Part I: The Roots: The Wounds that Shaped Me

Chapter 3: My First Trauma – When Silence Took My Voice

Two Kinds of Trauma

There are two kinds of trauma I have known in my life. The first wounds the body. The second wounds the spirit.

The first leaves scars that can be seen. The second leaves scars that remain hidden, often buried deep within.

Both change us. Both shape us. But in different ways.

I was only five years old when I experienced the first kind—the kind that breaks bones and leaves a visible reminder of pain. Years later, at eleven, I encountered the second—the kind that does not break the body but silences the voice, leaving behind an invisible mark that lingers long after the moment has passed.

This is the story of both.

The Fall – My Physical Trauma

I was five years old when I learned how quickly a single moment can change a life.

The day began like any other on our island. The morning sun hung high above the coconut trees, warming the earth beneath my bare feet. The air carried the familiar scent of salt from the sea mixed with the earthy smell of soil and livestock. Chickens wandered freely while children chased one another through dusty paths.

My mother was busy tending to our pig. Like many mothers in our small community, she worked while keeping one eye on her child and the other on the responsibilities waiting for her. She left me nearby, assuming I would do what children often do—play, explore, and satisfy my endless curiosity.

I wandered farther than I should have. That was when I noticed it: a tall, lifeless tree standing alone in the distance. Its branches stretched toward the sky like thin fingers reaching for something beyond the clouds. To an adult, it was nothing more than a dead tree.

To a five-year-old girl, it was an adventure waiting to happen. I walked toward it without fear. I touched its rough bark with my small hands. I looked up and wondered what the world would look like from the top. Children rarely think about consequences. We think about possibilities. One branch at a time, I climbed higher. The ground beneath me grew smaller. The breeze brushed against my face. For a brief moment, I felt powerful, fearless, untouchable. In my imagination, I was no longer a little girl from a poor island community. I was flying. Then everything changed. A branch shifted beneath my weight. My foot slipped. The world spun. Instinctively, I stretched out my left arm as I fell. The impact was immediate. A sharp, crushing pain exploded through my body. I still remember the sound of my own scream.

The sky above me blurred as tears filled my eyes. My arm twisted beneath me at an angle that did not look right. Within minutes, it began to swell. The pain was unlike anything I had ever experienced. I cried for my mother. I cried until my voice grew hoarse. When she finally reached me, I saw the fear in her eyes. Not the fear of a scraped knee. The fear of a mother who knew something was terribly wrong. My arm was broken. And there was nothing she could do. Not immediately. Not on an island with no hospital. No orthopedic specialist. No emergency room. No X ray machine. Only uncertainty.

For the next six months, my mother carried a burden far heavier than my injured arm. She refused to accept that her daughter would grow up disabled. While I cried from pain, she searched for answers. She traveled from one place to another. She spoke to anyone who might be able to help—traditional healers, quack doctors, strangers with advice, people who promised miracles. Again, they tried. Again and again, they failed.

I watched my mother refuse to surrender long before I understood the meaning of perseverance. Months passed. My arm remained bent. By then, I had begun to believe it would stay that way forever. Then one day, my mother took me to see her friend Edith. I remember Edith’s gentle eyes. I remember the quietness of the room. I remember her taking my arm into her hands.

She prayed. Softly. Patiently. As though speaking to something greater than both of us. Then she began working on my arm. I cannot explain what happened next. Even now, decades later, I struggle to find the right words. Perhaps it was faith. Perhaps it was timing. Perhaps it was grace.

All I know is that little by little, my arm began returning to its original form. My arm healed. But the memory never left me.

The Stage – My Emotional Trauma

Years later, at eleven, I discovered that not all wounds are visible.

The Christmas season had arrived, bringing excitement to our small community. I had entered a pageant competition called Ms. Little Christmas. For me, it was more than a beauty contest. It was an opportunity. A chance to be seen. A chance to prove that I mattered.

The day began beautifully. One award after another was announced: Best in Talent. Best in Sportswear. Best in Filipinana Dress. Best in Improvised Gown. With each award, my confidence grew. For the first time in my young life, I felt noticed. I felt proud. I felt worthy. Then came the final round: The Question and Answer portion.

I still remember standing under the bright stage lights. The audience stretched before me like a sea of unfamiliar faces. Family members, teachers, classmates, and community leaders watched from their seats. Then the question came: “If you win as Ms. Little Christmas, what would you do to help the school?” I understood it immediately. I knew exactly what I wanted to say. The problem was not the answer. The problem was English. English was not my strongest subject.

My heart raced as I held the microphone. Gathering my courage, I politely asked if I could answer in Filipino instead. My Filipino is not so great, but I thought speaking Filipino than our local dialect is far better at that moment.  I hoped for understanding. Instead, I was met with laughter. The woman holding the microphone laughed loudly, her voice sharp as it echoed across the room. “She does not understand the question,” she announced. “I will just translate it into Aklanon.” She meant our local dialect.

The crowd followed. Laughter spread like a wave—whispers, amused glances, the kind of attention that does not lift you up but tears you down. In that moment, something inside me collapsed. I had not even spoken. Yet I had already lost. That day, I did not just lose a competition. I lost my voice. For days, I barely ate. I withdrew into silence, carrying the shame as if it were something I had caused. School had once been my safe place, a space where I felt seen and capable. But after that day, it felt different—heavy, suffocating.

The world, however, moved on as if nothing had happened. But I didn’t. The memory stayed with me, quietly shaping how I saw myself. In high school, I became invisible. I was not popular. Not outspoken. Not chosen. Teachers overlooked me. Classmates saw me as distant. No one thought to give me roles, responsibilities, or recognition. So, I disappeared into the background. It felt safer that way.  But something inside me refused to stay silent forever. One afternoon, I found myself standing in front of my class adviser, Mrs. Genilla. I asked if I could join the Cultural Contest. She hesitated. Most of the categories were already taken—declamation, singing, dancing. The only one left was English Oration. It was unfamiliar. Intimidating. But I said yes. My English teacher handed me a five-page speech from a Free Press Magazine titled One People, One World. I had little time to prepare.

That night, I stood in front of a mirror and memorized every word. Line by line. Page by page. I practiced not just the words, but the courage it would take to say them. Then the day came. I stood on stage again—this time in front of older students, seniors, teachers. Not the same kind of audience that once made me feel small. The question lingered in my mind: Would I freeze again? Would I fail? But this time, I did something different. I spoke. Not perfectly. Not fearlessly. But fully. I gave everything I had in that moment. And when it was over, something shifted. I had not just delivered a speech. I had reclaimed my voice.

I won. A freshman student had defeated the sophomores, juniors, and seniors. For the first time, I stood out. I became popular, and teachers began to pay attention to me. But more than the award, it was the feeling that stayed with me—the quiet realization that I was not as powerless as I once believed. That moment did not erase the past, but it rewrote my place within it.

Closing Reflection

The fall from the tree taught me that the body can heal. The pageant taught me that the heart can heal too. Neither happened overnight. Both left scars. Both shaped me. But neither defined me. The little girl who broke her arm survived. The little girl who lost her voice survived too. And together, they became the woman writing these words today.

Those traumas happened in the past, but they still hold me. Every time I say something or write something, I see audiences laughing and mocking. I remember when I was a teacher, most of the time I had the chance to be an emcee. I stood on stage in my early thirties, yet every time I faced the crowd, I still saw the faces of the people who laughed at me when I was eleven—the lady who asked me the question, and one of the judges who dismissed me without even listening to my answer.

I know I never forgot the pain. But I realized I had forgiven them. They passed away long ago—perhaps when I was still in high school. The judge died in his sleep, and the lady suffered from illness. Whatever happened, the incident brought trauma to me. My confidence and self esteem were shattered. But I do not want to live a life of blame. I have moved on, and I have learned so many lessons in life—standing up after stumbling, and continuing to learn.

Just as my mentor, Dr. Snouda, once told me: “Do not let the wounds slow you down. Every time you get wounded, that is not failure—that is training. The Force does not ask you to be unbreakable.”

And in the present, at this very moment as I write these words, I thank him for catching me when I was wounded and not letting me fall. Trauma shapes us, but it does not have to define us. The moments that break us can also become the moments that rebuild us—stronger, deeper, more aware of who we truly are. What once silenced me eventually taught me how to speak. What once humiliated me eventually taught me resilience. And what once felt like an ending became the beginning of something greater. If you are carrying a moment that still hurts, remember this: Your story does not end there. You are still becoming. You are still rising. And your voice—no matter how long it has been quiet—was never meant to stay hidden forever.

Scripture

“I praise you, because I am wonderfully made; wonderful are your works! My very self you know.” — Psalm 139:14 (New American Bible Revised Edition – Catholic Translation”

Continue the Story →

Chapter 4: Conquering Childhood Shadows

The places I escaped to, the fears I carried, and the childhood shadows I slowly learned to face.

Read Chapter 4 →