Position: Ate - Resume of an Eldest Sister/Daughter

Position: Ate – Resume of an Eldest Sister/Daughter

Yes, I am an Ate - a leadership role assigned at birth, with strength tested daily.
Full-time stabilizer, emotional shock absorber, and pillar of the family.

An Ate in Filipino culture is more than an older sister. It is a title, a role, and often an unspoken contract. It carries warmth and authority, love and leadership. It means being the firstborn daughter, but also the quiet second parent, the emotional bridge, the steady ground everyone steps on.

There is a reason why Sinong Magmamahal Sa Akin? by KZ Tandingan resonates so deeply with me. When she sings:

you can listen to it here: Sinong Magmamahal Sa Akin?

“Iiyak lang ng mahina
’Di pwedeng magmukhang mahina
Wala bang takbuhan ang takbuhan?
’Di pwedeng sumandal ang sandalan?”

it feels like the performance review of an Ate.

If I were to write my experience formally, the way I would, as an HR professional write it, it might look like this:

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Position Title: Ate (Eldest Daughter & Only Girl)
Department: Family Operations
Employment Type: Full-Time | Permanent | 24/7 Availability

Role Summary:
Appointed at birth to a leadership role requiring accelerated maturity, advanced emotional intelligence, and high-capacity burden management. Accountable for maintaining family stability, modeling resilience, and protecting household harmony during periods of uncertainty and crisis.

Core Responsibilities:

• Fast-tracked emotional development to meet early leadership expectations.
• Provided psychological safety and emotional readiness for younger siblings and extended family members.
• Served as Quiet Stabilizer during family crises, ensuring continuity of peace and functional normalcy.
• Acted as Primary Role Model, setting behavioral and moral standards for siblings.
• Functioned as Emotional Shock Absorber, discreetly processing tension, conflict, and fear to shield others from distress.
• Protected Parental Peace through mediation, silent support, and proactive burden-sharing.
• Assumed additional responsibilities without formal delegation, driven by intrinsic obligation and loyalty.
• Demonstrated composure under pressure; limited visible vulnerability to sustain collective morale.

Key Competencies Developed:

• Advanced Emotional Intelligence
• Crisis Management & De-escalation
• High-Pressure Decision-Making
• Silent Endurance & Compartmentalization
• Leadership by Example
• Resilience Under Continuous Expectation

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And yet, behind this “job description” is a human story.

When my brother went through difficult years, I did not simply observe, I absorbed fully: the pains, the struggles, the challenges. I carried the worry, the fear, the unspoken tensions in the house. I learned to navigate emotional storms at full speed and steady hands, controlled breathing, no room to break down. I mastered the art of crying quietly. I understood that looking weak was not an option because someone might collapse if I did.

“Iiyak lang ng mahina.” (cry silently)
Crying became private.

“’Di pwedeng magmukhang mahina.” ( you can't look weak)
Strength became mandatory.

But the line that echoes the loudest remains:

“Wala bang takbuhan ang takbuhan? ’Di pwedeng sumandal ang sandalan?” (“Is there no place to run for the one who always runs? Can the pillar not lean on someone too?")

In HR, we talk about sustainability, support systems, streamlined processes, capacity planning, and burnout prevention. Yet as an Ate, I rarely applied those principles to myself. The stabilizer carried everyone else. The sandalan (the one meant to lean on) carried the weight. The leader remained composed.

Being an Ate is a privilege. It builds resilience, empathy, and strength. But it also creates an internal standard that says: You must hold it together.

Perhaps the deeper reflection is this:

If I can professionally articulate boundaries, capacity, and support frameworks at work or for organizations, can I also design them for myself?

And for everyone who has ever been the strong one in their family:

When the stabilizer reaches capacity, do we allow ourselves to seek support, sent support ticket ( like how we does at corporate work) or do we keep performing strength because we believe love depends on it?

xo,
Ai

 

Between Compliments and Slurs

I have lived in Poland for twenty years now. Long enough to feel rooted, and yet long enough to feel suspended between who I was and who I am becoming.

People often compliment me with my skin color, my hair, how “cute” I am. They tell me I don’t look my age. Some joke that I am immortal, a vampire who does not age. I am 48 this year. Yes, I almost 50.

I know these words are meant as compliments, and sometimes I try to receive them that way. But there is another side to them one that presses quietly on my chest. My mind whispers: Keep up. Don’t disappoint. Stay young. Stay beautiful. Stay worthy.

That pressure is real, even when wrapped in praise.

There is no doubt that in some phases of my life here, I questioned my identity, myself, and where I should be. I often defined myself as stuck in between.

I was born and raised in the Philippines, yet I have built a life and a home in Poland. For a long time, I didn’t know where I truly belonged.

Living here widened my perspective. Being far from where I came from taught me how to see the world with softer eyes. I learned to love myself more deeply and to appreciate life more honestly. Whether I look back to my origins or around me now, I still believe the world is beautiful.

Because yes, the world is also harsh. And sometimes, cruel.

There was a moment I will never forget. A stranger told me to “go back to China.” Then came the words that cut deeper: Chinese prostitute.

I felt myself drop and then, strangely, I laughed. Not because it was funny, but because it was absurd.

How could they be so sure I was Chinese?

Do I really look like one?

Yes, part of my bloodline traces back to China through my grandparents. But blood does not define worth, and ancestry does not justify insult. And certainly, it does not make me a prostitute. Not all Chinese are prostitutes and of course, this goes for any nationality. My words are not meant to discriminate, only to reclaim my own identity from ignorance and hate.

That word was foul. Violent. Dehumanizing.

I carried the sting of it, but I chose not to let it define me. I reminded myself that this hatred comes from a small, loud minority of people who have never looked beyond their narrow borders, people unaware of the vastness of the world and the people in it.

Their ignorance is not my identity.

Over time, I realized something gentler, something freeing: home is not only a place on a map. Home is where your heart is. It is where you feel at peace.

Living between cultures did not erase me, it expanded me. I am made of many histories, many places, many truths. And even when the world tries to reduce me to a stereotype or a slur, I refuse to shrink.

I am still here.

Still learning.

Still loving.

Still becoming.

And I am me.

No one else....only me.

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Disclaimer: This post is based on my personal experiences and thoughts. It is not meant to offend or generalize any individual or minority. If you can relate to this post, feel free to share your thoughts in the comments and I would love to hear your perspective.

 

A Reflection on A Perfect Christmas

A Perfect Christmas by Jose Mari Chan has always been close to my heart. This year, we sang it during our Christmas Carols or Kolęda in Polish at our church Christmas carol concert. It is a song filled with hope, longing, and the desire for love and togetherness.

This year, however, singing it felt different.

During rehearsals, I struggled to get through the song. Every lyric spoke directly to my heart, reminding me that for me, there is no longer a “perfect Christmas.” Not because of a lack of blessings but because someone I love deeply is missing. I lost my brother, and with him, a part of the Christmas I once knew.

Last Christmas, I longed for home and for family that felt so far away. This Christmas, the ache is deeper. It hurts to imagine the season without his presence, without his familiar greeting, without the simple but precious words, “Merry Christmas… I love you, Ate (big sister).” Those words now live quietly in my heart.

I am still grieving. There are moments when my heart aches deeply, longing for a hug I can no longer give or receive. In my humanity, I mourn what was lost. But in my faith, I hold on to what is eternal.

And yet, even with all the loss, I have also found peace peace in knowing that my brother is no longer struggling, no longer carrying the pain he once endured. I trust that he is now resting in God’s presence, reunited with my dad. I believe they are at peace, praying for us, watching over us especially over his children. This faith does not erase the pain, but it gently steadies my heart. It reminds me that love does not end with death; it is transformed by God’s grace.

I also believe that wherever he is now, he is still wishing me the best Christmas, ending it the way he always did with an “I love you.” This belief was especially close to my heart when he appeared in my dreams on the second day of Christmas a quiet reminder that love remains, even beyond this life.

Though I can no longer see my brother or hear his voice, I carry him with me in my prayers, in my memories, and in my heart. God reminds me that He is present in my grief, near in my sorrow, and faithful in every season.

I may never experience a “perfect” Christmas again by the world’s standards. But I am learning that a Christmas filled with faith, love, remembrance, and hope is still holy.

I love my brother deeply, and I trust that one day, by God’s promise, we will meet again. Until then, I walk forward with faith entrusting my grief to God and holding on to the hope of eternal life.

much love,

xo

Ai

✨Between Loss and Becoming✨

2025 was a defining year for me. It wasn’t an easy one, but a meaningful one.

I lost my brother, learned how to sit with grief, and had to navigate my emotions with patience, honesty, and courage. This year asked me to trust again: people, life, and my own strength to slow and with intention.

Also, I learned that I will no longer accept the bare minimum in any of my relationships. Loss sharpened my clarity: energy, presence, and honesty are precious, and I deserve depth, reciprocity, and care in every connection.

At the same time, 2025 marked a milestone as a mum. My daughter turned 18, and watching her grow into a well-rounded, independent, and deeply loving young woman reminded me of the growth I’ve invested in her and in myself. Seeing her confidence, compassion, and authenticity is a reminder that nurturing, patience, and presence truly matter.

This year was also a year of risk and learning in my young entrepreneurship life. I started a business I had no experience running, figuring things out one step at a time. Along the way, I discovered people I never expected would step up to support me and, conversely, those I thought would be there didn’t show up. It taught me so much about true support, loyalty, and the power of community. The process tested my patience and perseverance, but it also reminded me that growth often happens outside comfort zones and that taking risks can create new opportunities for learning and success.

All of these experiences reinforced my GROW 2025 vision: growth in resilience, relationships, authenticity, and purpose. Even in grief, uncertainty, and challenge, transformation is happening quietly, steadily, and powerfully.2025 wasn’t gentle, but it was honest. It stripped away what didn’t matter and highlighted what truly does. Some years don’t bring comfort, they bring depth. And that, too, is a gift.

How’s your 2025? Is it more of a gift or a loss?

 

My Year in Reflection: Learning the Art of Not Giving a F*ck

This year 2025, has been one of the most painful and eye-opening chapters of my life. I’ve been on flights I never imagined taking, especially the one where I lost my brother. Yes! I just lost my brother. It has been a month since (That deserves a different post. ).

Loss came in many forms, and each one forced me to sit with myself, face the truth, and grow in ways I didn’t ask for, but needed.

In the midst of all the grief, change, and emotional exhaustion, I started to understand something deeply: the art of not giving a f*ck.

Not in a way that shuts me off from the world, but in the way Mark Manson writes about it in his book The Subtle way of not giving a F*ck, recognizing that my energy, my love, my peace are limited, and only a few things truly deserve them.

And learning that has been humbling.

This year taught me that I don’t need to give parts of myself to everyone. That not every opinion deserves space in my head. That not every situation is worth breaking myself for. I learned to build boundaries like real ones. The kind that protect my spirit, my time, and my emotional health.

I learned that loving myself isn’t selfish. It’s necessary.

I learned that choosing myself isn’t abandonment. It’s strength.

I learned that the person I must care for the most… is me.

Through all the difficult goodbyes and quiet realizations, I found my way back to what truly matters, my inner core. My truth. My peace. My growth.

I’m still healing. I’m still learning. But I’m moving forward with a deeper sense of clarity about who I am, what I value, and what I will and will not accept in my life. And this time, I’m choosing me. This time, loudly, boldly, and without apology.

Here’s to honoring what matters, releasing what doesn’t, loving myself fully, and holding boundaries that protect my heart. 💛

Cheers,

xoAi