Melany Heger Author and Psychologist, Manila (2026)

17/02/2026

In my mind’s eye, a vision of the seventeen-year-old me arrived. Teenage Melany, dressed in goth garb, is seated at the back of the car, along with my seventeen-year-old son and my thirteen-year-old daughter. In this vision, I am driving, even if IRL, I do not know how to drive.

In this vision, she perfectly belonged with the rest of the kids under my care. For this is what the current essay is about how to take good care of your inner teen. I have neglected her for so long, saw her as a nuisance. But her time has come.
How about you? Where is your inner adventurous, unsophisticated teen? Do you let her flourish?

Methinks this vision came along as a deep unconscious reaction to my son turning seventeen a few weeks ago. Seventeen was the age I entered college, broke my mind open with Big Ideas like feminism and egalitarian values. Seeing my son blow out his birthday candles reminded me, a bit painfully, of the past I could have had if I had the parents I am now, as the present-day me, with my spouse. We would have encouraged Teenage Melany to go pursue her passion—just finish a college degree, whatever it is you wish, susuportahan kita anak, then do what you will with it as an adult.

Seventeen-year-old Melany wants to be a writer; she does not yet know what that fully means. If she were transported to the present time, she would be agog at all the writing opportunities a world (seemingly) without boundaries has to offer. She would be astounded by the number of creative writing opportunities available.

Teenage Melany is into poetry, so she would be fangirling Lang Leav, following the famous poet on Instagram. Maybe Teenage Melany would be drawn into the world of social media, share her content there too—creating videos and short-form content, becoming a rockstar in her own right.

At this point in my vision, I would also see Adult Melany, in the driver’s seat, turn around and talk to Teenage Melany. She would say to Teenage Melany, “Oh, poor girl. Recognize that our father, because of his crazy sh*t—he is narcissistic and bipolar—made us not so normal. The emotional torture made us feel like we had to justify our existence every day. And being born a girl in that misogynistic Chinoy environment (circa ’80s–’90s), where being a firstborn daughter is a crime, we slid into the easy arms of anorexia nervosa. Some emotionally damaged teens hurt themselves by cutting. Melany, you did it by extreme dieting. But you are already past that. I see that your weight is okay and you are okay. I just want you to heal more. And so, to do that, let’s explore what you like. So—what do you like?”

Teenage Melany would have probably rolled her eyes and pretended to ignore me, like all teens do. But I know that she listened. Acknowledging her pain is key, I think, to motivating her.

Teenage Melany, transported from the nascent technology of the aughts, would have been overjoyed to be given an opportunity to blog. Her jaw would drop if you told her that a person could take thousands of photos in one hour. She would surely think of ways to use those photos in service of her writing. Pexels! Unsplash! Pixabay! “Oh wow! You mean I don’t need to post pictures of my face?” she would say. Because Teenage Melany, same as Adult Melany, hates having her likeness taken just for exposure’s sake.

In addition, Teenage Melany would revel in opportunities for writing fellowships, writing contests, and online publications. I would urge her to keep submitting her pieces—not to please anyone, but to learn. To learn what kind of writer she wants to become. To test her theories about her creative writing in the real world.

Because reality is like a rock, and her intellect is a hammer. She has to chisel her art with effort. And like all art, sometimes the rock is unyielding, or the tool is not the right one. The artist can become dispirited and give up. In those moments, I would keep cheering Teenage Melany on. Because I am her mother, and that is what mothers do. I’ll keep on saying, “Melany, I believe in you!”

At this point in my vision, Adult Melany finishes the drive and drops Teenage Melany off at campus. Here, the vision merges with reality. In 2026, the merged Melanies enter a school where she is training for her doctorate in counseling. The integrated Melany is still sometimes taken aback, still asking: how did I end up here?

I tell my teenage self, reassuringly, “I did not betray you.” Because I didn’t. I evolved. I did the best I could after the opportunity to study literature was taken away from me as a teenager.

I continue speaking to her: “After I was forced into a degree in business, with psychology and human resources thrown into the mix, my life trajectory changed. And then—boom—before I knew it, I was in my forties, trying out being a writer for the first time. Overwhelmed. Outpaced. Wanting the slow tech of the ’90s and early 2000s while living in the 2020s.”

“I also learned that the way I write is not what the Literary Gods of the Philippines desire. Not artistic enough, in their sense. Not cinematic enough. ‘Describe the scene, make me feel it!’ they kept saying”. Hay nako. Ayoko ng ganyan, ang drama. We’ve had enough drama in our lives to last a lifetime. We’d rather be sober.
As we pass the guards with the ID checks and enter the classroom to meet the professor, I continue speaking—to her, and now to myself.

“Forget your disappointment about videos and photos. Your body dysmorphia, born from the eating disorder, guaranteed the queasiness you feel about images of your body and face in public. You can make peace with that. The (forced sorta) photos of yourself in your page, treat them as documentation! Think journalism, candid photos! I am not holding it against you that you almost never use a filter, and you do not put on makeup.”

Because Teenage Melany and Adult Melany love reassurances, I reiterate: “I did not betray you. I grew. I stopped wanting other people’s approval to exist—as a writer, as a mom, as a psychologist, as a woman. Nobody will think better of me than I do.”
Then—me, in my body, carrying both Adult Melany and Teenage Melany—we take notes in class. We finish the lecture. We book an Angkas ride home.

We go home to ourselves.

Full blog here: https://melanyheger.com/healing-integrating-inner-teen/

13/02/2026

Alaska, Alaska, Alaska. Forty percent of this novel, I think, describes sceneries and activities that happen in Alaska. The title The Great Alone is a phrase practically pegged to Alaska. I should have been warned. But okay naman. The storytelling that I seek in the middle of the night, with an addled brain, was there. I did get lulled to sleep, so target reached, well and good. It was not a mindless read—maraming drama—but I liked it enough to tolerate Alaska, Alaska, Alaska, and more Alaska ❄️.

The story is about Leni, her abusive, PTSD war veteran dad, and her mom Cora, a domestic abuse victim. It was also about the forgiveness of Cora’s parents toward their runaway daughter, who married and got pregnant early back in the flower-power heydays. I could only see this perspective now because I am a parent of teens. 💬

Yesterday, after grad school class, we were talking about problematic parents, and there were a few reveals from my teenagers about my parenting style. I was surprised that they have some fear of me, as I am the Law of the House—the so-called Bad Cop. But after the conversation ended and the fact sank in, I realized I do not want to apologize for being the firm parent. I am the authoritative parent I did not have, because I had a draconic one (dad) and a leave-her-be one (mom). I believe that with my spouse, who is the Good Cop, we are striking the right balance. 📝

The amount of good and damage parents can do to their kids 😌. But I heard the feedback straight from my “customers.” The kids might be a little bit scared of me, but it works. Somebody’s got to do it, and I am not afraid to sully my reputation for it. Sometimes you hate the person administering the medicine, but you need her. It is a role to play, but deep inside, I radiate love—just like all parents do, mom or dad. 💖👉.

11/02/2026

Below my left thumb, there is a minor burn mark. I got it while preparing cheese toast for my soon-to-be teenager; she’s turning thirteen in a few weeks. This essay is about friction in mother–daughter relationships during these tumultuous years. I’m in perimenopause and she’s in menarche—what a roller-coaster hormonal ride! This piece is also about feeling safe in your own family to exert boundaries. You see, I am still learning to get the balance right. Maybe you are learning just like me. If so, I hope what I’m sharing now can be helpful.

I was reminded of that burn mark yesterday when I went shopping with my family. With my cases piling up, it’s rare that I join my husband and kids—my aforementioned soon-to-be teenage daughter and my other child, a boy who is almost seventeen. I am not fond of malls. Sometimes I feel I ruin the fun. I am what you might call the strict, tough mom, the one who brings down the law when it comes to pagtitipid (saving money). No wonder, I’m the Intentional Shopper, a reformed grocery hoarder, but that’s—but that is another essay.

Between the two of us, my husband is the softer, more emotionally attuned parent. By softer, I mean He is the one the kids gravitate toward for comfort. Snuggling with me, Iron Lady that I am, isn’t particularly appealing to my children. I suppose part of why I’m writing this is also the need to making peace with that. (Yep. Dad’s more adorable than mom.)

While we were at the mall, my daughter asked if she could buy a birthday gift for her best friend. I set a limit: one gift, under three hundred pesos. I had reasons. First, I noticed she has begun equating love and value with material things—If I give X a gift, that means I value them. Second, this was the second time she had asked us to spend money on gifts for friends. I don’t like either tendency. Quite materialistic, don’t you think? But also very common place. However, I like nipping bad blooms in the bud.

In my book, as long as you are not earning your own money, you should not spend your provider’s money willy-nilly. You do not know the worth of money until you start working for it with sweat from your brow. What can I say—I am Chinoy this way. We’ve been breathing basic economics since birth. It’s something I feel responsible for passing on, especially since my Filipino spouse is far less inclined to do the financial education bit.

I guess the main issue here is that of entitlement. I would like to raise children that don’t end up like those influencers who think their parents own them the world. Because I am a Jungian psychotherapist, I noticed my thinking patterns. Jung posits that when something grips us strongly, there is always something in it for us to learn. So why would I pinpoint this issue about entitlement? What is this touching in me?

The answer, I guessed, would be uncomfortable. The keyword is entitlement, and behind that word: neediness. My neediness.

Previously I’ve written essays about learning to depend, at least partially, on my husband—financially and emotionally. (Medjo tanggap ko na. Pero minsan di pa din. It oscillates.)

While I am still making peace with this, I’m also trying to guide my daughter with the same issue. Teaching her to standing on her own does not negate the fact that I, too, am dependent, am needy. If I can’t make peace with how I ask for things and how much, what right do I have to model it, teach it?

I, too, feel somewhat entitled to be provided for by my husband. This is not a farce, and it is not hypocrisy, because I have sacrificed for this entitlement and I am still paying for it now.

There are levels to this. With my child, we are at the starting point of financial literacy. Whereas, I’ve already accrued years of experience. She still has a long way to go, and if I do not teach her, me the frugal Chinoy mother, I doubt my spendthrift side of the family will.

Sincerely, I don’t regret telling her no, giving her limits. I believe it will inoculate her against being overly lavish with friends later in life. Overall, the lesson I hoped to impart is not just about the value of money, but about how she values herself. To express healthy boundaries so she is not ripe for financial abuse later in life.
It will teach her the value of money, and by extension, her own value. Earning it, spending it, and being comfortable when others spend it on her.

The night after the outing, she was pouty, ate dinner, and went to bed unsmiling. It’s taken me some trial and error, but I know that when she gets this way, I should not force a dialogue. Maybe it is her introverted brain needing to decompress. Whatever it is, the antidote is usually a good night’s sleep.

The following morning, over breakfast and a cold mug of iced cocoa, I asked her how she felt about what happened at the mall. I told her I appreciated her desire to show her friends love and care. Because she is familiar with the concept, I brought up love languages. We discussed how people express affection differently, and in doing so, I asked about her love language and her friends’ love languages.

I told her that growing up, I didn’t feel safe opening dialogue with my parents because I was often shut down. That is not what I want for us. I asked her to speak candidly. She told me that what would have landed better was: “Three hundred is my limit, and please choose one meaningful gift.” She said she remembered me saying “below three hundred,” but not “one gift.” I realized I had assumed I said what I meant. Nope, apparently, I did not!

We also agreed it wasn’t good to have a full parental discussion in the mall. Some conversations are better held at home, not in the heat of the moment. I thanked her for encouraging me to do this, as this was a nasty habit I have now corrected thanks to her and her father. (Both are picky about discussions held in public places—good point.)

Overall, what struck me with this holiday shopping experience was how hard it was for me to tolerate signs of emotional upset from the ones I love (e.g. a frown, a careless phrase, etc.). I am particularly sensitive to emotional displays. I guess this is my CPTSD (Complex Post Traumatic Stress Disorder) showing: an old wound still hurting like a phantom limb.

Growing up with a father whose mental health issues made me feel responsible for managing other people’s emotions conditioned me this way.

Because of this old wound, a part of me wanted to fix it—to give in and buy the damn gift. But I refuse the old conditioning. I stick with the conviction that no, maybe her face is not my problem to fix. It’s my trauma response that I need to tend to.

I got emotionally dysregulated by that look, and this is not my daughter’s business. I must be responsible (and kind enough to myself) to emotionally regulate. In short, fix my own face.

The breakfast conversation resulted in us agreeing on another gift she needed for a class event. We agreed on using things we already had lying around: small but meaningful things that helped us stay within the budget. I felt my point was communicated clearly and that I have done my duty as a mom. More importantly, I know she felt recognized.

A week later, with the burn mark properly formed, I was still unsettled. So I did what I always do when confused. I researched.

Texts on entitlement by Ivan Boszormenyi-Nagy, founder of Contextual Family Therapy, describe three forms of entitlement: excessive, normal, and restricted. As a clinician, I know people don’t fall neatly into types. Most people move along a spectrum across a lifetime.

If I were to place myself on that spectrum, I would veer toward restricted entitlement. My father, of course, embodied excessive narcissistic entitlement. Grandiose, volatile, boundary-invading entitlement. The loud, abusive declarations of “I deserve this”—those end with me.

But I also see now that “I don’t deserve anything” is not the answer either. “I don’t deserve anything” is an opposite reaction to my father’s motto.

My teenage daughter is actively building social bonds with other girls. This is an area of life I did not develop well myself. I am not there yet, but I am willing to meet her where she is.

I am still uncomfortable with nanglilibre culture. I still don’t fully understand the unspoken rules. But I believe I’ve raised a girl with healthy self-confidence. This quality goes a long way in establishing healthy boundaries, including healthy financial boundaries.

What disturbed me about my daughter’s moment at the mall was not her behavior alone, but how clearly it mirrored my own imbalance. Because the real work with entitlement is balance. Perhaps by witnessing and responding to my daughter as she learns, I will learn too.

In the years to come, my daughter will keep offering sad or ambiguous faces. My trauma response may still immediately throw me off, but I can get back to my senses with practice.

The thing with friction in relationships is that it burns. This first-degree burn I got from making her cheese toast is a small price to pay—it’s worth the privilege of learning from my kid.

If I am to stop an intergenerational problem with boundaries expressed through money, I will need to get comfortable with the heat. She will also feel the heat from me, and I might hurt her inadvertently too. But unlike my father, I will not scar her for life.

💭🔥

09/02/2026

Last semester in CEU, I had the luck to meet these wonderful people. I also tested my mettle with statistics again (I survived). Posting this picture here because I have already began my second semester for PhD in Counseling. On to the next adventure!

06/02/2026

📚 Books and Being 📚
✨ Book reflections from a psychologist & author
📖 The Menopause Bible by Robin N. Phillips, MD 🌟

I bought this book at the Booksale Paco branch ages ago, back when I was starting to feel the first dings of perimenopause. In terms of information, this book has been less than helpful. But as a material object—as an actual book in my hands—it was oddly comforting. Most of the truly valuable information I’ve gathered about The Change has come from free but authoritative Google resources, my OB-GYN, and from questioning ChatGPT discerningly.

I’ll probably donate this book to a library to free up some space and reduce clutter. Reformed book collector here. Saka baka anayin pa. Or ianod ng baha. Wag na lang. 📚📝

Anyway, if you’re in perimenopause like me, please track your periods and educate yourself. Hormone levels can wreak havoc on your skin, sleep, mood, and temperature regulation and more.

May mini hot flushes na rin ako, pero madalang. Yikes, signs of more to come in the next episodes of “Today in Melany’s Perimenopause.” I’m just trying to deal with the whole slew of it one day at a time.

Good luck to us if we’re on the same boat. 💖👉

03/02/2026

📚 Books and Being 📚
✨ Book reflections from a psychologist & author
📖 The Luckiest Girl Alive by Jessica Knoll 🌟

This novel is the basis of yet another Netflix movie I missed. No regrets, though. Netflix is a drug, and I tend to be a teetotaler (besides, I don’t like paying subscription fees dahil kuripot na Instik ako).

The protagonist, Ani, didn’t end up marrying the rich, hunky boyfriend. Sayang naman! As a couples therapist, I felt they could have still worked things out, pero bad timing talaga. They broke up in a way that ended up shaming the guy. She left him at the altar, almost literally.

When she did it, she was at the height of her trauma, not in recovery yet, not even in the middle of it. I have sympathy for both Ani and Luke (the jilted fiancé). If they were in my therapy room, I would’ve asked what their joint goal was: reconciliation ba, hiwalayan na talaga, or just a serious break? 💬 For Ani, I’d recommend healing from her PTSD; for Luke, forgiveness. But realistically, if I had clients like these, they would probably come separately—the woman seeking therapy first, and the man reluctantly, much later.

Also, ang daming New Yorker references here—so much so that my head spun trying to catch up. Sometimes I had to reread sentences, even whole passages. Anyway, I know I’m not always the sharpest compared to those with higher IQs. Ok lang yan. We all have our own talents. 📝💖

31/01/2026

📚 Books and Being 📚
✨ Book reflections from a psychologist & author
📖 Her Fearful Symmetry by Audrey Niffenegger 🌟

Twins fascinate me, probably because my astrological sign is Gemini. How I wish I had a twin—a forever best friend. When I read this novel some time ago, I caught a glimpse of how complicated twinship can actually be.
In this story, the Edwina–Elspeth dynamic is a heady mix with the Julia–Valentina dynamic (both twin dyads).

The most fascinating part of the tale was the emotional manipulation of one twin (from the older pair) over the other, which eventually resulted in a trapped soul in the wrong body. Because I’m not fond of anything supernatural, my brain went into auto shut-off mode after the chapters explaining souls and soul transfers—somewhere in the middle of the book, I think. Still, I kept reading until the bitter end, where Robert, the lover of one of the twins, finally leaves the whole poisoned nest. 💬

In the end, it was a good yarn. But had I known about Audrey Niffenegger’s tendency to weave in supernatural elements, I probably wouldn’t have proceeded. Na-carry kasi ako dun sa boast on the book cover saying she’s a bestselling author. Yun pala, that reputation came from another book with magical elements:The Time Traveler’s Wife. Oh well. I could’ve been more vigilant and more respectful of my own genre preferences. 📝

Pero balance lang din. Sometimes, certain titles really are compelling, even with the sci-fi / fantasy elements. It’s okay to experiment once in a while. Surprises aren’t so bad! Eto na ba ‘yung sign na mas tolerant na ako of the unknown? Charot. 💖👉

29/01/2026

I am uneasy about not conforming to an ideal, because I also want to depend on a man—specifically, my husband.

One our relatives was a career teacher, a feminist known in international academic circles. When I met her, she was the epitome of a feminist. Compared to the women I grew up with, women who almost always deferred to men, she stood out distinctively.

Now my relative is nearing eighty and is almost wholly dependent on my husband, and on the SSS government pension she delayed claiming for years.

Actually, I was the one who pushed her to claim her SSS pension, because she had not taken a proactive stance on it. Her situation angered me until I realized I was staring at my own reflection: I, too, am a woman dependent on a man (at least partially).

In therapy last week, one of my female clients, a medical doctor, spoke about how hard she fought to be independent because she had once been a battered girlfriend. She stayed in that relationship for several years because of her daddy issues—her father abandoned her and her mother when she was six. Now that my client is having marital problems with her spouse, she is angry. Infuriated that she became vulnerable enough to place her hopes on a man. Angry that she let her guard down.

Aside from Doctora, I’ve also had the privilege of meeting strong women who were deeply uncomfortable with their neediness. In some cases, it wasn’t financial, but I saw the parallels. It dawned on me that I am one of these strong, independent, smart women who are uncomfortable with surrender—the surrender of power.

I am Chinese-Filipino. It is a very patriarchal culture—or at least it was when I was growing up in the eighties and nineties. When I was seventeen, I entered college, away from the patrolling eyes of my conservative parents. For the first time, I encountered a reality where I was not my father’s biggest failure for being a firstborn daughter instead of a firstborn son. (This is still a traditional Chinoy thing, wanting sons more than daughters, the last time I checked.)

Partly because of my need to erase my femininity, I developed anorexia nervosa as a young teen. I thought that because I did not have me**es, I was closer to being a man. My parents’ dream for me was (a) to marry a rich Chinese guy—as in “my family owns several factories” rich, or “we run a conglomerate” rich; (b) to run my own business; or (c) to work abroad in the United States and send loads of money home. With option C, they could comfortably say, “Go away, spinster daughter, at least you are rich and successful.”

Naturally, I rebelled against my parents’ aspirations for me, as all seventeen-year-olds do. I wanted to be myself. When I was introduced to feminism as part of elective courses in college, my mind was blown. All of a sudden, there was an enemy. And an idealism that could save me.

Zealously, I called myself a feminist because it was a legit way to save face.
Then, at twenty-four, I got married. My spouse has his own values and hang-ups; one of them is the need to be successful. It is his identity, which is why he took on a very stressful job with very good pay.

Sometimes I joke that it is his karma to indulge me. Providing for me, the kids, and his mama is central to his identity. For all the years we’ve been married, I couldn’t deny him his nature.

That is how I ended up where I am now: twenty years married and the non-breadwinning spouse. In short, I am a housewife. When we were starting out, we agreed that I would be a “Trad Wife” (a traditional wife), the one who would watch over the kids while he brought home the bacon. My spouse and I had a deal, and that deal still stands to this day, with some minor amendments.

At present, I still see myself as a housewife, even though I have a job I love. I locate the center of my life and my identity in my home. My nest. It feels natural and good to me.

When the children were really young, I justified being a stay-at-home-mom (SAHM) because they were in their foundational years. After all, seven years and you build a personality—and you better get it right, as the experts say. And I am a psychologist; I should know. What better service than to serve the ones closest to your heart? I wanted to be present during the most crucial emotional building-block stages of my children’s lives.

However, while I can’t count how many full-time moms I admired—women whose lives were centered on their kids, like mine—I also judged. I was judging their value, because I was also judging myself as a needy, dependent woman.

As time passed, my children grew up and wanted less of me around. When I returned to work in my forties, I had to relearn everything and begin almost at the bottom rung. You could say I paid the motherhood penalty with interest accrued. It doesn’t take a genius to figure out how hard it is to get back into a career after a decade-long hiatus.

Some feminists keep their maiden names after marriage, but I didn’t. My husband has German origins. I’ve always loved words, and in German, the word Mann—with two n’s—refers to husband, not just a member of the male species. I call him mein Mann. In hindsight, I wanted to be claimed. It was not a transfer of ownership. I changed my name to reauthor my life. They call it rebranding these days.
Housewives, stay-at-home moms, elderly women, strong women who loved and risked their hearts—I am all of them, you know?

The challenge now is to make peace with my neediness. To be more receptive, and okay with having desires I do not want to self-fulfill. I want somebody else to give them to me. I want to be serviced.

Our relative asked us again this week to buy her groceries and maintenance medicines. Unlike months before, I did not feel as irritated. I guess my unconscious is slowly accepting it: dependency.

If I am feminist enough, so be it. I am getting accustomed to surrender gradually because I trust more. I’m stepping away from the need to repay what is given to me freely. I am getting more comfortable with asking for what I’m worth, and not just settling for the least expensive option.

Idealism be damned.

Full blog here: https://melanyheger.com/strength-surrender-not-feminist-enough/
💭✨

26/01/2026

📚 Books and Being 📚
✨ Book reflections from a psychologist & author ✨
📖 For Women Only by Shaunti Feldhahn

I reread this book recently and was reminded of its main premise about how to relate to most men. Since this is a Christian-based book written by a Christian author, I read it this time with my empirical, clinical lens on.

Based on what I observe in therapy with many Filipino and Chinoy men, the core idea still stands: men, in general, value respect more than love. Or more precisely, many men experience love through being respected. This also helped me revisit why the provider role is so central for many men (it is closely tied to their sense of power, control, and self-worth). A related realization is that men often like to be deferred to, because deference gives them a sense of power and legitimacy.

On anxiety, the book also nudged me to reflect on how men’s and women’s brains tend to work differently. In general, there are more anxious women than men—this is not a hard line, but a pattern. Men tend to think in more linear ways, and when there is no straightforward solution, that can be frustrating for them. Women, on the other hand, often think with more context and tolerate many open endings at once. This may be why women are often better at task-switching, with less cognitive and emotional cost. These differences likely have something to do with neurobiology—cognitive style, attention allocation, and stress regulation.

As a therapist doing couples therapy, it’s important for me to refresh myself on these differences from time to time, because they help me understand my clients better. Lastly, Shaunti’s book benefited me because her idea of interviewing 1,000 men is brilliant! It made me think that I could do something similar for my own PhD project, which feeds into my next book WIP.

Melany Heger Author and Psychologist

17/02/2026

13/02/2026

11/02/2026

09/02/2026

06/02/2026

03/02/2026

31/01/2026

29/01/2026

26/01/2026

Address

Telephone

Website

Alerts

Shortcuts

Share

Category