I’d like to say I began my law school journey confident and certain—that it had always been the path I was meant to take, something I had decided on even long before my undergrad. But the truth is, it wasn’t even a mere consideration. Even though my late grandfather saw something in me strong enough to ask my mother, on his deathbed, to promise that I would take a good pre-law course and eventually pursue law, we ignored his dying wish and life led me elsewhere. I ended up taking Physical Therapy instead.

Ironically, years later, I found myself browsing the admission requirements for the law program at Silliman University. At the time, I was only two months postpartum with my firstborn. Part of me genuinely felt drawn toward law, while another, louder part simply wanted to know whether I was even capable of getting accepted.

Surprisingly, I was.

I enrolled in August 2023. Despite submitting a rushed essay and walking into the interview uncertain, I got in. In some strange, conceited way, it validated something deep within me. But I only lasted a week—not because I thought I couldn’t handle the academics, but because every time I left home for a class, I was consumed with guilt. I would watch my baby through our CCTV cameras during lectures and cry, thinking about him waiting for me at home.

Law is a jealous mistress, they say. And as the demands of law school became even more apparent—the endless readings, required attendance, study groups, and constant preparation—it fully sank in just how much of myself it would require. I felt overwhelmed, and eventually, I withdrew.

Maybe it was God’s way of telling me it simply wasn’t the right time yet, because shortly afterward, I became pregnant with my second child. If becoming a first-time mom already comes with a difficult adjustment period, imagine trying to navigate motherhood while pregnant again and still learning the ropes as I went. Still, I embraced it wholeheartedly. I loved every second of being present for my baby and watching him grow. But law school never truly left my mind.

Before giving birth to my second child, I emailed the secretary to ask whether my admission was still valid. To my delight, it was. But once again, it didn’t feel like the right time—or maybe I was simply afraid of becoming overwhelmed all over again, especially now that I would have two very young children. Even so, it comforted me knowing the opportunity was still there if I ever chose to return.

In 2025, I finally found the courage to try again.

At first, I intended to continue at Silliman University. They already had all my requirements and all that was left to do was pay for enrollment. But I remember backing away from the secretary’s office and sitting downstairs, having a complete mental breakdown. Fear and uncertainty took over me, and at the last minute, I backed out.

I was terrified I was setting myself up for failure.

When I opened up to a friend about it, he suggested I consider Foundation University instead. He spoke highly of its environment—how accommodating and understanding it was toward working students and parent-students. He genuinely believed it would be a better fit for me.

So I gave it serious thought. I weighed what the next four years of my life could look like. 1.) Building a career in Physical Therapy in the Philippines would be difficult—not impossible, but definitely a challenge. The profession is severely underpaid and often undervalued here, especially in a small city like Dumaguete. Leaving the country also felt unrealistic at the time. I had a very young family, and my husband was still helping manage their family business.

People would say, “All of this will eventually be yours anyway,” but that never quieted my desire for independence—for stability we could build for ourselves now, without relying on others or carrying the unspoken weight of utang na loob. Thinking of many years ahead with strings attached stressed me out more than I thought it would. Of course, I will always be grateful for every form of help we receive, but wanting to stand on your own as a family is only natural.

2.) I could start a business. But  I had no background, no capital, and no idea where to begin. 

3.) I could remain a full-time stay-at-home mother, and wouldn’t that be the dream? But we aren’t exactly well-off, and deep down, I knew I wanted more—not just for myself, but for my children. I wanted to contribute independently, and as a woman, I understood how important it is to have your own source of income and identity outside the home.

Then 4.) There’s law.

If I pursued it, passed the bar, and built a career here in our hometown, it felt like the most practical path forward—the one where everyone could still thrive while remaining rooted where we currently are. Not that I never dreamed of leaving the country someday; I still do. But perhaps that chapter simply belongs to a different season of life.

So I made my decision.

I submitted my requirements, went through another interview, and officially enrolled at Foundation University. For the first few weeks, I kept it entirely to myself except for my husband. I didn’t want to announce that I was pursuing law again only to walk away from it once more.

But little by little, I realized something had changed.

For the first time, I felt comfortable. I felt at peace in the environment I was in. And somehow, I knew I had finally found the place where I was meant to be.

Of course, it was still far from easy. I was still exclusively pumping on schedule. My children were two under two. The universal “mom guilt” never really disappeared. There were countless days I wanted to quit because I constantly felt buried under schedules, appointments, clingy toddlers, endless responsibilities, family obligations, and the relentless mental load that comes with raising small children.

I was exhausted most of the time, unable to give my best effort as often as I wanted to. But I kept going anyway.

Then, just when I finally felt like I had settled into some sort of rhythm, life surprised me again at the end of first semester: I got pregnant for the third time.

But this time, I didn’t want to stop.

I didn’t want to put the dream on hold anymore—not even temporarily. So I drafted an appeal asking permission to attend classes virtually throughout my pregnancy, and thankfully, the university approved it. I underestimated how difficult it would actually be, but as I write this now, I am only two weeks shy from finishing this semester and closing this school year.

But as if motherhood, pregnancy, and law school were not already enough, another quiet weight had begun growing in my heart around the same time.

Having my Physical Therapy background, I had enough medical knowledge to notice certain developmental signs early on in my firstborn, Azlan. While many people brushed it off as him simply being a “late talker,” or reassured me with stories of “someone’s cousin’s sister’s son who didn’t talk until he turned 5”, or the supposedly established fact that boys talk much later than girls, somehow I knew. As a mother, you notice everything.

You track milestones. You study behaviors. You stay awake until 4 AM researching and trying to understand every little detail because you love your child enough to do your due diligence. I enrolled him in early intervention and occupational therapy to introduce a bit more interaction into his routine.. I implemented strategies and approaches I believed would best support him.

But the truth is, after two consecutive pregnancies and the years spent deep in postpartum recovery, my body and mind were already exhausted.

I tried my best to juggle everything, but admittingly, there were times and many areas I inevitably fell short—especially without enough support, understanding, and awareness from many of the people around me.

I am not saying this to make excuses. I am simply speaking honestly about the reality I was living through.

Sometime before Azlan turned two, I brought him to a developmental pediatrician for evaluation. At the time, she acknowledged the things I took note of, but held off on making a formal diagnosis and instead advised us to observe his progress for another six months.

By the time reassessment came around in January 2026, I was already pregnant with my third child and midway through my second semester of 1L.

Azlan was diagnosed with Level 2 Autism.

And even though part of me had expected it, my heart still broke.

Not because I loved him any less, and not because it changed who he was to me. It didn’t. He is still my beautiful boy. But there is a unique kind of grief that comes with carrying uncertainty, advocacy, fear, responsibility, and unconditional love all at once. There has not been a single day since then that I have not thought about my children’s wellbeing—especially Azlan’s—and how I can best support his growth and future.

He needed more support than most children his age in communication and behavior. I understood him in ways others often could not, but what worried me most was the possibility of him being misunderstood, ridiculed, or judged by people who lacked awareness or compassion. And somehow, when he struggled publicly, it often felt like I was indirectly being blamed too.

He needed ME constantly.

And balancing that reality alongside everything was a real test of endurance.

There were days I had major examinations or recitations while simultaneously dealing with meltdowns, sleepless nights, emotional exhaustion, social occasions, and therapy schedules. Most of the time, I was regulating everyone else’s emotions that I barely had enough energy left to regulate my own.

Just the other day, while taking my Constitutional Law midterms, I arrived 15 minutes late and found myself quietly crying through the exam because that particular day had simply been too much.

And perhaps one of the hardest parts was feeling unseen through it all.

From the outside, it looked easy:
“You have help.”
“You’re just at home.”
“How could you possibly be so tired?”

People offered unsolicited advice so casually:

“You should expose him more.”

“You shouldn’t do this.”

“Back in our day, we didn’t do that.”

“Oh, a little sugar won’t harm him.”

“You’ve gotten him accustomed to behaving this way.” 

“Just tire him out, he’ll be sleeping through the night!”

“Why do you have to hold him down to get him to brush his teeth? You have to SHOW him by doing it with him!”

These are only a few of the many comments I can recall off the top of my head after all these years. I hold my tongue but mentally rebut each one because I choose to preserve my peace instead. What many fail to understand is that parenting a neurodivergent child requires intentionality.

No, sugar is not recommended below 2 years of age—not even for neurotypical children.

No, exhausting them does not help; in fact, it often does the opposite. Routine, predictability, and structure are important for kids.

Yes, of course I’ve tried brushing alongside him. But he simply will not tolerate it, and because he still struggles to brush properly, his teeth have begun to stain. I’ve already consulted a pediatric dentist, who demonstrated techniques we can use to effectively clean his teeth while gradually helping him become more comfortable with the process eventually.

Yes, exposure can help—but I also have to consider whether an environment is sensory-safe, inclusive, appropriate for his tolerance levels, and genuinely beneficial for him. It is easy for others to suggest what I “should” do when they are not the ones handling the meltdowns, transitions, stares, and emotional aftermath afterward.

They are not the ones spending countless hours reading and educating themselves about autism and life on the spectrum. They are not the ones on support groups or regularly communicating with therapists, implementing interventions, or carefully figuring out which approaches best support him. They do not see the day-to-day reality—the triggers, the overstimulation, the routines, or the small wins or progress. More importantly, they do not truly know what comforts him, what overwhelms him, or what is genuinely best for him overall.

And yes, these may seem like small, trivial things that people often tell me to simply ignore. But it is difficult not to reach a breaking point when you constantly feel as though no one around you truly understands the depth of what you carry, or fully appreciates the silent sacrifices you make every single day—not even the people closest to you.

I have tried opening up about my struggles many times, but some burdens are difficult to translate into words.

And yet, despite everything, I am still here.

Still navigating motherhood’s many firsts.
Still pursuing law.
Still advocating fiercely for my child.
Still showing up while 25 weeks pregnant (as of writing).

And maybe that is what I am most proud of.

Not perfection.
Not excellence.
Not having everything figured out.

But staying.
Continuing one day at a time.
Showing up despite exhaustion.
Pursuing a dream while carrying children in my arms, another in my womb, and the emotional weight of motherhood in ways I never could have anticipated.

It has truly been “1L of a year”,  but I will take this academic year as a victory.

Because while law school taught me resilience, motherhood taught me endurance.

And somehow, through all the chaos, uncertainty, tears, guilt, fear, and exhaustion—

I am still here.