Why I’m Doing This Work (And How It Might Help You)
Welcome Back Always,
I obtained my bachelor’s degree in Psychology and then, pretty quickly after, shifted into being a stay-at-home mom. That season of my life was full and tender in its own way, but a part of me also knew I always wanted to go back to school at some point.
Deciding to go back to school and step into the therapeutic world wasn’t one single moment—it was a mix of many different turning points. My father had just passed away, and grief cracked something open in me. There were memories, questions, and feelings I had kept pushed down for a long time that suddenly came rushing to the surface. Along that journey, I realized there were parts of my history I wanted to understand more deeply—not just for my own healing, but also so I could sit with other people in their pain in a more grounded way.
I also started noticing something about myself: when life feels big and overwhelming, I tend to move toward learning and doing work. That’s one of my trauma responses (don’t worry, we’ll talk more about what that means in future posts), but it’s also a place where I’ve found meaning. Studying, writing, and showing up for this field became a way to turn some of what I’ve survived into something that might be of service to others.
When I first started learning the language of therapy, it felt like someone had finally handed me a map. For so long, I didn’t have words for what I was feeling or why certain patterns in my relationships kept repeating. I just knew something felt heavy and confusing, and that I was tired of feeling like I was the only one who didn’t “get it.”
I’m doing this work—and writing this blog—because I don’t think anyone should need a graduate degree, a certain kind of family, or a specific background to have access to that kind of map. Everyone deserves language for what they’re going through and a sense that they are not carrying it alone. If anything in my story feels familiar to you, I hope this space can offer even a small bit of clarity, companionship, and gentleness as you make sense of your own.
Who I’m Holding in Mind When I Write
When I sit down to write these posts, I’m thinking about people who:
Didn’t grow up talking about therapy or mental health, but feel the weight of what they’ve lived through.
Have tried to “just move on” or “be strong,” and are starting to wonder if there might be another way.
Notice themselves reacting in ways they don’t always understand—shutting down, overexplaining, overfunctioning, people-pleasing—and feel a little confused or frustrated by that.
You might be someone who has never been to therapy. You might be in therapy now. You might come from a family, culture, or faith community where mental health is spoken about very carefully—or not at all. However you identify, whatever your story looks like, you don’t have to earn your way into this space.
I’m especially thinking of folks who are trying to break patterns while still honoring where they come from; people who are carrying grief, responsibility, or secrets that started long before they did; people who are used to holding it all together for everyone else.
How My Background Shapes What I’m Teaching Here
I’m Filipina, Mexican and Native American and I grew up in a family where divorce, remarriage, step-parents, and lots of siblings were part of the picture. There was love, complexity, culture, expectations, and unspoken things all living in the same constellation of family.
Being across and in between different worlds—different sides of the family, different cultures, different ideas about what “strength,” “respect,” or “family first” looks like—shaped how I learned to cope and how I learned to stay quiet. It shaped the roles I took on, the things I shared, and the things I kept to myself.
Later, when I began my clinical training and research, I realized I wasn’t just interested in mental health in a general sense—I was especially drawn to how family stories, cultural expectations, and old wounds can echo through generations. I wanted to understand why some of us end up as the peacemakers, the emotional translators, the fixers, or the ones who carry more than our share.
One of the main things I want to gently teach in this space is this: the way we feel and react now is deeply connected to the stories, rules, and survival strategies we absorbed growing up. That doesn’t mean we’re doomed to repeat everything. It just means there’s often a story underneath our patterns, and that story matters.
One Thing I Hope You Take From This Space
If I had to choose one thing for you to walk away with, it would be this:
Your reactions make sense in context.
The anxiety, shut-down, overexplaining, caretaking, anger, numbness—whatever it looks like for you—didn’t appear out of nowhere. These responses are often learned over time, shaped by what was safe to show, what was expected of you, and what you had to do to get through.
In this blog, I’ll keep coming back to that idea and exploring it in different ways:
Naming how family, culture, and history can shape what we believe about ourselves and our feelings.
Offering language for patterns you might recognize in yourself or your relationships.
Inviting you to be a little less harsh with yourself when you notice those patterns, and a little more curious about where they came from.
If even one post helps you say, “Oh… that actually makes sense given what I’ve been through,” that already feels like something important.
How I’ll Show Up With You Here
Because this is a shared space between me and whoever finds their way here, there are a few things I want you to know about how I plan to show up:
I’ll do my best to use clear, human language instead of heavy jargon, and to explain concepts in a way that feels approachable.
I’ll share pieces of my own story and reflections when it feels grounding and useful, but I won’t process my entire life on the page.
I won’t write about current clients or share details that could identify someone. Any examples will be changed, combined, or kept general to protect people’s privacy.
This space is here to offer education, reflection, and companionship—not therapy or crisis support. It can sit alongside therapy if you choose to do that work, but it doesn’t replace it.
Underneath all of this, I’m trying to write from a place of compassion, cultural humility, and respect—for your story, your identities, and the many different ways people survive and heal.
A Gentle Pause (For My Siblings, and for Anyone Who Relates)
If something in this post stirred anything in you—maybe a memory of your own family, your culture, your losses, or the roles you’ve played—you don’t have to fix it or figure it all out right now. You might simply notice it, take a breath, or jot down a word or phrase you want to come back to later.
A part of me is writing these words with my younger siblings in mind—the ones who grew up in the same blended constellation of family, each of us taking on different roles to keep things moving. This space is, in a quiet way, a love note to them and to anyone who has ever felt like the strong one, the bridge, the peacekeeper, or the one who holds it all together when things get hard.
If that’s you—whether we’re related by blood, culture, story, or just shared experience—I hope this corner of the internet can offer you a little more language, a little more gentleness, and the reminder that you were never meant to carry everything alone.
In the next post, we’ll start slowly moving into this bigger theme of “carrying what came before”—how the histories, heartbreaks, and strengths of our families and communities can live on in our bodies and relationships, sometimes without us fully realizing it yet.
Take what’s helpful, leave what isn’t, and move at the pace that feels kind to your nervous system.
With Love,
Drea
Gentle reminder: This little corner of the internet is for education and reflection—it’s not therapy, and it doesn’t create a therapy relationship between us. If anything you read here feels heavy or brings up more than you can hold alone, please be kind to yourself and consider reaching out to a trusted person, a licensed therapist in your area, or local crisis resources for more support.
