Welcome to TFAW Letters — the Filipino American History Month edition by the Filipino American Woman Project 💙❤️💛

I’m your host, Jen Amos.

Just like our summer series, I will read fictionalized letters — my creative interpretation of real conversations with you!

These letters have been woven with heart, reflection, and truth to honor your stories while protecting your privacy.

It all begins with one line, “If I could say one thing.”

…because sometimes one thing is all we need to take up a little more space.

Let’s get started.

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If you could reflect on one thing, it’s this:

What do the clothes you wear and conversations you have today say about the community you've built — or hope to build?

This letter is for anyone who’s ever tried to blend in—only to realize how it only makes you feel lonelier.

To wrap up the Summer Series, Jen reflects on her evolving identity as a Filipino American woman—tracing her journey from childhood birthdays filled with vibrant love, to the muted grief of losing a built-in community, to rediscovering color, voice, and belonging on her own terms.

If you’ve ever wondered what you had to change to be accepted, tried on different versions of yourself to fit in, or walked away from a place where you felt “othered”… This one’s for you.

This concludes our Summer Series. ☀️

Thank you for listening, and stay tuned for Filipino American History Month! 💙❤️💛

If you could reflect on one thing, it’s this:

Whose voice shaped your definition of success—and does it still hold true?

This letter is for anyone who has ever felt like their career choices were never enough.

Through much clarity, the writer explores what it means to break free from a parent’s version of stability—and instead build a life aligned with purpose, not predictability. Whether confronting generational expectations or making peace with a mother who may never understand, this letter offers a moment of quiet self-trust.

If you’ve ever heard your parents’ voice in your head when you’re trying to make a decision, or struggled to explain your unconventional path to someone who just doesn’t get it—this one’s for you.

If you could reflect on one thing, it’s this:

What are you still allowing that you now have the power to change?

This letter is for anyone who’s ever witnessed someone they love live small in order to survive.

The writer speaks to her cousins, trying to help them see the impact of a domineering father. Though now adults with careers, they still live under his roof: polite, submissive, and living like NPCs. The writer reflects on how her own journey of independence has made her more aware of what her cousins never had.

Whether you’ve been the one watching from the outside or the one still inside the house, this letter shines a light on what’s unspoken in some Filipino families: the cost of obedience, the price of silence, and the risk of choosing yourself.

If you could reflect on one thing, it’s this:

If someone from your past reached out today, what would you say to them?

This letter is for anyone who got busy with life and unknowingly let a friendship fade—and wondered if it’s too late to say something now.

The writer reflects on a once-assumed bond that slipped away with time, distance, and neglect. Whether you've been the one who never reached out—or the one who replied with caution—this letter holds space for regret, gratitude, and the courage to acknowledge love that didn’t get closure.

If you’ve ever looked up an old friend, hovered over the “send message” button, or realized mistakes that only come in hindsight—this one’s for you.

If you could reflect on one thing, it’s this:

What have you held onto not because it’s easy, but because it still matters to you in a way that you can’t explain?

This letter is for anyone who’s ever wondered if they’re holding on too long—or holding on for a reason.

Through quiet questioning and inherited resilience, the writer explores what it means to stay devoted to projects that no longer look the way they once imagined. Whether you’re building something from scratch, revisiting an old idea, or nurturing a vision that hasn’t quite landed yet, this letter offers permission to not have all the answers.

If you’ve ever felt torn between letting go and staying loyal to your creative work, this one’s for you.

If you could reflect on one thing, it’s this:

What part of your body or sexuality were you taught to ignore—and what would it mean to reclaim it?

This letter is for anyone raised to believe that sex is shameful, silence is safety, and pleasure is something to fear.

Through unapologetic truth-telling and cultural honesty, the writer challenges the long-standing taboos around sex in Filipino households—especially those shaped by Catholic doctrine and generational silence. They reflect on how shame has kept us unprepared: for intimacy, for consent, for naming harm, and for experiencing connection that is safe, mutual, and fulfilling.

If you’ve ever felt disconnected from your body, silenced by your culture, or unsure of your right to feel pleasure—this one’s for you.

If you can reflect on one thing, it’s this:

What unspoken rules shaped your voice growing up—and what do you want your children to hear instead?

This letter is for anyone raised to stay quiet “out of respect” to one’s elders, even if that silence costs them their emotional well-being.

Through tender storytelling and raw vulnerability, the writer reflects on what it means to parent with intention after growing up in a household of unspoken feelings and quiet suffering. From honoring her Lola’s love to rewriting generational patterns with her children, this letter is a soft but powerful reclamation of voice.

If you’ve ever wished you had permission to speak up, to feel fully, or to say “I’m hurt” without fear, you’re not alone. This one’s for you.