that the whirlwind of March has finally settled down a bit, I get to steal some time for myself and be with my writing again. Though I am exhausted, my heart is full, so full that it’s exploding in colors—full with gratitude, tears of joy, and warmth of Love.
There is this taste of sweetness lingering in the air. I’ve known it for some time now—the sweet nectar of healing. And I would like very much to take up permanent residence here, within the center of this sweetness for many years to come.
Healing does have that magic on you—it helps you uncover treasures that were once buried beneath all the rubbles of the past. Small gems of memories that I thought were once lost are now flooded up to my shore of the present moments. Like long-lost friends, certain stories of the past have been knocking on my door for a chance to revisit me, asking me to welcome them back in and reintroduce them to the world.
But how do you capture many stories of someone’s life journey (one that is unfinished) in a little blog? You can’t. How about I give you some puzzle pieces? When the right pieces fit together, you get the bigger picture.
Born a Flower
I must admit, there are always some pain and discomfort involved when telling the truth, especially when baring your vulnerability and sharing your stories with the world. But it is comforting to know that such pain is temporary, as opposed to the pain of keeping quiet and living with pretense. After all, keeping quiet has not exactly been my strong suit.
Growing up, I already managed to disappoint enough women in my family and extended family for having broken many rules and traditions by being the outspoken female, not sitting where I’m told, doing things on my own terms, and running far away from the kitchen as much as possible.
They didn’t realize that those were my ways of communicating my defiance towards a patriarchal culture that, for generations, has been telling women to keep their head down, mind their role as obedient daughters/housewives, and maintain their silence, even when it hurts.
Contrary to the cultural expectations, I have always been one with many questions—questioning authority and the systems, questioning people’s character and behaviors, questioning many forms of injustices around me, questioning the roles I play in society, and how I can make a change. This tendency of questioning everything has gotten my behind in more trouble than I would like to.
But how can anyone stand by and maintain silence when it comes to any form of trauma and oppression? How long can one keep quiet before the wounds fester? And at what cost?
Which one is more toxic—Is it the one who perpetrates the trauma and oppression, or is it the one who stands on the sideline, watches it happen, yet, turns a blind eye on the injustices that go on in front of them and around them? Is that why we have such toxic cultures that continue to live on for generations?
Those are some of the heavy questions I have pondered over the years, even more so since I embarked on my Social Work career—more specifically, as a trauma-informed therapist of color.
The Heart Muscle
A few years ago, a young Social Worker in training asked me: How do you do this work and keep showing up everyday smiling like that? I broke down in tears the other day after a young child told me about the trauma she endured and what happened to her family.
I thought about it for a moment and said to her:
You’ve got to train your heart muscle. So it becomes strong enough on the outside to withstand any storms, soft enough on the inside to comfort others in their most vulnerable moments, and big enough to hold both you and them at the same time.
I’m going to write that down so I can remember it. To train my heart muscle! She repeated out loud with great excitement and thanked me for those words.
I wished her well on her journey to becoming a Social Worker. I know all too well the grueling process of this profession and the challenges of being a public servant. I am constantly reminded of how it all started for me, and what it has taken me to get here, to find my unique place in settings where I’m often surrounded by faces that look nothing like me, do not represent my community, nor care to get to know who I am—a human being with stories behind the title and the position.
Blooming
While examining many cultural perspectives of womanhood, I recall one particular conversation I had with my father when we first arrived in the US. It was the conversation that paved a strong foundation for me to walk on as a young immigrant woman of color in this society—a place that often tells women like me to blend in, fade into the background and remain invisible there.
Afraid that I would get negatively influenced by the American mainstream culture and the Western beauty industry, my father had instilled in me this one message early on:
The best color on you is the color you were born with. Your natural beauty is your God-given gift, even the things about you that you consider imperfect. Don’t ever let any man or human convince you otherwise, or try to change who you are. All of that you carry with you represents your ancestors and your roots. Be proud of where you come from.
Because of that message, I have never wanted to dye my hair and never desired to make any permanent alterations to my physical appearance.
This man has taught me to stay true to who I am, to honor my roots and my color, to embrace both my natural beauty and my imperfection. In return, I’ve taught him how to treat me and honor me. Most importantly, I’ve taught him what Love and loyalty look like—some things that have taken him a few decades to learn, only to fully realize their meanings and genuinely appreciate such blessings quite late in his life.
His only wish now is to spend the remaining time of his life in my company, hearing my voice everyday and making up for the lost time. Real-life translation of that? The man literally blows up my phone like ten times a day. His latest endeavor is learning to respect my boundaries. He is proof that you can never be too old to change. And I’m proud of him for that.
Unlike my father, I don’t regret those years at all—they were not lost, for they’ve taught me to stand strong on my own with my head held high. I’ve learned to navigate many difficult life transitions and found the way back home to myself. I’ve learned to preserve the priceless treasures that are my values of a woman, and draw lines in the sand that no one can cross.
In reflection, I do believe that children are precious gifts given to their parents. As I’ve seen too often in my work, some parents carelessly lose their gifts along the way. Some search in vain for reconnection and reconciliation in the later years, but rather a little too late. Some mourn these losses in aloneness at the end of life, drowning in sorrows and regrets. Some are fortunate enough to reunite with their precious gifts once more, and learn the true meaning of lost-and-found through the power of apology, remorse, forgiveness and second chances.
Slowly but surely, I have become a stronger believer in the magic of Love and its ability to transform the darkest of winter into the warmest of spring, and turn even the barest branches into colorful blooms.
Becoming
Just the other day, my father randomly asked me, What exactly do you do for a living, my dear one?
I chuckled at his curiosity, as if we were two strangers getting to know each other for the first time. He knew that I have gone to college, earned a second degree of some sort, and worked for many years. But until this day, he still has no clue of what I do for a living.
After all this time, I’m still not able to sew the right words together to help him or other family members understand this Social Work profession that has now become my career. Many people don’t realize that words like mental health, therapy, counseling, and therapist never before existed in my vocabulary, my culture and my community. I didn’t know anything about Social Work in college until I picked up my first internship at UC Davis Medical Center—that’s where I crossed paths with Social Workers for the first time.
So, instead of giving him a whole dissertation about Social Work and the field of mental-health, I brushed it off, not wanting to confuse him. I told him in a playful manner, I am not doing anything illegal. My money is clean. I pay taxes…lots of taxes!
This chat with my father also reminded me of an endearing moment that I had with my maternal grandmother during her final days some years ago. On her sick bed with our relatives surrounding her, I could hear her proudly telling these folks about me, sharing the big highlights of my life and the wild things I did as a child—things that kept her and other adults on their toes.
She teaches. My grandmother claimed of me, so confidently.
I sat back, sinking into my chair, giggling from behind the crowd, admiring her beautiful energy, basking in her adoration for me, not wanting to interrupt her or correct her. This woman loved me bravely and unconditionally through it all. Despite the years and thousands of miles that separated us, she still looked after me until her dying days, just to see me walk tall and bold. Then, she let go.
I’ve always known, that it doesn’t matter what I do for a living, how much money I make, what position I hold in society, she’d be proud of the woman I’ve become.
Over the years, I’ve carried her mala, her heart, and her spirit with me every time I travel and everywhere I go. So I can show her the world, a different kind of world, a better world that I’ve worked hard to create for myself.
The world where I came from was not always beautiful. But she made it beautiful.
She made ordinary things … beautiful.