The Woman Who Shaped Me

She used to tell me, I was one hell of a child to raise.

She’d tell people the same thing too — always with a smile on her face — how much of a pain I was as a young child. She would laugh and say, “She was maldita when she was little.”

Maldita — meaning sassy. Sometimes negative, sometimes teasing, depending on how it’s used. With her, it was always teasing.

She loved telling stories about me. How I couldn’t be left on my own because I was apparently bound to do something I shouldn’t. How I loved eating tomatoes…that I could eat them like apples.

She always told people how special I was. She would say the only thing missing was her giving birth to me. 

I was her glorified youngest child, wrapped in a granddaughter’s guise.

She took care of me as if I were her own, and she was proud of that. She made sure people knew it.

She was heartbroken when I got married at 25.

She cared for me like I was a precious treasure. 

In her eyes, I needed to be taken care of. 

I needed to be protected.

In her eyes, I was fragile.

I told her on her deathbed, “Erika won’t be Erika without you”. The gravity of that statement made me think of all the years of sacrifice, love and misunderstandings. 

I realised that half of who I am right now is because of the woman behind it. 

In her eyes, I might have been fragile, little did she know she built a resilient woman. 

To her, maybe I was someone needs protecting, little did she know she raised a woman who could protect herself.

She wants my life to be as easy as it could be, and she did everything she could to make that happen. 

Little did she know, on doing so, she taught me how to stand on my own.

She surrounded me with people. I was never without a companion. 

Maybe it was her over protectiveness. Little did she know she rasied someone who could make it on her own. 

She never let me lift a finger with a lot of things –  cooking, laundry anything that probably seemed hard or could possibly hurt me.

What she didn’t know is, when I watched her, she unknowingly taught me how to do it all. Fair enough – I can’t cook as good as her. I probably didn’t inherit her magic touch with food, her patience or her joy when cooking.

But on the brighter side, she raised someone who loves food in all its forms. 

I remember when I went back home in 2022. I was washing my husband’s and my clothes by hands – our washing machine didn’t work very well.

She kept coming to me, saying “My poor girl, you can stop now, Let the helper do the washing” 

I told her. “I am fine Nanay, I can do this.” 

To her,  I was still a young child. 

Maybe it came from concern – I react badly to washing powders and soap back home.

To her, I was delicate. 

She was a woman of pride 

She carried herself with dignity and respect 

A good listener 

Strict and disciplined – and those traits taught me patience & resilience. 

Her stubbornness taught me that there’s a way through things 

Her carefulness with money taught me how to save properly. 

Her kindness – even to the people who hurt her – made me protect her, even if it meant being seen as the villain. 

She was the mother my soul needed. 

She might have been imperfect, but I know she tried her best with the tools that she was given. 

She treated me with a depth of love and care that feels irreplaceable. 

I felt her love even in trying times.

I felt her love even in her last moments. 

I still cannot forget those final moments – the way she looked at me in her very last breaths. Without words, she was saying her goodbyes. 

It hurts to lose the very person who gave me dreams and hope. 

The person who always reminded me to be kind, patient and humble.

She was always a hard working woman – something I admired, and something that shaped me. 

She was forgiving – hard as it may be to emulate, but I understood its importance. I understood how and when it applies, and to whom. 

There is so much of her in me — so many things I absorbed simply by watching her live. She took pride in raising me, and I know that a large part of who I am exists because of her. I owe her for that, even if I never got the chance to repay her in the way I wanted.

Her absence makes the weight of that clearer.

I became who I am through her presence — through the way she lived, the way she loved, the way she carried herself. Those values are etched into me, quietly and permanently.

My husband once told me “you are a woman with a good moral compass”.

Maybe he was biased but to me, it was because of her.