Let me say this upfront: I am not a biological mother.
I have stepchildren through my husband Carlos. I have grandchildren I adore with a ferocity that surprises even me. But I did not raise children from scratch. I did not do the PTA meetings, the fever vigils at 3 a.m., the decade-long project of keeping a small human alive while simultaneously keeping yourself together.
So when I write this — for Mother's Day, about mothers — I want to be clear about where I'm standing. I'm not standing inside this experience. I'm standing close enough to see it clearly.
I built SecondSpring because I went through cancer treatment that sent me straight into menopause. No warning, no grace period — just a body that changed faster than I was ready for, and a sudden, urgent need to figure out how to take care of it. What I didn't expect was how many women I would meet, through this brand and this community, who were navigating the exact same physical upheaval — but doing it while also caring for aging parents above them and children who still needed them below.
I'm writing this for them. And for you, if you are one of them.
The invisible middle
"Sandwich generation" sounds almost charming, like something you would find on a brunch menu. It is not.
It is the exhaustion of being the filling — pressed on both sides, holding the whole thing together — while your own body is going through a biological revolution that nobody put on the calendar. Perimenopause does not announce itself. It shows up disguised as stress, or poor sleep, or "I'm just getting older." And because you are Filipina, you have been culturally trained to explain it away and keep going.
The ironic mirrors
These are what I am finding both genuinely poignant and — I say this with love — objectively absurd about this season.
Your mood swings are happening at the same time as your teenager's. She is flooded with estrogen while yours is packing its bags. You are both crying at things that seemed fine yesterday. Both convinced the other one just does not understand what you are going through. The irony is that you are both right — it is hormonal chaos in opposite directions at the exact same time.
Your brain fog mirrors your parents' forgetfulness. You walk into a room and forget why, while your own mother asks the same question she already asked. You are both reaching for words that do not come. The difference is that when she forgets, everyone understands. When you forget, your husband gets frustrated — so you ask ChatGPT what the hell is going on. And then the chat gets too long, and you have to wait for the next day for it to reset.
And your joints have chosen this exact moment to start complaining — just as you have finally decided to do something about your health. You have finally stopped procrastinating about going to the gym. The will is there. But your frozen shoulders and creaky knees have opinions, and plenty to say.
The universe, as I have mentioned before, has a dark sense of humor.
Tiis-ganda — and why I hope you're retiring it
I lived tiis-ganda. I know it from the inside.
When I was going through cancer treatment and my body went into instant menopause, my instinct was to not make it a thing. I did not want to be known as the "cancer lady." I wanted to handle it gracefully and get back to work as soon as I could. That is what I had been trained to do — and for a while, it is what I did.
Tiis-ganda. Endure it beautifully.
What I learned — not quickly, and not without cost — was that silence is not the same as strength. That pushing through does not make you tougher, it just means you suffer longer. That the most powerful thing I could do was not to endure gracefully, but to decide I did not have to.
Your mother endured in silence because that was what she knew. That was her strength, and it deserves respect. But you have options she did not — better information, better conversations, better resources for this transition. Using them is not a betrayal of her sacrifice. It is what her sacrifice was for.
What I want for you this Mother's Day
I am not going to tell you what good mothering looks like. That is not my place, and frankly, you do not need me to.
But I will tell you what I see from where I am standing.
I see women answering emails, managing households, checking on parents, raising children — and doing all of that while their own bodies are quietly falling apart in ways nobody can see.
And I see how much of that is cultural inheritance, and how much of it is simply who they are.
What I want for you — not someday, not when things calm down, not when everyone else is settled — is for you to be on your own list. To talk to a doctor about what is actually happening in your body. To tell the people around you that you are also going through something, and that you also need support. To stop explaining away symptoms that deserve attention.
Not because you have earned it. But just because you are someone who deserves care.
For the mothers I know and the one who made me
I opened this by saying I am not a biological mother. But mine is, to this day, the strongest woman I have ever known. She held everything together for decades without once suggesting it was difficult. She tiis-ganda'd through things I am only now beginning to understand.
This Mother's Day, I am writing for her. And for every woman who is her — sandwiched, navigating, still showing up for everyone else while your own body asks for something in return.
You do not have to endure it beautifully. And you do not have to endure it alone.