Pillow Talk #1

Title: Pillow Talk #1
Artist: Jo SiMalaya Alcampo
Kwentong Bayan Collective
Medium & Dimensions: Mixed Media, 16x16”
Date: 2026Transcript:memories are a deep lake in winter
slowly melting at the brush of spring
lately i find myself at the water’s edge
considering what lies withinWhen we moved to Canada, my family brought over pillow cases from the Philippines. They had blue and white patterns. The cotton fabric was soft and cool in the summer and warm and cozy in the winter. I placed the pillow case on my “huggy pillow”. It gave me such comfort and reminded me of home.Over time, the fabric began to fall apart. It started with a tiny tear in the corner that I quickly sewed up. Eventually bigger holes formed and although I tried my best to repair them, I was just a kid, and my clumsy stitches didn’t hold. In the end, my favourite pillow was in tatters.The pillow before you is an offering to my inner child. The one who helped me survive, then. The one I’m learning to reconnect with, now.a child’s face surfaces
with a serious searching countenance
and weariness behind their eyes
that belies their yearsthey carry the weight of the world
on their little shouldersi wish i could carry it
all awayAs the Ate (eldest daughter), I had many responsibilities placed on me. At an early age, I became a caregiver for my younger siblings. While my parents were at work, I got us up, fed and dressed in the morning, walked us to school, and kept us out of trouble after school. All this while navigating neighbourhood bullies, strangers and other dangers to children left alone.My role meant missing out on some important parts of childhood, like being carefree, feeling safe and protected, or simply being allowed to be a child.
When young ones carry heavy responsibilities, they often continue these patterns into adulthood.When my mom got very sick and was hospitalized, I took on the responsibility of being her primary caregiver. I navigated different hospital systems, jumped through complex institutional hoops, deciphered diagnoses, and adjusted to the ever-shifting personalities of doctors, administrators, and nurses — most of whom were kind and caring but some were definitely not.Throughout the experience, I ensured my mother remained safe, protected, and treated with dignity. It was an honour to care for her. In the end, I’m grateful for the support of my chosen family who were there for us, as my mom transitioned to the spirit world.This past year, I’ve dealt with my own health issues. I’m learning to practice wiser ways of taking care of myself. When you’ve been conditioned to always put others first, self-care can feel unfamiliar or uncomfortable.For this offering, I placed anting-anting amulets around my pillow to remind myself to practice simple acts of care, such as:place your hands over your heart and belly
and take a few deep breaths
drink enough water
move your body at your own pace
let the sun warm your skin
eat foods that nourish you
and give yourself restorative sleep_When we engage in healing work, these daily basics and gentle self compassion can be like a soft pillow to land on.If my pillow could talk, it would say:Complex threads woven in childhood, takes time and care to unravel, but it is never too late to make new patterns.You have the capacity to get through difficult times but please ask for support when you need it.Take comfort amidst the chaos of this world. This is a safe place to rest

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Pillow Talk #2

Title: Pillow Talk #3
Artist: Althea Balmes
Kwentong Bayan Collective
Medium & Dimensions: Mixed Media, 16x16”
Date: 2026Transcript:DahandahanIf my pillow could talk, it would say that I am the holder of lessons of care and caregiving collected through many lifetimes and the way for me to know what care is, is to slow down and rest my eyes, my mind, my body and my spirit and to let it unravel before me.So I begin:
I imagine this thing called the caregiver escalator
I imagine there are 4 stages and we all start at the bottom in childhood. Here we are taught by the older ones who took care of us
Here they teach us the basics: when or what to eat, what to do when we are tired. What activities are safe and what’s not.
They teach us how to be clean and how to bathe ourselves. Good healthy habits that even when you don’t wanna, you do it cause it’s good for you.The second stage is us learning collective care like in kindergarten.
We learned that sharing is caring.
We learned to do things for the collective good like helping clean the house or help Apong Inang pluck old kernels from the cob to feed her chicken that you will likely eat later. You learn the consequences of care.I imagine that I am on the third stage of care. The stage where we learn how to be responsible for the care of most things.I think this must be the longest part of the escalator, it feels like stumbling into a library or a labyrinth because there is always something to care about and if you care about anything then, it truly becomes an endless task of everything: health, relationships, bills, career, environment, politics, a long list of things and their own subcategories
Take relationships for instance.
Relationship to community, to culture, romantic relationships or platonic, to the ancestral, relationship to self, to work, to money, to life, to family,
We become a librarian or a caretaker for everything that mattersThe last and final stage, I see as accepting care
After mastering how to be self-reliant and self-sustaining, a humbling curve awaits us when we learn to rely on others again.
Compromises are madeOf course this is simplified.
Escalators rarely exist alone and we are never stuck in this singular trajectory of care.
I know we cycle through these moments of care throughout all the stages of our lives.Personally it helps me keep track of what matters in a world that can feel overwhelming and disorienting
So while it’s true I work with caregivers and I offer care for my community, I have discovered that I actually struggle with giving myself care.My activism was borne out of the ideals of self-sacrifice and serving the people, that’s actually tagline of the movement
Being selfless is honourable
Even after burning out and carving a different path back to community I still could not shake off that self-sacrifice mindset and I wondered if this was a cultural thing. As a Filipino, an immigrant, a woman, a healthy adult, a daughter. I can think of many instances where the narrative for someone who looked like me, emphasised caring for everyone else first before meBut a moment last year I injured my wrist and it was the mindshift I’ve been waiting for.A week in pain, my hope fading that it would simply go away
And handful of people telling me to get it checked
I finally got an ultrasound and a physiotherapist named Jessa, a no nonsense Filipina trained in the Philippines, told me I had a weak wrist.I worked with her for 9 weeks to change that and it was nice to be taken care of.But I thought if Jessa only knew how many more weak parts I had in my body, I actually would be made bankrupt by her clinic.It was a moment under the shower trying to wash my back
The pain shot up my arm, I suddenly became aware of the cost of most things and the cost of my body parts all equated to the things I valued most: freedom, agency, self-determination, independence and quality of life.I was not willing to lose any of it.As an anti-capitalist, I hate giving my money away to industrial complexes but under that shower, I understood that care can be a dollar sign expensive but my quality of life was priceless. I was stingy and not investing enough on my own self but the injury brought me the attention and the abundance of care I had previously denied and felt I was not allowed to have.So if my pillow could talk, it would tell me:
To keep slowing down. Assess the 7 types of rest I need. It would tell me my injured wrist was a knee jerk reaction to a stressful situation and that I do better when I can dream and process my experiences.My pillow would also remind me that self-care is a shared responsibility: We can hold each other accountable. We mirror and reframe to each other the quality of care we think we deserve.And finally, it would tell me to get that health insurance Ate Mics said to get a decade ago!

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Pillow
Talk #3

Title: Pillow Talk #3
Artist: Melanya Liwanag Aguila
Kwentong Bayan Collective
Medium & Dimensions:
Mixed Media, 16x16”
Date: 2026Transcript:If my pillow could talk it would say,
“You don’t spend enough time with me.
Your head barely visits.You don’t stay long enough to leave a shape.”
No imprint. No evidence that you rested here.
It would say, your dreams don’t come often.You’re inconsistent.
You choose exhaustion over sleep
because you don’t prioritize yourself.
You try to finish everything.
Squeeze it all in. Do it all. Be awake.
Burn the midnight oil like there’s no tomorrow.
And when there’s not enough time, you steal it from me.
You wake up early. On time. But you don’t sleep on time.My pillow would call me out.
It would say, “You’re a hypocrite.”
Because I’m a fitness instructor,
a yoga teacher, a movement coach.I tell people,
“Sleep is medicine.
Sleep is prevention.
Sleep is your future.”When my own life is overwhelming, when balance slips,
I sacrifice sleep so, I can finish everything.Two careers.
Aging parents. My aging body.If my pillow could talk, it would tell you about the nightsI hardly sleep at all.
About the worry I feel when it’s quiet.
I worry about my parents.Their bodies changing and their minds forgetting.
I feel guilty. I take care of them.I feel so alone in this care. I feel like I’m messing up.
I feel so tired in a way sleep alone does not fix.
By day, I work in an office behind the scenes,
making sure everything is done.
Invisible labor. Emotional labor.
By night, I teach. Sometimes tired but smiling.Motivating my students.
Pouring from a cup, not even half full.
My pillow watches me choose accomplishmentover rest again and again.If my pillow could talk it would say this started early.
It would remember me at thirteen.My first job.
A “saint” for seniors.A child, learning how to be a companion.
Light housekeeping, groceries, weekly visits.I listened. I cared.
I sat with loneliness that wasn’t mine
But still felt heavy.
Is that emotional labor?My pillow was always there. Ready to cradle my head.
In my twenties, I became a personal support worker.I remember a Korean couple.
They shared homemade kimchi
while we squatted on the parquet floor.
I honored them the way I honor my own elders.Then there was Yaya.
Greek. Fierce. Cranky at first.
She didn’t want me there.
She made that clear.Time passed and eventually she told me that she loved me.
We moved between her daughters’ homes.
One week here, one week there.
I felt included.If my pillow could talk, it would tell you caregiving lives in me.That caring for others comes naturally
even when caring for myself does not.
It would tell you how scared I am
of aging, of forgetting, of potential loss.
It would whisper what I already know. Sleep matters.Rest protects the brain.
My pillow is a tool for self-care.
A place where my body doesn’t have to perform.Where my mind can relax.Where I don’t have to be responsible for anyone else.This story, this art is for my pillow.
For rest. For sleep.For the care I am still learning to give myself.

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