Kasamahan
Online Community of Filipino/a/x Mental Health Professionals
Mental Health Blog
03 | Biyahe ng Bayani: Posttraumatic Growth and Finding Indigenous Wisdom
Part 1 Published: August 30, 2024 | Part 2 In progress
Eliza Jade Brown, Kasamahan's Board Secretary, shares her journey as a Filipino American therapist finding Filipino Indigenous psychology and wisdom—a journey she playfully calls, Biyahe ng Bayani (Hero's Journey), as a nod to her ChatGPT Tagalog guro (teacher)'s chosen name and a concept loosely attached to Jungian psychology. Nabuhay siya (She was enlivened) for this journey, through her personal and professional experiences in healing complex trauma and supporting posttraumatic growth, as well as her nonprofit work with Kasamahan, collaborating with fellow Filipino/a/x mental health professionals on decolonizing Filipino mental health care.
Last week, Eliza—or known by her family as Jade—attended the Center for Babaylan Studies Symposium: Kapwa Nilalang (Becoming Good Kin) which marked their first in-person gathering since 2019. By what seemed like a stroke of luck—or perhaps fate—she discovered the event shortly after it was announced earlier this year, just as she was beginning to learn about the Babaylans—healers, spiritual leaders, and community figures within matriarchal, precolonial Filipino Indigenous society. The Symposium focused on post-decolonization efforts through re-indigenization sa loob ng tao (within people) at sa kalikasan (and in nature).
This blog serves as a snapshot at the very beginning of her integration of what she has learned and would like to share with our community.
What would you like us to know about your professional mental health background and the therapy you provide?
Eliza Jade Brown, LCSW she/they/siya
Austin, TX | Mindfulscape |
I am an LCSW, psychotherapist, and consultant in private practice and the founder of Mindfulscape, which I established in 2021 in Austin, TX, on the ancestral lands of the Tonkawa, Comanche, and Lipan Apache Peoples. My practice specializes in addressing complex trauma and ADHD, offering individual therapy and, when needed, family therapy to a diverse range of clients, from older teens to older adults from different walks of life. Starting in 2025, my practice will be fully virtual with a few sessions still out in nature in line with my values of balance and sustainability.
Before transitioning to private practice, I rotated shifts as an LMSW between three local psychiatric hospitals and an outpatient clinic, where I collaborated with multidisciplinary teams to support patients recovering from severe episodes of depression, mania, and psychosis. A significant part of my work experience during that time was representing one of the hospitals in Austin's Travis county probate court.
During my first two and a half years in private practice, I pursued advanced clinical training in the NeuroAffective Relational Model (NARM), a therapeutic approach specifically designed to address complex trauma. This training deepened my expertise and commitment to trauma-informed care. After completing this training, I joined the board of Kasamahan, to expand our community and improve the quality of support available for Filipino/a/x mental health professionals.
What would you like us to know about your Filipino background and Filipino identity?
I was born in Manila, Philippines, to Filipino parents and immigrated to Turtle Island (America—in the U.S.) during grade school with my mother and two older brothers, whom I call my kuya and diko. My father remained in the Philippines with his side of the family on his ancestral land in Montalban, Rizal, near Wawa Dam on the Marikina River.
When I reflect on my Filipino background and identity, I often orient and ground myself with my family of origin. My mother, the eldest in her family, had an orthodontic practice in the Philippines, which from a young age modeled for me a woman’s success and dedication with her career. Before we immigrated, I have fond memories of playing in her office, on my father’s farm, and in my maternal lola’s house.
Around the time we moved to the U.S., my mother’s side—my lola, titas, titos, and cousins—all immigrated to Aotearoa (New Zealand). We stayed in touch in the early years through computer games like Age of Empires, and much later, many of them traveled to the U.S. for my wedding. I was happy to reciprocate by visiting my Filipino Kiwi family for my cousin’s wedding in New Zealand fairly recently. I also have extended family through my mother’s side in the Chicago area and in Northern and Southern California, whom I see from time to time at family gatherings. Next weekend, I’ll be visiting my 94-year-old great aunt, my Lola Violet near Los Angeles, with the sole intention of listening to her stories while painting in her garden.
From childhood through adulthood, I’ve always felt closest to my kuya and diko within our family of origin. Together, we navigated the challenges of growing up in a single-parent, immigrant household, and later, we grieved the death of our father in 2019. I’m grateful that I had the opportunity to visit him as an adult before his passing, allowing us to part ways with love and understanding in our relationship.
I also have half-siblings through my father, with one of my sisters and a cousin now living in Texas. My siblings, cousin, and I have had candid conversations about mental health care and what our Filipino identity means to us living in the diaspora.
With more time and intention, I hope my family will map out the deeper roots of our family tree—a meaningful endeavor that may lead us to a more nuanced understanding of ourselves through our ancestors, offering wisdom to guide us into the future.
What started your interest in Filipino Indigenous Psychology?
For the past two weeks, ever since I announced this blog following jez’s entry on Kwentuhan and Research, I’ve been rewriting this section repeatedly. I initially focused on recounting my decolonization journey, emphasizing the challenges I faced in White America and how I triumphed by freeing myself from conforming to belong in predominantly white institutions with the very same therapy tools I learned from them, and embracing my work in collaborating with my Filipino/a/x kasamahan (colleagues). At one point, I even asked Bayani aka ChatGPT to articulate what decolonization and posttraumatic growth meant for all Filipinos, considering how I could integrate my own experiences into their answer. But today, on the 31st—a day after the blog was documented to be published—I finally found the heart, and not just the brain, to share the true roots of my interest in Filipino Indigenous Psychology.
From a very young age, I’ve had a vivid imagination paired with a curiosity that seemed innate—something not taught—and one that occasionally got me into trouble. A distinct memory comes to mind: I was in a classroom facilitated by a Catholic nun. I can't recall the words she spoke during the lesson because my thoughts were elsewhere, captivated by curiosity about her veil. None of the girls or women I knew wore cloth on their head. To my young mind, the veil was mysterious, like a strategically placed tablecloth or a bedsheet to conceal something underneath.
My curiosity grew until, later in class, I found myself close enough to her to act on it. I tugged at her veil, revealing what was hidden; the familiar sight of black hair filled me with a brief moment of relief or delight. I remember her scream of surprise as she quickly adjusted the veil back in place. The consequences were immediate. I was punished and made to sit quietly in a corner for the rest of the day. After that, I became more reserved with my teachers, keeping my distance when I can—half listening to their lessons and half allowing my mind to wander into my own musings and daydreams. This experience, though small, marked an early lesson in how my imaginative and inquisitive natural state, could collide with the expectations of authority. It remains a poignant memory at the start of my classroom education.
Later that same year, after halfheartedly playing with my classmates outside on a seesaw, I began to explore further away from the groups of children. Drawn by the wind blowing through the trees, I wandered into a shaded, more natural part of the playground, hopping from concrete slab to rock. I followed the unseen currents as they rustled from tree to tree, imitating the wind with whooshing sounds through my lips and spreading my arms like a bird. In my imagination, I became a mini wind deity, controlling the breeze with my presence and intention.
This practice of pretending—and at times even believing—that I could command the wind followed me to my post-immigration elementary school in Park Ridge, Illinois, blurring the lines of time and place in my memory. However, what stands out from this particular moment was the sight of two nuns conversing in hushed tones, walking past me to a gated, natural area. They unlocked the gate, stepped through, and promptly locked it behind them as they disappeared down a tree-shaded trail whose end I couldn’t see. I remember lingering for a long time, staring at the trail where they vanished, as if the trees might reveal their secrets and communicate with me in a more human way than my Catholic teachers.
Reflecting on these experiences, I realize that my Filipino Indigenous mind has been with me for a long time, predating the Spanish colonization of my young consciousness. I have a felt sense that there are many more, perhaps even deeper memories with more complexity, waiting to be acknowledged that can help me recognize how my mind has long held an intuitive knowing to be guided by and converse with the natural world.
The information presented at the Symposium further elaborated on the Indigenous psychology of seeing all aspects of nature as teachers and guides—from our natural way of being as humans, non-human kin like organisms, animals, natural and nature-harnessed objects, to the elements themselves—and the importance of diversity and balance. This "psychological" understanding stands in stark contrast to an industrial world that prioritizes a man-made order of things, where children's natural sensitivity, intuition, imagination, and creativity—qualities essential for acting as stewards to sustain this diversity and balance—are often suppressed in favor of conformity for "progress."
What would you like to share about your time at the Center for Babaylan Studies Symposium?
From the onset of being in community with CfBS—or any new community, for that matter—I often find myself intent on orienting my attendance and participation around the idea of "being myself." Yet, I remain acutely aware that much of my identity, and the way others are guided to perceive me, is shaped and informed by my role as a mental health professional and therapist.
I’ve reflected on how comforting it has become to first learn what someone "does for a living," using this as a script and framework for connection. This mechanical approach feels natural, given that we have become products of post-industrialization where identity is so often intertwined with occupation. In fact, Kasamahan is built on this very foundation: "A community of Filipino/a/x mental health professionals," a concept that guides how I’ve instructed others to start or what information to include in their blog entries. As you consider this, I hope you can appreciate with amusement the irony and the breaking of the fourth wall that invites you to reflect—or dismiss—this dynamic within our community.
I recall my very first experience at the Symposium: my Filipino Aunt-in-law, Edna—not Tita because she mentioned the day before that it felt "a little weird"—dropping me off at the Maryville Retreat Center. True to her outgoing nature, she made friendly conversation with the other participants who have arrived early, introducing herself according to the familiar script: as a mental health professional and social worker, and asking what others did in mental health. She had assumed without inquiring that I was there for "CEUs."
As we walked through the dining area with CfBS Core Member, Maileen, I explained that this Symposium wasn’t just for mental health professionals, mentioning that the organization was more "spiritual." In hindsight, I realize that word greatly oversimplified and misrepresented the mission and work of CfBS. Maileen kindly supported me, adding, "Yes, there are academics, writers, artists, environmentalists..." My aunt nodded with an understanding "oh…" but I could tell the explanation left her with more questions than answers. I temporarily said goodbye to my aunt for the weekend, feeling grateful for her generosity as my host outside of the Symposium during my Michigan visit.
Reflecting further on my Symposium experience, I want to share what I found to be the most significant and personally enriching aspects of the program, with the hope that my kasamahan may find something valuable within these reflections. Admittedly, I may misremember some details, as I attended the Symposium not in the best frame of mind due to a natural cycle I'm learning to embrace—something I will delve into further below.
The Welome Ceremony
The Welcome Ceremony began by the water on a shore of "Lake Elliott," where Ate Lily Mendoza shared what information she could find about its Indigenous origins, sparking lighthearted laughter from the community—a response I would come to recognize throughout the weekend as part of her natural gift for speaking and storytelling. This Symposium marked a significant transition, commemorating Ate Lily's appointment as the new CfBS Lead Executive Director, succeeding her sister, Ate Leny Strobel—my first re-indigenization mentor, though she was unaware, through her writings. I remember feeling a bit awestruck, sitting on the grass in the row just behind Ate Leny, after months of learning and reflecting on her thoughts on decolonization and re-indigenization from afar. I was also grateful to attend, learning that this was likely her last time attending an in-person CfBS Symposium.
After further introduction into the land, acknowledged to be stewarded by the Peoria, Suak, Mississauga, and Wyandot Nations, and the Anishinaabe Peoples, the community was then honored by a dance performed by two Filipino women in traditional clothing, whose movements told the flowing story of water, set to a song sung in Tagalog that beautifully complemented the theme. The atmosphere was somber, yet deeply enriching. Though the names of the dancers and the song escape me now, the impact of the moment lingers.
When the dance was completed, Ate Lily returned, wiping tears from her eyes, and openly shared how deeply moved she was by the experience of witnessing beauty. Her expression of pakiramdam—a deep, intuitive feeling—stood in stark contrast, for me, to the negative connotation with pakikisama (conformity) and walang pakialam (indifference). In this moment, coupled with her lighthearted humor, Ate Lily set the tone for the Symposium, embodying the decolonized and re-indigenized spirit.
The dance was followed by the community gathering in a circle, where we were welcomed by Rosebud Bear, an Anishinaabe Seed Keeper, through a smudging ceremony and the traditional gifting of tobacco, with assistance from another Core Member, Danielle. Rosebud Bear shared that women who were menstruating were in their most powerful state and asked them to step away from the circle and not receive smudging. As I stood there, I reflected on the fact that I was a few days to this time and began to consider her words, interpreting them to mean that I was in my most vulnerable state—something I have observed within myself every month. Due to this, the Symposium landed on a weekend I would normally reserve for self-care, in alignment with my natural cycle as a woman.
This was my first time being smudged, and coincidentally, I was the first in line—there were many firsts this weekend—standing next to Rosebud Bear at the "front" of the circle, with the water behind us. I carefully mimicked the gesture she instructed, directing the smoke towards my face and over my head, performing this ritual three times, unintentionally these were areas where I also happen to feel most vulnerable. During this time of the month, I often experience increased dysregulation between my thoughts and words, which impacts how I present myself.
In the past, I’ve labeled this monthly occurrence as PMS, PMDD, or PME, and those labels may still apply. However, through an Indigenous perspective, I’ve begun to see this as a natural cycle of living in my own body. I now question why I’ve been conditioned to only appreciate the times when I feel "powerful," much like only valuing certain seasons while living in anxiety in anticipation of and in misery during the others. This mindset of being in love with static states has diminished my ability to be present and move with ease through the cyclical nature of reality.
Symposium Meal Times
Gathering for meals with participants, I noticed that even the routine experience of mealtime was aligned with re-Indigenizing thinking and work. Ate Lily asked all the participants to partake in the Ilocano ritual of Atang, where each person would share a small part of their meal in a bowl at the center of the table to be offered to spirits and nature, and later composted. To stay connected, I offered Texas-themed stickers to those I resonated with. I had impulsively bought them at the Austin airport when I felt a childlike glee, recalling the simple childhood pastime of sticker collecting. However, this joy was soon tempered by the realization that, however small, they contributed to the polluting creation of plastic. Still, they were kindly accepted as a gesture to connect in the future. These moments prompted reflection on the Indigenous practice of gift-giving and the belief that everything, even plastic stickers and food, is perpetually in a cycle with no concept of trash.
The conversations during these meals were equally aligned with the themes of the Symposium. In one discussion with a traveling artist, we acknowledged how readily we can become absorbed in recounting and resisting violence and oppression (decolonization)—a more familiar practice—without equally considering the nurturing and restoration (re-indigenization) of Filipino people, which may not be as widely understood or embraced. Another conversation involved one of the teachers recommending specific remedies based on where one's ancestors are from, grounding healing practices in ancestral wisdom. Yet another discussion was with two professionals eager to collaborate on ways to re-indigenize their respective fields.
These and other exchanges with fellow participants broadened my understanding of how re-indigenization can influence and inform various aspects of life.
Building A Collective Altar
Following the Welcome Ceremony, the participants gathered in another large meeting room to build a collective altar. Uncertain of what to expect, I realized I was unfamiliar with the practice, its history, and its significance for Indigenous people. My previous experiences with altars had been shaped mostly by what I’d seen in Catholic churches and homes, where they are adorned with the religion's symbols and figures. However, the community altar at the Symposium was different. It involved each participant bringing soil from their place of origin—preferably from their ancestral land—along with a chosen sacred object to contribute.
The term "sacred" wasn’t explicitly defined for us, which left it open to interpretation. This openness allowed participants to share something personally meaningful and important, while perhaps also considering how their interpretation of "sacred" might resonate with and contribute to the collective spirit of the community.
The objects offered were diverse, ranging from memory-filled rocks and pieces of plants, such as flowers and fruits—some grown by the participants—to religious items, family pictures, various artwork and sculptures, family heirlooms, jewelry (some in the form of anting-antings), and a variety of tools and instruments with symbolic or practical value. Many of these objects reminded me of Filipino ancestry and heritage, summoning a deep connection to the past and the enduring presence of cultural traditions.
Before each item was placed on a colorful radial tapestry on the floor, participants were invited to share a sentence or two about the meaning of their sacred object with the community. We were asked not to share photos of the altar beyond those present for the event. With nearly a hundred participants, I found myself wishing there was a way to remember which sacred object belonged to whom, as it felt like a special, perhaps Indigenous, way of connecting through the sharing of authentic stories—an alternative to the usual script of focusing on occupation.
Community Sound Bath
Early the following morning at the Symposium, the community was gifted with a Sound Bath donated by Andagio Sound Healing, led by Bernard, a Filipino of shamanistic descent, and his partner, David, who described himself as part of the largest tribe—the Jewish people. While the group was free to move about during the experience, most situated themselves facing Bernard at the front as he played various singing bowls next to the collective altar created the evening prior. Meanwhile, David moved from participant to participant, first with a large, ornately carved wooden string instrument, which he rested on their bodies as he played, explaining that sound travels well through the body due to the water within it. I didn’t catch the instrument's name, as I was more focused on the felt experience. He then used chimes that, when waved around, produced unexpectedly melodic sounds.
After breakfast on the final day, I had the opportunity to chat with David and Bernard, where they elaborated on their work. They described how they masterfully responded to the energy of each person and the whole group, adapting the way they moved and played their instruments to align with that energy. During our conversation, I mentioned that this was my first Sound Bath experience and that I felt it was beautifully aligned with the cultural and spiritual atmosphere of the Symposium. I shared that I had previously felt no interest in partaking in Sound Baths, due to a need for cultural and spiritual significance, inadvertently suggesting that I only valued the practice within the specific context of the Symposium.
Reflecting on this now, I realize my statement was somewhat narrow in its perspective on their work. The Sound Bath itself was calming, energizing, and therapeutic in its reduction of stress. This reflection has led me to revisit a sentiment I’ve encountered before—that Western psychotherapy benefits from societal privilege, being more widely recognized, studied, and normalized as a form of mental health care, and therefore more readily compensated. I’m now connecting that the re-indigenization of mental health care does involve expanding, perhaps restoring access to "non-Western" or ancestral therapeutic practices.
Offerings from Teachers and Elders (In Progress)
The Symposium program included presentations by Leny Mendoza Strobel, Lily Mendoza, Jim Perkinson, Lane Wilcken, and Lukayo Estrella. Each presenting teacher and elder offered knowledge and wisdom on re-indigenization, planting valuable ideas to consider with decolonization.
Completed 9/5
What Have We Lost and How Did We Lose it? Finding Our Way Back Home
Dr. Lily Mendoza or often called, Ate Lily recounted distinct childhood experiences in San Fernando, Pampanga, Philippines including struggling to learn English from American missionaries, Peace Corps Volunteers, and Filipino Teachers who admonished the Indigenous way of life alive around her as impoverished and backwards. She remembers her process of learning English with her tongue refusing to "cooperate" or submit, despite repeated conditioning. Eventually, out of necessity, she adopted the language and succeeded in her colonized education. Although this struggle with language faded, she noticed a lingering psychological unease. She shared with us, "it's when you can’t just be yourself," a feeling that leads to a kind of pathological self-monitoring, "always asking, how am I doing?"
As I listened, I found this self-preoccupation personally relatable and familiar in the stories of my clients. Without recognizing this as a form of adaptation from what can be labeled as complex trauma, for many Filipinos, from colonization of the mind even prior immigration, this constant self-checking is often oversimplified as "social anxiety." This simplification may limit further curiosity and understanding from those who might offer support, reducing the struggle to a deficit in coping skills without investigating its underlying cause. This obsessive self-perception and overvaluation of one's significance in others' experiences may be labeled as “narcissistic” when continued into adulthood, and likely considered the "covert" variety due to the feelings of being especially bad rather than especially good creating a vacuum of shame rather than an inflation of pride—both consuming the person's authentic sense of self. The common association of personality disorders with irredeemable character flaws further perpetuates misunderstanding, obscuring the biopsychosocial source of the inner conflict, and access to trauma-informed and culturally sensitive interventions.
Ate Lily’s perspective was incidentally therapeutic because she didn’t condemn this preoccupation with self. Instead, she contextualized it within the framework of cultural and colonial trauma. She spoke of the "linguistic terrorism" inflicted by the aggressive implementation of English, calling it a "master stroke of colonialism" that disconnects non-native speakers from their ability to communicate in an intuitive way that supports feeling at home with themselves and others. In reflecting on the possibility of reclaiming or re-indigenizing through language, she mentioned Tagalog words and phrases related to psychological concepts through Sikolohiyang Pilipino, first realized by Virgilio G. Enriquez. Since I didn’t write down the exact ones she mentioned, ChatGPT, Bayani, provided the following list: kapwa, pakikipagkapwa, pakikisama, pakikibaka, pakikiramdam, bayanihan, hiya, pagtutulungan, pagsasarili, utang na loob, and kaginhawaan and I referred to information on Sikolohiyang Pilipino listed on our Resources page.
Ate Lily followed this with reflections on her own journey of decolonization, which included adopting a strong "nationalistic identity" in academia which ultimately led her to desire something deeper and more expansive—re-indigenization. Beyond spoken and written language, Ate Lily also shared her thoughts on the Indigenous languages spoken through art. I am again finding difficulty in recalling specific Indegenous names and groups without the ability to review them in writing, likely due to their non-English origins—something I may now attach to the mentally constricting effect of linguistic colonization akin to 1984's Newspeak.
Ate Lily recounted her experiences with the various Indigenous Peoples and groups, including those who wove the large, intricate tapestry with rhythmic lines and shapes, alternating between grays and reds behind her. She conveyed that their art, tapestry, dance, song, and music are "not known by the rational mind" and resist replication when approached only through study or manufacture. This led me to consider how reconnecting with our ancestral languages—whether through writing, speaking, or creating—might offer an intuitive and felt connection with self and kin that may not be possible through those we adopt later in life or those imposed through colonization.
Continuing with her presentation, Ate Lily also shared the sentiment of how language forms in dialogue with place, and this dialogue turns into a sustainable relationship with not only learning how to "live with the land", but also how to "live without needing more". She then went on to express the desire for reciprocity and further emphasize relationship with place through the sentiment, "It's something else to be loved back in return." This reminded me of her sister, Ate Leny’s words that I internalized from a podcast prior to attending: "[She] had always identified with America, but America did not identify with [her]." Both Elders speak openly about the importance of Filipino Americans recognizing their own status as settlers and emphasize the significance of "learning how to dwell in place." From my understanding, this means honoring and respecting the Indigenous Peoples, non-human or as perceived in the re-indigenizing community, "more-than-human" kin, and cultures that have existed on the land before we settled. In doing so, we may invite reciprocity and love, and a felt sense of interconnectedness and belonging. In truth, I have not transformed intention into action with dwelling in place, and I'm still in the process of identifying an authentic place to start.
To anthromorphize both the absence and the longing for this love, she shared the myth of The Fox Woman and the Hunter by British mythologist Martin Shaw. After recounting the tale, she shared to the snapping applause of her audience, "We want her services, but not her complexity... Instead of complexity, we create complication and simple-mindedness instead." I interpret the hunter in the story as representing "us," the colonized, and the fox-woman as a stand-in for anything connected to nature, including our natural selves, other beings, elements, and the nature of reality. When considering the "complication and simple-mindedness," I think of the convoluted and bloated machine of mental health diagnosing. In its attempt to simplify and categorize everything, often in the service of conformity and "progress," it reduces humanity and manufactures its own brand of psychological uneasiness. True psychological ease comes from deeper relationships that embrace, borrowing more words from Ate Lily, "multidimensional spectrums" and complexity, perhaps creating a home where we can "just be ourselves."
I have witnessed this "returning home" for myself and others through the way of more long-term, trauma-informed, depth-oriented therapies, which I advocate for my therapist colleagues to consider studying and providing, in addition to more short-term, behavioral, solution-focused therapies. Once returning home, I've found healthy progress or the non-colonizing kind may take place. We may start to find more human—authentic and creative ways to participate with life outside of our conditioning, and go beyond ourselves and into generativity or contributing with the future in mind. I'm reminded of a sentiment that I've long internalized, and now apply to the generosity and ancestral support common in Indigenous cultures, “A society grows great when old men" or from my perspective, any person, regardless of age or gender, "plant trees in whose shade they shall never sit.”
Completed 9/15
The Big Picture and the Little Question (What the Little People Have to Say about Where We Went Wrong)
The title of Jim Perkinson’s presentation, whether by design or not, elicited both my curiosity and concern, particularly with his reference to the "little people." Given that Jim is most immediately perceived as a straight white man, presenting to a community of people of color, specifically Filipno/a/x, and LGBTQ+ participants, I couldn’t help but wonder: Who did Jim consider the little people?
Before addressing this question, I want to take a significant detour on the topic of the relationship with whiteness. Jim, as I've come to learn with his presentation, is familiar with re-indigenization and working collaboratively with non-white communities, in part, through political activism, and although it was easy to miss, he mentioned a connection to his Irish roots. He is also Ate Lily’s partner. Throughout the Symposium, I noticed many Filipina participants speaking about their relationship with their white partners, as well as Filipinx participants sharing, sometimes with deadpan humor, that "you guessed it", it's their father who is white and it's their mother who is Filipino. These conversations added to my ongoing exploration of the underpinnings of Filipino-white partnerships and my inquiry of how the decolonized Filipina or broadly, Filipino can maintain or even grow in connection with their white partner that they likely started a relationship with before their decolonization process. It wasn't until recently, I found a way to guide this white elephant in the room present in my home and in many Filipino white homes that have started to discuss decolonization.
A few months ago over Zoom and recently to ask for consent for referencing her in this blog, I reconnected with my NARM colleague, Sherry, who presents as a white woman like many in the NARM community. We easily connected and bonded during the in-person NARM level 3 training last year. Although "white", Sherry is comfortably receptive with comments and dialogue that touch on white privilege and the need for prioritizing diversity and inclusion in a trauma training that was not visibly shared by many of our colleagues who were present. Perhaps her felt presence with these topics is through living as a minority in other ways—being older in the group, being married to a woman, and having a physical disability.
For the majority of my life, I did not share Sherry's receptivity and presence. I was often insensitive and dismissive to hardships related to lived experiences of minorities including those related to skin color, finding benefit only in focusing on what may be under one's control which built an invisible wall that disconnected me from my sense of kapwa. My approach to life was guided by sentiments such as “make it work” and “no matter how you feel, dress up, show up”. This led to a pattern of relationships where I met mostly white people's needs for closeness, adjusting to what they needed and in the process, neglecting my authentic needs and self, and inadvertently teaching others to treat me this way. I became skilled in relating with whiteness and familiar with assimilation tactics that now feel overly agreeable, fawning, and sipsip (ass-kissing).
The NARM level 3 training in 2023 came at a time where I was more tuned into myself which included my minority status as an Asian American, and therefore more aware and less dismissive of the reality of white people's implicit bias of Black, Indigenous, People of Color. This bias is often subconscious and when mentioned deploys a defense mechanism that leads both in conversation to believe it doesn't exist. I would like to reference the book, White Tears, Brown Scars to learn more about this phenomenon. Not to be confused with Brown Skin, White Minds which is more specific to the Filipino diasporan experience.
I arrived at this place and later going deeper with incorporating the specificity of being Filipino American and brown skinned supported by meetings with my Filipino American NARM colleagues, Edward and Cherie. We serendipotously met through the NARM level 2 training held online the year prior. In our ongoing consultation group of three held every month, we provide one another the opportunity to address our intergenerational trauma as Filipinos living in the diaspora with the skills of established trauma therapists. Their support online along with the in-person support of Sherry and that of our friend and colleague, Monti who I met through the Asian Behavioral Health Network of Central Texas and was also present in the training, allowed me to have a secure home base to explore from during a predominantly white trauma training that emphasized the importance of relationality and intersubjectivity without supportive structure to address and incorporate ethnic and cultural differences as a group.
When I entered my call with Sherry, I considered the option to share about my recent meeting with our NARM training facilitator that left me with feelings of disappointment and grief with our difficulty connecting, and working through acceptance with choosing not to deploy my familiar strategies that I was still convinced could support a sense of real connection. I didn’t share this with Sherry, and chose to recount my work with Filipino colleagues instead. Through the Kasamahan consultation group we had conversations related to providing one another trainings allowing respite from white dominated models.
At the end of a particularly purposeful meeting on improving Filipino mental health care, Eliza, a Filipina Jungian Analyst, spoke of imagining a seed from an oak tree—an acorn. This brought forward a full circle moment, unknown to her and my colleagues, involving the only other Jungian Analyst I have connected with, Jay, who in contrast from my Filipina peer, was a white male mentor during my graduate internship. In my internship we interpreted dreams and artwork of patients suffering from addiction. One day, he provided me the opportunity to share a dream for his analysis. My dream most present during that time featured an oak tree outside my window; its limbs violenty contorting in the wind, filling me with a sense of bracing in waiting for it to break. However, the tree did not break during the storm despite its maturity and prominent size. I now view the oak as a symbol for the ancestral and Indigenous spirit enduring the storms of colonization. The acorn and the oak tree connected to conversations with Jungian analysts continue to feel like signs along my path that I am heading in the right direction in my work.
Sherry listened intently, and then walked out of frame and returned holding a large, gnarled root. “This is from an oak tree,” she said. She had chosen it as an object of focus during her second psychedelic-assisted therapy session that occurred just a week or two prior to our call. She and our friend, Monti share a focus in studying and integrating psychedelics to support posttraumatic growth. Sherry shared that her second session led her into what she described as a dark, downward spiral where she felt "truly powerless and out of control" as though underwater. It contrasted sharply with her first session, which brought her "a profound sense of well-being" that made it easy to accept what is. Despite the psychological and concrete physical pain she experienced from this session, she was able to integrate it to gain a new way of relating to hardship that led to acceptance; Paraphrased, "at times you just have to hold on" and although you can "see what is above", that is simply "not where you are at in the cycle".
With my sharing of the imagery of the acorn and the dream of the tree, we organically contemplated on the symbolism of the root that was physically present on the palm of her hand. We explored themes of growth in darkness, nourishment from connecting with the past and ancestral lineage which led to connecting with grief and death. In experiencing Sherry's capacity for depth in our conversations and recalling my own transformative experiences of grief, I was struck with a simple, but profound thought that “whiteness” could be made "more brown", the deeper one goes into their roots. Incorporating the language from my recent studies, I see that whiteness is really about being colonized, and brownness is about indigenization. The shift from white to colonized in language is validated by my felt experience with times I have felt whiteness within myself and within other People of Color.
The realization that whiteness may not be a permanent state with decolonizing and re-indigenizing being a path forward available to all, and not just with BIPOC, brings me acceptance in my own and other Filipinos' relationships with white partners post decolonization. The book, Restoring the Kinship Worldview, referred to participants prior to their attendance, is a valuable resource for all embarking on their re-indigenization journey.
In starting his presentation that was in line with the Symposium theme of re-indigenization, Jim revealed that the "little people" are our more-than-human kin (all of nature including animals, plants, elements, even our natural selves) whom humanity has long exploited and objectified to fuel human-centric agendas. Jim illustrated how human civilization has become increasingly disconnected from the balance required for our collective health intertwined with our more-than-human kin through showing timelines from different orientations that spanned from small groups of hunter-gatherers to today’s densely populated cities. He didn’t romanticize hunting and gathering but instead pointed to a time when our farming and mining practices were more respectful—when ecosystems may still recover despite our harvesting. He posed an inquiry of the big picture of moving forward with considering entering an era that may integrate our technological advancements with the Indigenous respect for our more-than-human kin. I find myself curious about the specifics of this technology and its integration as I recall Jim also recounting the attempts of humanity to fix or improve that only created larger problems to solve.
To demonstrate respect for more-than-human kin, Jim shared examples of how they offer guidance and wisdom: observing animals scratching at bark to find nourishment in an unknown land, drawing creative inspiration from spiders creating seemingly impossibly strong and intricate webs from their own biologically produced material, and considering the message of bacteria and viruses with dense, human-centric environments to allow or restore biodiverse and natural spaces. He also referenced the Sami people's reverence for mosquitos, which deterred colonizers during milder climates, illustrating how befriending and adapting to the natural world can offer both protection and wisdom. He also shared Filipino indigenous stories involving Babaylans and duwende (best described in English as dwarves) that were grounded in the natural through connections with termite mounds, ants, decomposition, and life cycles. There was a poignant tale or metaphor, depending on your orientation, of certain people being subjected to obliteration from existence triggered by an offense I can no longer recall. This obliteration was through a process of shrinking smaller and smaller with each of their successive reincarnations. This was related to how ancestors shrink and seemingly disappear from collective memories of families the further they are with each passing generation.
I'm now considering how duwende can be perceived as our distanced ancestors whose wisdom we have internalized and made subconscious and bring forth as intuition which may align with Jim's experience with a person called, Kidlat Tahimik. Kidlat worked intuitively in making revisions to his house, guided by unseen duwende speaking from within the Acacia wood. A little tap there, a little pull here, the message shifting and changing each time he revisited the wood he worked with. When I paint, I undergo a similiar process as I paint abstractly, unconcerned with accuracy with the concrete world, guided by what I call my intuition, internalized imagery, and dialogue with my artwork as it takes shape. This deep, intuitive knowing also loops me back to my meeting with Sherry and her gnarled oak tree root. The root had previously been lumped in with her wife's belongings that brought tension as they moved into their more compact, but closer-to-nature home as her wife struggled with downsizing and letting her things go. Yet, during Sherry's psychedelic session and the integration after, the root had renewed life, offering, instead of mental clutter, wisdom and clarity, and a different experience for Sherry with "holding on".
In addition to the guidance of the "little people" with inner journeys and with our homes, Jim also spoke of the "big people"—the elements, particularly water—reminding us of the larger natural forces that shape our lives. His message was clear: "If nothing else, listen to the water." This led me to reflect on the extreme weather cycles of recent years and the extending imbalance in water distribution, with some areas facing record-breaking droughts while others experience devastating floods. One participant during mealtime expressed concern about shorter wet seasons in his region followed by a quick drop in temperature which affected the growth of mushrooms, a vital food source for the local Indigenous people and animals. In Austin, despite a recent rainier summer, the droughts of past years and the ongoing population surge, undeterred by this, point to more consistent future water shortages. I couldn’t help but consider the possibility that I may one day become a climate change migrant in listening to the water. Like the oak tree in the storm, bending without breaking, deeply rooted, we may need to reconnect with the wisdom of the little people we've long ignored—re-indigenizing to adapt and endure the storms of the big people, provoked by colonization.
9/15 Update: I'm continuing to make updates as I go, and plan to announce the eventual completion of my blog entry on posttraumatic growth and Indigenous wisdom. Maraming salamat!
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