Metro Manila in the summer moved at a pace much different from what I’m used to. Afternoon thunderstorms rarely arrived at convenient times, sometimes turning 4-mile commutes into hours of traffic, flooding streets, interrupting internet service, and occasionally making it impossible for my coworkers to get home safely. However, what felt disruptive to me was simply part of everyday life for many Filipinos. I noticed and appreciated how much flexibility that required, and how naturally it came to people who had been living at that pace their whole lives. I had never felt confident enough to ride jeepneys or tricycles alone, mainly because doing so relied on a kind of local knowledge I hadn't grown up with. Routes were often identified by landmarks rather than street names, fares were passed hand-to-hand through other passengers, and people seemed to know instinctively where to board and when to get off. I, on the other hand, depended on Google Maps and hesitant questions in broken Tagalog.
That gap between knowing and not knowing followed me everywhere that summer. I am Filipino-American. The Philippines has always been present in my life through the languages my family speaks at home, the food we share, and the stories and traditions they carried with them. However, this aspect of my identity was shaped from a distance. Growing up in the United States meant that while I inherited pieces of Filipino culture, I did not inherit the lived experience of growing up in the Philippines.
During the first half of my internship, I stayed with family in a neighborhood in Quezon City, where I slowly adapted to a pace different from what I had known growing up. Halfway through the summer, I moved to stay with family in Bonifacio Global City (BGC), a more internationally oriented district where English was more commonly spoken and many aspects of daily life felt immediately familiar because they resembled the kinds of environments I had grown up navigating in the United States.
The distance between where I lived and where I worked came to reflect a broader awareness of the social and economic differences that shaped people's daily lives. It made me confront my own position as someone connected to the Philippines through heritage, yet shaped by experiences and privileges that often set me apart. I began asking myself what it means to work alongside a community with whom I share ancestry but not the same lived experience, and how I can approach that work with curiosity and respect.
Capacities: Linguistic and Cultural Barriers
On June 3, I delivered a prenatal nutrition education session to approximately thirty expectant mothers at the Daughters of Faith Lying-In Clinic in Pingkian 1, a neighborhood within Barangay Pasong Tamo. What I hadn’t fully prepared for was the linguistic and cultural gap between the education I had designed and reality. My Tagalog was functional enough to get through the session, not fluent enough to ask open-ended questions that would have told me whether what I was saying was landing, or whether the resources I described were actually accessible to these families in this barangay. Everyone was respectful and receptive, but realized that education is not only about what you know, but about whether you can hear the person you are trying to educate. This linguistic barrier limited my ability to meet people where they are. That experience became the beginning of a summer spent improving my Tagalog, humbled by the gap between what I could say and what I needed to say.
Character: Imperfect, but still Meaningful
On June 27, I helped PLM conduct a skin health clinic in the Pingkian 1 community. It moved faster than I had anticipated. Five physician consultation tables, one pharmacy table, families arriving throughout the day, every encounter recorded on paper. My role was to distribute medications, explain instructions, and document each patient's visit. Although my Tagalog had improved, conversing in a second language while documenting information under pressure was still difficult. I am not entirely confident every record I kept was perfectly accurate. What I can say is that I prioritized patient safety over documentation speed when I had to choose, and was honest with myself afterward about where the gaps were and what I could have done better. A week later, community team members followed up with families who had received medication. Many reported the creams and samples had helped. Despite my concerns about imperfect documentation and distribution, something beneficial still reached these families.
Change Maker Values: Goodwill Deserves Infrastructure
During PLM's patient navigation training workshop, a faith-based leader shared an insight that stayed with me: “We were helped, so we must know how to help others.” I found this sentiment meaningful because it came from a place of knowing what it feels like to need help and receive it, and from belonging to communities where reciprocity was simply how things worked. When asked to design a care plan for a local patient, these leaders didn't need to be convinced that compassion mattered. They needed a framework that could translate that compassion into coordinated action.
But as I sat with that sentence, I realized it also revealed an important tension. It captures the why, but it leaves out the how. Experiencing care can instill empathy and a desire to give back, but it does not necessarily teach how to navigate referrals, coordinate care, or advocate within a fragmented healthcare system. I left that workshop understanding that compassion deserves infrastructure. Communities should not be expected to carry the responsibility of caring for one another without being given the knowledge, training, and support to do so well.
Moving Forward
I left the Philippines with a more grounded understanding of what it looks like when a community decides to take care of its own. I’ve been able to cultivate and refine a mindset that sees the invisible structures that determine who receives care and who does not and feels a responsibility to question and improve those structures. Leprosy is not a disease I will likely encounter in a clinic in Boston. But the issue beneath it—existing treatments failing to reach the people who need them most—is one I will never lose sight of.
This would not have been possible without the people who welcomed me into their work and communities. I am deeply grateful to the Philippine Leprosy Mission and to my supervisor Dr. Belen Dofitas for trusting me with this work. Dr. Dofitas’ mentorship, humility, and commitment to the diverse communities PLM serves has shaped how I now approach public health. I would also like extend my gratitude to the Tufts University Laidlaw Scholars Program for supporting my growth as a scholar.