The Daughter in the Wings

The little girl who stayed in character

Setting the Stage

Bay Area, California. The backdrop to her longest-running role.

A city of hills, fog, freeways, and hidden scripts.

Home of the Golden Gate Bridge, stretching like an orange ribbon over blue-gray waters. The crooked climb up Lombard Street. Of the 49ers, the San Jose Sharks, and the endless roar of BART beneath the surface. Dungeness crab served in steaming buckets and Ghirardelli chocolate melting on warm fingers at Fisherman’s Wharf.

The hyphy movement. The smeeze. Ghost-ridin’ the whip. Sounds and slang, and swagger.

It was, and still is, home to thousands of Filipino immigrants chasing the American dream. Home to their daughters, caught between two worlds. Cast in roles before they could even speak.

Her role was to be seen and not heard. To swallow her tears before the next scene. To laugh on cue, even in the middle of conflict. This was the stage where she performed with a heavy heart. No one noticed she was breaking behind the curtain. The Bay gave her memories she’ll never forget, and memories she wishes she could.

A One-Girl Ensemble

She was the different one. The brown one. The curious one. The weird one. And she didn’t care, until one day, she did.

The whimsical one who had an imaginary friend named Johnny, possibly inspired by the cartoon character Johnny Bravo. She didn’t even like Johnny Bravo all that much, but in her world, every imaginary friend was a castmate. She was always the lead. Narrating, directing, staging whole scenes like a child playwright hungry for connection.

She would talk to Johnny while coloring her nails with a yellow highlighter that stained her fingertips, playing hopscotch on the warm sidewalk until the chalk wore thin, and brushing the silky golden hair of her Sailor Venus doll, her favorite Guardian, always ready to fight for love and beauty. Johnny sat through it all without complaint. He was always close by, always listening.

They played “school” together on the stairs, their feet tucked under plush carpet. Johnny was always a student, never a teacher, but he preferred it that way. She even introduced him to her best friend, just in case her best friend had a secret friend of her own. Maybe she did. Maybe she didn’t. Either way, they had enough students for the class. Enough to make pretend feel real.

No one understood her like Johnny did. And no one understood Johnny, but that was okay; they had each other.

She was the only one with an imaginary friend. While everyone else had each other, she had Johnny’s quiet company. She never saw him, exactly. He was the quiet audience to her one-woman show, clapping when no one else would.

He made the silence feel less lonely.

As she grew older, Johnny faded into the background, like a song she used to hum or a dream she forgot to finish. A distant memory like Bing Bong from Inside Out.

Johnny would have taken her to the moon if he could.

The adventurous one who once tried to ride an orange longboard, wobbling with effort as the wheels jerked beneath her, before crashing hard, her right knee slamming against hot concrete. Each failed attempt, each scraped knee, was a scene she replayed internally, wondering if anyone had noticed.

The pain was sharp, immediate, and throbbing. She never got back on. She was wearing a light pink duster dress that fluttered in the breeze and flimsy chanelas (flip flops) that slapped the pavement every few steps. So on breezy summer days, while the neighborhood kids zipped past on Element skateboards and Huffy bikes, she sat cross-legged on the sun-warmed sidewalk, tracing swirls into the dirt and rolling down grassy hills like marbles in a pinball machine.

Dirt lodged beneath her fingernails. Knees ashy as a chalkboard before the first lesson. They called her strange. Whispered behind cupped hands. But she didn’t care. She was happy. At the time, that was enough.

The monkey bar princess with blistered palms from skipping two bars again and again during a surprise after-school trip to the park. Her hands gripped the cold metal tightly, determined to swing just one more time. The burn was worth the thrill. When the hydrogen peroxide sizzled against her raw skin, it felt like her whole hand might fall off. But she wore her bandage like a badge of honor.

She was gravity’s favorite rival. The girl who launched herself from the highest arc of the swing set at recess, flying through the air like she had wings. When the old Filipino guard called her to the office, it wasn’t for discipline. He took her hand gently and said, “I don’t want you to get hurt.” His eyes were soft, familiar. Maybe, just maybe, he saw his granddaughter in her.

The bite-sized gourmand. The girl with two, sometimes three helpings of chicken adobo with extra sauce spooned over hot rice, or sweet spaghetti tangled on her fork, ketchup-sweet and heavy with sliced hot dogs. Still, she had room for dessert. Always dessert. Cookie dough ice cream in a sticky cone, or a soft slice of mango cake from Goldilocks. Once, this appetite was celebrated. She’d look up with rice on her chin and see lit-up eyes, camera flashes, and proud smiles. There are pictures to prove it. Some yellowed now, others sealed in albums.

But those warm glances eventually turned cold. The smiles shifted into silence. A footlong meatball sub became a running joke. They started calling her fat. She never understood what changed, or why.

The little songbird who sang “Hero” by Mariah Carey at her tita’s birthday party and scored a 93 without trying. The karaoke mic was sticky with fingerprints, but she held it like a trophy. Applause. Cheers. A rare moment of being fully seen. She loved to sing. Loved how it made her feel. Weightless, important, whole. Didn’t know she was good until she heard the claps. But every performance began with a racing heart, sweaty palms, and a dry mouth that felt like cotton. She always felt like she was standing on the edge of a cliff. Then, she’d open her mouth. Sing the first note. And suddenly, she wasn’t afraid anymore. It was just her, the mic, the lyrics, the music. She became the angel she always wanted to be.

It wasn’t just a song. It was a solo. A rare moment when the spotlight didn’t burn but warmed like a nice fireplace.

The eclectic one. The girl who listened to rock on her orange CD player, with clunky gray headphones pressed tight against her ears during winter road trips to Reno. The snow blurred past the car windows like static, but she heard every lyric clearly. She was told that Switchfoot’s “Meant to Live” was devil music because of the gritty guitar intro, the way it screamed. But it wasn’t. It was spiritual. Raw. Real. That song. Those lyrics got her through nights she prayed and heard no reply. She wanted The Beautiful Letdown album for her birthday. But because of the judgment, she chose Natalie’s self-titled CD instead, smiling through it. Still, she made sure “Dare You to Move” played on her MySpace page. Her quiet rebellion.

I dare you to lift yourself off of the floor

The girl in the laugh track. The one who watched Full House not just for laughs, but for longing. She dreamed that Danny Tanner would adopt her as her daughter. That Uncle Jesse and Joey would be her fun, overprotective uncles. That Aunt Becky would be the one to give her advice about boys and homework and big, scary feelings. She watched DJ, Stephanie, and Michelle get hugs for everything. Birthday parties, scraped knees, even just getting the mail (it was a dream sequence, but still). That was her dream. She wanted that. So badly. ABC Family reruns at 4 p.m. became her medicine. A daily dose of escape. She never missed an episode.

She memorized the beats of sitcom laughter the way others memorized their lines. Learning when to smile, when to hug, and when to bow.

It seemed like she was the only one who felt this way. But she never asked. No one talked about it during rehearsals. Everyone else knew their cues. They followed the script. Smiled at the right moments. Bowed at the right times. While they exited stage left, she always, quietly, exited stage right.

The Crumbling Set

The script started to change as she got older. The lighting grew harsh. The cues came faster and harder, and she could no longer find her mark. No director. No curtain call. Just new expectations without rehearsal.

She experienced loss early, when her favorite person kept getting kicked out for breaking the rules and doing bad things. On weekends, she’d see him in the kitchen, frying up Spam with a flick of the wrist, the oil popping against his skin, his eyes squinting through the splatter. He’d help with laundry, wash dishes, and tutor them in math homework with sharp, patient explanations. He even let her play on his PlayStation so she could dance to Dance Dance Revolution, stomping on the arrows with sticky, bare feet.

But he also snuck out late at night to hang with friends. He stole clothes and shoes that they couldn’t afford. Sometimes, he’d take her along on spontaneous road trips. Visiting extended family with his girlfriend or heading to breakdance competitions at rival high schools. While he was doing windmills and headspins in the middle of an overcrowded gymnasium, he gave her a few crumpled bills to buy chocolate chip cookies and fruit punch Capri Suns from the snack bar.

She wandered through the crowd, watching the b-girls outshine the boys. She thought they were so cool and wanted to be just like them. Fearless, smooth, electric.

One dancer stood out: an Asian girl in a red tank top, black sweatpants, and a matching beanie. She stepped out onto the empty floor, started toprocking with ease, but once the crowd cheered, she turned red like her shirt, sat down quickly, hid her face, and laughed. Everyone wanted her to keep dancing. So did she.

But outside the cheers and lights, a different rhythm waited at home.

The energy, the lights, the movement. All gone in an instant. Silence returned.

She saw many fights. Saw him get hit, beaten, and screamed at. He’d curl into himself, arms shielding his head, trying to protect what he could. But it never stopped the pain. She saw the tears in his eyes, the rage in his jaw. Over time, it got harder for him to hold it in.

Sometimes, she was the reason he got in trouble.

She was the youngest. She was told not to lie. So when they asked where he was, or where they had gone, she answered honestly, even though he told her not to. Afterward, he’d get mad, calling her a snitch, his voice low with disappointment. She felt small. She had let him down.

Still, he always came back.

Just like his trust in her.

In the times when he stayed away, the treatment he endured became hers. But it was worse because she was a girl.

She was sent to live with another family when she was ten. Thirty minutes away to be “trained” on how to clean.

She went from a cramped three-bedroom apartment to the nicest house on the block: a tan, two-story, four-bedroom on Wilbur Street. It felt like a different world.

Her new room had a soft bed with floral sheets tucked neatly by a window that overlooked a rose garden. A sliding mirrored closet stretched across one wall. A bulky black TV with a cable switch sat across from the bed. Next to it, a bookshelf lined with The Children’s Encyclopedia, Harry Potter, and The American Girl series. She was encouraged to read them all, and she did.

This was where her love for reading began.

Where her love for video games took root.

There was a gaming room with an Xbox One. Instead of doing multiplication homework (which she hated), she played Halo, Fuzion Frenzy, and Jet Set Radio. Hours flew by as she mastered the mechanics. Shooting aliens with precision, timing her jumps during Twisted System, grinding rails to tag the next billboard with bright neon graffiti.

Multiplication tables? Not so much.

Her grades dropped, but she didn’t care.

She had to get to the next level.

And she did. Again and again.

Being exposed to literature and entertainment was the tradeoff for what was expected of her: cleaning the bathroom, sweeping and mopping the floor, doing the dishes, and cooking the rice.

The sharp, chemical smell of Clorox and Comet stung her nose and made her eyes water. But she learned to push through it. Using the walis (broom) became part of her nightly routine. Bristles brushing dust into neat piles. She liked putting dishes away more than washing them. She even polished the silverware a second time without being asked.

She was taught to make rice using hot water, then told later that it should be made with cold water.

Did it really matter?

The standards placed on her were high, quiet, invisible, but constant. Eventually, the routines became second nature.

It wasn’t until she arrived back home that she realized why she was being taught.

She thought she was playing house. But the performance wasn’t pretend. It was preparation.

Training to be the head background clean up crew.

Now, it wasn’t about learning for her own benefit.

It was about keeping the peace. Keeping others happy.

The Clorox and Comet no longer stung her nose or eyes, but her hands began to burn from the bleach. When the mixture of hot water and chemicals touched her skin, she’d feel a sharp heat rush through her fingers. But she never asked for gloves.

She was too afraid to seem ungrateful, or worse, weak.

The gray tiled floors had to be scrubbed by hand. She’d get down on her knees, shifting every few seconds when the hard tiles started to bite into her bones. She felt relief when a green Swiffer mop finally replaced the rags.

But the dishes kept piling up, waiting for her.

She’d often wash them while everyone else relaxed on the couch, watching a movie.

One night, at midnight, she was woken from sleep to wash two bowls and a knife.

She was the rice maker now.

If dinner was almost ready and there was no rice, heads would turn. Eyes so intense and impatient would lock on her.

Her heart would race. Her breathing would grow shallow. She’d jump up to rinse and scoop, finger-press the water, and start the cooker as fast as she could.

They never said it directly, but the message was clear:

If they had to wait, it was her fault.

While everyone sat around the kitchen island laughing and chatting, she sat quietly at the dining table, wishing she could be part of the conversation.

No one did laundry anymore. Not after she was taught how.

It became her job.

She sorted, washed, and folded. T-shirts. Jeans. Undergarments. She’d stack the freshly folded clothes into bins and quietly place them at the foot of each bed. She did it all. Every cycle, every load.

She never heard a thank you.

But she was thankful when she was able to get a break from all the work.

She spent her childhood summers at her best friend’s chic townhouse nestled in the misty hills of San Francisco, where fog hugged the rooftops in the early morning and cumulus clouds gathered like sleepy giants at night. The two of them would huddle close in front of the whirring glow of a chunky desktop running Windows 2000, fingers tapping furiously as they battled pixelated aliens in Space Invaders. She preferred the red spaceship. Her best friend picked blue.

Afternoons were filled with beading bracelets and necklaces. Plastic pastel letters were carefully strung to spell out their names. Her best friend’s grandmother cooked bistek and crispy tortang talong for dinner, filling the townhouse with a warm, savory aroma. They’d gather around a round glass table and talk about their day, joke about TV shows, and giggle over her exaggerated Harry Potter accent.

“Nearly headless? How could you be nearly headless?”

Weekends were magic. They went camping in the mountains, surrounded by the tallest pine trees she had ever seen. They made her feel small in the best way. She loved the cool air, the earthy smell of bark and soil, the hush of the forest between campfire songs. She’d roast sticky s’mores with extra chocolate while singing I Want It That Way under constellations, seeing stars the city lights always hid.

They swam in a deep blue river with floaters on, even though someone warned about alligators lurking on the far bank. They didn’t care. They just wanted to swim. To be kids. The adults camped out nearby, grilling pork BBQ on sticks and slurping bowls of sinigang.

Then one summer, she was called home, just to fold laundry.

She cried quietly into her breakfast at Denny’s when they told her the news.

On the way back, she stared out the open window of the red pickup truck while crossing the Bay Bridge, blinking back tears as Selena played on the radio. She came home to five green bins stacked high with clean clothes that needed to be folded.

She never returned after that summer.

Never returning seemed to be a never-ending theme.

There was no escaping moving from place to place without anyone telling her why. From the Bay to the Central Valley, all the way to Georgia, then back to the Bay, and finally to the Inland Empire. All in the span of ten years.

Each time, her things were tossed into cardboard boxes and plastic tubs, taped shut in a rush. She never got to say goodbye properly. Her clothes were always halfway unpacked. Her books never stayed on the shelves long enough to curl at the edges.

Sometimes, she felt a flicker of excitement, a sense of escape, especially when the place they were leaving held too many bad memories. That’s how she felt when they left Northern California, and Southern California became her new home. The freeways were wider, the skies felt bigger, and the sunlight felt different, warmer, like maybe this place would be softer.

But other times, she wanted to scream and beg to stay. Especially when she finally made awesome friends, the kind she laughed with at lunch and passed notes to in class. Especially when she developed a crush on the boy who wrote rap lyrics on the school desk and noticed her, really noticed her, when no one else did. That’s how she felt when she found out they were moving to the 209. Like she was being pulled out of her own life mid-sentence. She lost them all. With no phone of her own, no social media, no addresses or yearbooks to scribble in, there was no way to stay in touch. They became ghosts before the friendship even finished blooming.

Each move felt like a new scene, but the story never changed. Just new walls, new extras, same silence.

She hated moving. Hated saying goodbye again and again after finally feeling like she belonged. Hated being the new girl, standing awkwardly at the front of the classroom while the teacher mispronounced her name, and her heart pounded like she was about to perform. It made her shrink a little more each time. Made her stop wanting to try. What was the point of getting close to anyone if she was just going to leave again?

So she stayed quiet. Kept to herself. And waited for the next move, because deep down, she always knew it was coming.

Eventually, she grew anxious. Not just about what happened around her, but about how she moved, how she spoke, how she existed. Her body felt wrong in space, like she was always taking up too much of it. Her laugh was too loud. Her footsteps were too heavy. Her voice too eager. She started tiptoeing through rooms like a ghost, trying not to wake the living.

She began hiding her smile, especially around the older kids in the family. The ones who rolled their eyes when she got excited or made faces like her joy was something embarrassing. Sometimes they mimicked her voice when she got too animated, too bubbly, too much. She didn’t understand why. No one explained. So she let it slide. But something inside her started to dim.

Little by little, she learned to keep her happiness quiet. To rehearse every smile, every move, every breath she took. Enthusiasm became something she reserved for herself, and only when no one else was watching. Her body? A costume she didn’t quite fit into.

In her solitude, she started imagining different homes. Softer ones. Quieter ones. Places where “I love you” wasn’t earned through performance but given freely, spoken out loud, and followed with a hug. Where her hand would be held without having to reach first. Sometimes, when the ache grew sharp in her chest, her fantasies turned darker. She pictured herself hurt, bruised, lying in a hospital bed with tubes in her nose just to see if anyone would finally show they cared.

She didn’t know it at the time, but she was beginning to disappear. Not physically, but emotionally, piece by piece.

The Intermissions

There were good moments, though.

Short intermissions in an otherwise tense play.

Scenes of joy with no lines to memorize.

Breaths of fresh air between acts.

At parties and gatherings, she came alive. She would go to a different city. Stockton, San Ramon, Vallejo. She noticed how the trees stood taller, the air felt lighter, and even the street names sounded softer on her tongue. She was around her favorite people, and for a little while, the weight lifted.

The atmosphere shifted with cheerful banter and drunk singing to Michael Bublé, Elvis, and The Beatles on karaoke. Titas lounged in the living room with their feet up and Louis Vuitton purses in their laps, gossiping between bites of pancit. Toddlers ran circles around the kitchen island, sticky-fingered and shrieking with joy. From the backyard, smoke curled up from the grill as titos cracked open Dos Equis and puffed on Marlboro Reds. The air was thick with garlic, soy sauce, and stories.

She was free to eat without judgment. Even when someone said, “Oh, you gained weight!” Whatever. Two servings of kare-kare with extra bagoong and a thick slice of mango pie, please.

She laughed louder. Talked faster. Moved freer.

The kids her age would gather in the loft or garage to play Wii Sports and Guitar Hero, careful not to break any fine china while swinging for a tennis match. Winning or losing didn’t matter. Being there did. She’d sit in the corner with her best friend, talking about boys, music, and dreams. This was where secrets were exchanged and bonds grew tighter, until the next party.

Christmas was her favorite, always.

Not because of the gifts, or the pink iPod Nano.

But because it felt like the whole world softened.

Nobody was yelling. No one was stressed. The rooms glowed with string lights and laughter. Old songs played. Food filled the table. For one night, the house felt full of grace and magic. The Christmas photos came out perfect. Timeless snapshots that captured a joy she wished would stay.

And then, there were the trips.

Always something to look forward to. Always somewhere to go.

She sled down snowy hills at Big Bear Mountain, her cheeks stinging with cold and excitement.

Water sled behind a stranger’s cabin cruiser, gripping the rope tight as lake water splashed her face.

Screamed on Medusa at Six Flags, wind tangling her braids mid-ride.

Ate warm churros and breathed in the sea air on the Santa Monica Pier.

Welcomed New Year’s in Vegas, matching outfits and inside jokes with her best friend.

Cracked open blue crab with her hands at Redondo Beach, rice cooker and sawsawan ready in the sand.

Slid through Sunsplash on a whim, sunburned and happy because the adults weren’t home to say no.

Went indoor skydiving. Scared, even though she knew she was safe.

Rode the elevator up the Seattle Space Needle and stared out at a skyline that didn’t feel like hers, but maybe could be.

Ate palm-sized sushi in Canada and wished all food came that generous.

She carried those memories like postcards in her mind. Tiny, joyful proof that her life had color.

Even when things felt dark at home, she could pull them out like flashlights.

None of it was perfect.

But it didn’t have to be.

Because going out meant getting away. From expectations, from noise, from roles. From being the help. From being too much. From being not enough.

She believed they all needed that escape.

But deep down, she knew. Especially her.

Behind the Curtain

She was happy. But she was also sad. She was grateful. But she was also angry. She was safe. But she never felt safe.

She had clothes on her back, a bed to sleep in, a roof over her head, and food on her plate. That meant she was loved. Right?

But what is love without hearing the words “I love you”? What is love without a hug? Without a shoulder to cry on, or a hand reaching back when you reach out? What is love without intention? Without attention to the little things?

Love is more than physical. Love is emotional. It’s mental. It’s spiritual.

And it was missing.

She had everything she was told she needed. But not what she needed the most.

That emptiness stayed with her. She had no way to express it. Any complaint was met with “Don’t be ungrateful.” Or worse, “Stop being so OA”, too emotional, too dramatic.

So she kept it all in. And waited until she was alone in her bedroom to take off the mask, finally.

Even when the lights came up and the curtains closed, there was no escaping the inner dialogue. No off-switch. No applause. Just the echo of everything she couldn’t say.

Authors Note:

Throughout this piece, I chose to write in the third person. It allowed me to revisit moments from a distance, to witness my younger self with compassion and clarity. The experiences are mine, but the lens helped me see them anew.

These memories, though deeply personal, are stitched together like scenes in a play: some heavy, some light, all real. I leaned into the language of theater because, for much of my childhood, I was performing. Trying to be the “good girl,” the helper, the quiet one, the happy one. I learned my lines. I hit my marks. I smiled on cue. But offstage, there was a different truth I had yet to speak aloud.

This essay is part of a larger project tracing the different “lives” I’ve lived and the identities I've tried on along the way. It’s not just about what happened. It’s about what it felt like and what it still feels like when the lights go down and no one’s left in the audience.

Thank you for reading and for witnessing this version of me.

Coming Next: The Feral Teenager with the Heart of a Wallflower