I remember the day I dropped off a jeepney to help a stranger who had been in a motorcycle accident. I rushed and cleared the scene, borrowed a chair from a bakery shop so she could sit, asked for ice from a nearby buko vendor, and wrapped her ankle with my handkerchief using a square knot I’d learned as a Girl Scout and a Red Cross Volunteer.

When the ambulance arrived, I accompanied her to the emergency room and helped transfer her to a bay. What no one knew was that I was on that jeepney for a reason. I was headed to the very same hospital, not to give care, but to be cared for. I was mentally and emotionally struggling, in need of help. But in that moment, before I could break down, I chose to be a refuge for someone who was hurting. Her pain couldn’t wait, and neither could my compassion. You might think these acts require strength. But behind every gentle word, behind every shift I showed up for, I was carrying my own battles. I fought for those in need. Quietly, I was fighting for myself too. Healing, real, human healing, often begins in the quietest acts of care. I am not an extraordinary nurse. I’m just someone shaped by experience and by hands that showed me how to care. I am simply a person full of humanity, fighting silently, loving fiercely.