Paubaya
Weather: 39°F, sunny
Arlington, VA — I won’t mince words: it’s been a long, rough year. Any attempt I make at nostalgia and reflection leaves me surprised and astonished at how I managed the year — not merely surviving, or thriving, but also offering support in ways I can, while navigating my cancer in a foreign country.
- I published 11 business stories (for our program’s news blogs, but those still count!) and 38 data stories and interactives for Civic News and other newsrooms, one of which, an investigation to which I had contributed analyses, won an award, and another of which was covered by The Guardian.
- Through the Investigative Reporters and Editors (IRE) student chapter I founded and led at the Newmark J-school at CUNY, I hosted 11 events, nine of which involved seasoned journalists as speakers, and two summer initiatives.
- I attended five conferences, including one where I was invited to give a talk. This also meant I have spent a significant time out of town: 29 days in Washington, D.C. (mostly to visit my dear friend, Hannah); nine days in Minneapolis, MN; five days in Seattle, WA; four days in Miami, FL; and three days in Harrisburg, PA.
- Throughout the year, I’d been to 35 medical appointments and hospital visits — that’s about twice every three weeks! I was officially diagnosed by my 10th visit. It has also been 261 days of immutable dependence on a hormone replacement drug to keep my body functioning the way it should.
Many times, I came close to giving up. I have cried in private — and in public, in the subway, walking in the rain, in stereotypical cinematic scenes that would make up for good anecdotes later. I have had conversations with the 988 crisis lifeline. However, that I have no idea how I managed to get through the year is a lie. I know exactly how I did that: I’ve had friends, professors, and university staff show up for me even when most of them had only known me for a few weeks at a minimum and less than half a year at the maximum.
Matt at Student Affairs, the first person I ever told about my diagnosis, has kept me afloat the entire time. His office was my safe space, and our weekly check-ins had been my lifeboat. Adrian and Jarrod were the first classmates I had told. When I was wrestling with my own comfort with vulnerability, they offered me support and encouragement. I would never forget Jarrod telling me I would get through this, then I’d be “cheery” again, referring to my Instagram username. Lam, my assigned mentor and the compelling reason I chose this university, understood the cultural constraints keeping me from receiving help and advocated for me, anyway.
My professors Emily (an absolute sweetheart!), Jamilah, Greg, Ben, Sandeep, Andy, and John, as well as Lindsey at Academic Affairs, showed me what it means to be human even in the midst of a rigid, structured environment. Rosie, without whom I never would have made it, lent me her home for a couple of weeks, fed me, rallied the troops for me, and, in the most Welsh way, wrapped me in her warmth at my weakest moments post-surgery. Gaea, Prinz, Rhyannon, and Hayden, made themselves available during my recovery. Ralf and Delfi, who had been waiting for my cues, supported me when I needed extra hands. Aurora, Jinger, Diane, Hernan, and Karen were sweet cheerleaders rooting for me in their own ways. Frandy, Gem, Cynthia, Francis, and my two friends at the lobby at Public Safety had my back, every time. And there were Shenal, Marina, and many others, whose words lifted my spirits.
At Civic News, my editor Thomas, my colleague (on sabbatical) and constant champion Kae, our photo editor Elaine, and my collaborators and our managers so openly supported me in ways they may not even realize, by accommodating all sorts of requests.
And, outside of J-school, Nigel and the Baricans and Lopezes, Pammy, Shasha, Rona, my former PCIJ and DocuCentral colleagues, Mama and Shalom, Che, and Hannah and Hank especially, showered me with love and care, reminding me of my place in this world.
I managed because I had help. There’s no virtue in lying down when I have a community pulling me back up.
If there’s only one great lesson 2025 has offered me, it’s the art of letting go. A Tagalog word comes to mind: “paubaya”, meaning, to entrust something to someone. Paubaya can be as simple as yielding ownership of a toy to a younger sibling, or releasing oneself from a responsibility that would henceforth belong to someone else. It can also be as profound as forgiving someone for a past hurt.
In the context of relationships, paubaya happens when a person willingly endures the heartbreak for his beloved’s happiness with someone else, or a father learns to give away his daughter to start a new life with her groom. In challenging times, some Filipinos would say, “Ipaubaya sa Diyos (surrender it to God).”
At its core, paubaya is both resignation — letting go of what is, or was, yours, legitimately or perceptibly; stopping fighting what you cannot control, and accepting the loss wholeheartedly — and trust — faith placed in someone else’s hand, in God, or in the natural course of things. But paubaya is neither indifference nor surrender; it is rooted in a tender devotion that a person chooses to release. It’s the quiet decision to say, “I’ve done what I can. The rest is no longer mine to force.”
I had booked a hotel room for two nights post-surgery, thinking it would be enough time for me to recuperate before going back to my apartment in Astoria and continue my recovery. My friends took charge, and I let them. Ipinaubaya ko na sa kanila. I was all the better for it.
About a month after my radiation therapy, I decided that whatever goals I had for the year needed to be scrapped and reconsidered. A cancer diagnosis insists change, regardless of extent or prognosis. I was a participant forced in the journey.
So, one afternoon, I decided to come up with a new vision board for the remaining half of the year. Contrary to my normally ambitious vision boards, I had only three goals for the remainder of 2025: First, to sing again, for, after my surgery in April, my voice lost its power and pitch. I couldn’t even sing Twinkle Twinkle Little Star in tune, which, for a soprano, was devastating. Second, to walk in parks, because, for most of the year, every day had been, to me, a rush to put out fires. I barely had any time to slow down and catch my breath. During this time, I was also just beginning to recover from my radiation. I couldn’t walk a block around my apartment without feeling exasperated. I slept 14 hours a day, spending my only waking hours to work and eat.
Third, and lastly, to get The Job — a role that in my mind was shaped by my experience at Civic News, my relationship with my supervisor and team, the impacts of my colleagues’ reporting, the work culture, and the newsroom’s vision.
Throughout the summer and the early weeks of fall, I frequented parks, laid a cozy blanket on the grass, sat on benches, watched the sun set, read a book, ate ice creams and pad thai, on my own and with the company of friends. In November, right around Thanksgiving, I, for the first time, sang again, joining a one-day choir organized and hosted by the Gaia Music Collective. I remember not really “feeling” it. My voice did not sound the same. Notes I could easily hit now required more effort. Still, I showed up anyway, and it was rewarded with a new friend and a supportive community.
The third goal, though, is where I’m getting stumped. I have thoroughly, genuinely enjoyed my work. Given the opportunity, I would love to stay. My editor said he’d like that, too. Eventually, the opportunity I had been waiting for came, but every time I could feel it within my grasp, something else would yank it away, out of my reach.
I have been, for the last few weeks, in a loop of hope, desperation, anxiety, panic, excitement, and depression. I think the most recent development was the worst: when some decisions were “forced” out of some players, and I got wind of information that opportunities were being “spread around”. This left me feeling betrayed. It has been a real struggle for me to find a space where both my years of experience are appreciated and the potential for me to grow and learn is acknowledged. This newsroom has been that space for me. The longer I stayed, the more I saw it as The Job. Yet, to many, it is just a job within a wide net of applications they cast.
I know no one really owes me anything. In a competitive job market, all is fair game. But I kept thinking, too, “I’ve been through so much this year. I struggled, I fought hard to be here, and, despite everything, I always gave back so willingly. Why can’t I have this one thing?”
I’ve done my part. I did my work. And all that’s left for me to do now is wait. I can’t force things to happen by my willing it to be so. Ipauubaya ko na. I’ll let it go.
May this new year feel lighter. •