It took me years to realize that “health” isn’t just the absence of sickness, and “well-being” isn’t just what happens when we finally have time to breathe. It’s not a luxury, nor a trend. It is something tender. Earned. Preserved. Something I now protect with the kind of quiet intensity you reserve for things that have once been broken.

As a nurse, I know the clinical definitions. Vitals within range. A functioning body. A sharp mind. But when you’ve witnessed firsthand how fragile all of that can be—how health can unravel in an instant—you begin to live differently. You begin to cherish the days when nothing hurts, when breath comes easily, when sleep arrives without struggle. You stop taking the ordinary for granted.

So my “strategies,” if you can call them that, aren’t fancy. They don’t involve extreme regimens or picture-perfect routines. They are small, intentional choices I return to every day—not to sculpt a perfect body, but to stay anchored in a chaotic world.

Before the scroll, before the rush, before I put on any uniform—nurse, writer, daughter, partner—I claim the morning for myself. Sometimes it’s five minutes. Sometimes thirty. I drink warm water, sit in silence, or write whatever my mind hands me. This stillness is not just ritual—it’s resistance. Against noise. Against speed. Against forgetting who I am when I’m not “doing.”

I stretch, I walk, sometimes I dance in the kitchen when no one’s watching. I’ve let go of the idea that exercise needs to be rigorous to count. Movement, to me, is medicine. It reminds me that my body isn’t just a vessel I take care of—it’s also where I live. It deserves joy, not just discipline.

Gone are the days when I wear exhaustion like a badge. I’ve learned, the hard way, that running on empty is not noble—it’s dangerous. So I sleep when I need to. Nap when I can. I do nothing, sometimes on purpose. Because not every hour has to be productive for it to be valuable. Because rest is not quitting—it’s healing.

Some days it’s salad. Some days it’s sinigang and chocolate and cinnamon rolls baked by someone I love. I eat with intention, but also with gentleness. I am done labeling food as “bad” or “good.” I’m learning to listen—what makes me feel whole? Energized? At peace? Nutrition is not about restriction. It’s about respect.

I’ve learned to recognize the moments when I’m running low, not just physically but emotionally. I pause. I step back. I stop explaining myself to people who refuse to understand me. And when my own thoughts turn against me—whispering not-enoughs and should-haves—I speak back, gently. “You’re tired, not failing. Breathe.”

Writing is how I return to myself. In the pages of a worn-out notebook or the glow of a screen, I lay my heart bare. No edits. No filters. Just truths. I write down what aches, what confuses me, what I’m grateful for. It’s how I stay honest. How I untangle knots. How I see myself clearly when life becomes blurry.

Social media can be both inspiring and overwhelming. I take breaks when I need to. Sometimes I disappear for a day or two—not out of anger or sadness, but to listen to the parts of me that have grown quiet. I go outside. I water plants. I sit in cafés with a book instead of my phone. Because in a world that constantly asks for our attention, silence becomes an act of self-preservation.

Well-being isn’t a solo journey. Sometimes, the most healing thing I do is sit with someone who sees me. A call with my mother. A laugh with my brother. A quiet moment with Jan. These connections are not distractions from my wellness—they are my wellness. They remind me that I don’t have to carry everything alone.

I may not always have the words, but I always have the awe. Sometimes it’s prayer. Sometimes it’s gratitude whispered at the edge of my bed. Sometimes it’s just standing under the sky and remembering that life is both fleeting and miraculous. That I am here, still breathing, still learning. And that is enough.

A Final Reflection

What I’ve learned is this: there is no one-size-fits-all to health. No perfect formula. No magic list. What works for me may not work for you—and that’s okay.

Because real well-being isn’t about chasing perfection.
It’s about living in rhythm with your own truth.
Listening inward. Caring intentionally.
Pausing when needed. Beginning again when you’re ready.

It’s about becoming the kind of person your younger self needed—and your older self will thank you for.

So no, my life isn’t perfectly balanced. Some days I fall out of rhythm. Some days I forget to drink enough water or cry on the floor after a long shift. But every day, I try again. And in that trying, I heal. Slowly, imperfectly, faithfully.

Because health is not a finish line. It’s a relationship—with your body, your mind, your spirit. And I’m learning to be more loyal to that relationship, one tender decision at a time.