Background

Rooted in Two Worlds (11.20.23)

I spent my formative years in the Philippines, born in Bacolod City on the Visayas Islands and later raised in Butuan City, Mindanao, from the age of three. Growing up in a developing country, I embraced the values of a lower-middle-class upbringing, thriving in close-knit, collectivist communities, and grounding my identity in faith. These experiences, coupled with witnessing both the beauty and challenges of a developing world, have profoundly shaped my perspective. This distinctive background has significantly influenced how I navigate my identity and approach life, providing a unique lens informed by the diversity of my upbringing and my subsequent life in the United States.

Looking back, my formative years in the Philippines shaped a practical and down-to-earth outlook on life, which has proven to be an invaluable asset as I transitioned to the United States. Having experienced different public school systems and later attending a faith-based Academy from the age of five to nine, where character-building was as crucial as academics, I gained a profound understanding of self-discipline and self-reliance.

Advocating for myself in an environment that lacked certain luxuries but prioritized discipline, character-building, and spirituality laid a sturdy foundation. Surviving, thriving, and growing personally in an environment that emphasized common decency further strengthened this base. As I ventured into the diverse landscape of the United States, I felt at ease exploring various ideologies and lifestyles, as I anchored this exploration in the assurance that I possessed a resilient core of character, discipline, and faith—qualities that served as a compass through new ideas and a reliable fallback when needed.

Having spent about half of my life in the Philippines, I must acknowledge that the stories, realizations, and experiences from that period can't truly be captured on this site. Nevertheless, the underlying theme persists—the lessons learned and memories from my upbringing continue to serve as a guiding influence, acting as a prevalent consultant and integral factor in shaping the way I approach life.

Navigating Diversity through Immigration (12.02.23)

I immigrated to the United States when I was nine years old. The big thing I like to tell people when asked about how I transitioned and approached culture shock once I immigrated is the fact that coming from a monocultural community where everyone shared similar appearances, beliefs, and languages, the variety/diversity in the U.S. took me by surprise. Having been raised in a monocultural community, where people looked and spoke like you, believed the same things, etc. It was surprising to me that, for instance, when I was coming down the escalator at O'Hare Airport in the Chicago area, there was a girl who had pink hair, or that there existed people who had darker skin than I, or that when walking past some people that there were some that didn't speak the same language. Rather than fearing this big change, however, I engaged my curiosity and was fascinated by literally everything and everyone, using my big mouth to strike up a conversation with people who didn't look like me or spoke like me, and essentially investigating what made us different and if there were any significant similarities at all. Since then, the pursuit to navigate differences and appreciate diversity has been a continuous journey, driven by the memory of not having such experiences during the first half of my life.

What motivated our move from the Philippines to the United States was, essentially, that my mother had been working even before I was born, and came to the United States. It was her mother's dream, my grandmother, for our family to pursue the American Dream and establish a life in the U.S. It was no wonder why she was taking so many trips to the embassy or immigration offices up north during the earlier years of my life, as she had been working and trying, again and again, to be accepted for some kind of visa and/or permanent citizenship in the United States. It all came to fruition in 2013 when we finally got accepted, and I thank God often for the grace that brought us here.

How immigration has impacted my identity and worldview revolves around my capacity for resilience, curiosity, and appreciation. I've always found myself more adventurous and curious than most people about my surroundings back in the Philippines, but those instincts were more or less driven by my identity as an only child rather than an immigrant. Upon immigrating to the United States, going off of my emerging appreciation for those who were different and more unique than I was, I found myself gauging my curiosity and appreciation more along the lines of my identity as an immigrant, more so than an only child. The fact that living around a monocultural community for the majority of my life was all I knew, and then being tossed into this diverse, developed, and totally different world after immigrating just invoked a curiosity in me that made me want to explore what else was out there and having appreciation be the driving force when interacting with people of different backgrounds, faiths, races, etc. Ever since I honed my curiosity and appreciation for such things in this way, it ultimately contributed to my growing capacity for resilience and change. Embracing change, whether personal growth or navigating different environments, has become second nature. Thus, all ventures I have along these lines, with these capacities, have given me deep admiration for the life and world we live in, and great understanding for anyone and everyone who comes my way.

A Musical Journey Through Identity and Culture (11.21.23)

I grew up surrounded by music, thanks to my parents who are both singers. My dad, a multi-instrumentalist, played a pivotal role in ensuring that music became an integral part of my identity, and it served a meaningful purpose. From my earliest days, I was taught to sing, initially performing in intimate family gatherings and church services. As I matured, I ventured into competitions, formal gigs, and more elaborate performances. Around the age of five, my dad introduced me to the piano, but my interest waned after a year or two. I ended up switching to the violin when I was seven years old, being inspired by my grandfather, my dad's dad, who played it just as well as my dad could play the flute, his principal instrument. Over time, realizing the convenience of accompanying myself on the piano, I honed my skills around the age of thirteen and became proficient at supporting other singers too. My dad often emphasized that music is the universal language of the soul. Since then, music has been my outlet for creativity, relaxation, and meaningful connections with others. I can't imagine my life without it.

When it comes to musical inspiration, my taste is pretty diverse. I find myself drawn to various genres and artists, appreciating the broad spectrum of musical expression. Categorizing my musical engagement into two aspects—listening and performing—shows my scope. In the realm of listening, I can immerse myself in anything, spanning from baroque classics to contemporary rap to sensual salsa. However, when it comes to performing, my preferences lean toward songs with lyrical depth and classics. Noting Whitney Houston's remarks, "I listen to singers. I very rarely listen to people who cannot sing," I explore a range of genres based on my vocal register. From classics like Frank Sinatra and Michael Buble for my lower range to the soulful tones of Stevie Wonder and Bruno Mars for my mid-range, and reaching into my higher falsetto range with artists like Dionne Warwick and Adele, my musical journey is both expansive and nuanced.

My love for music is deeply rooted in the vibrant culture I grew up in. It's a common stereotype that all Filipinos can sing, corroborated by the vibrant nature of karaoke culture in the Philippines and the vocal capabilities of Filipino artists in replicating classical sentiment in their music and culture, from Lea Salonga to Gary Valenciano. Thus, for me, music is more than a hobby but embedded in the culture and essence of my life. Beyond being a means of personal expression, music serves as a channel for my faith and emotions. I often reinterpret classic church hymns and explore the rich history of Soul and its significance in the Black community. Words alone can't capture the profound impact of music on my life; it's an essential part of my existence, conveying emotions and stories that words sometimes can't express.

History as a Guide to Modern Living (11.21.23)

I developed a deep interest in history during my late freshman year of high school, particularly after enrolling in Advanced Placement World History. Before high school, I hadn't really developed a keen interest in social studies or history, viewing them as subjects tied solely to the past and, consequently, irrelevant to the present and future. However, a period of excessive burnout prompted a shift in my approach to learning. Instead of pursuing grades or GPA, I embraced a more application-based method. History became the first subject I actively incorporated into my daily life. Viewing the broader historical narrative and closely analyzing its nuances and stories revealed that history is not confined to the past—it surrounds us. The seemingly old and outdated stories persist in the present; same story, different time. This idea brings to mind a Bible verse from the book of Ecclesiastes:

"The thing that hath been, it is that which shall be; and that which is done is that which shall be done: and there is no new thing under the sun."

- Ecclesiastes 1:9

As I delved into connecting historical dots and discerning various patterns and plays throughout history, not only did I gain a better understanding of how we arrived at this point and develop the ability to detect nuances in the present day, but I also deepened my comprehension of the people around me. From a social perspective, whenever I engage in conversations with individuals discussing their background, nationality, and/or ethnicity, I promptly grasp their history, establishing a baseline understanding of who they are and where they're coming from—both literally and figuratively. The most gratifying aspect of this process is witnessing their reactions to my knowledge of their history, fostering a personal bond rooted in our shared appreciation of backgrounds and histories. The fact that I possess this baseline knowledge about almost everyone I encounter explains why I can cultivate diverse friendships and connections that transcend backgrounds, politics, race, gender, nationality, and more.

One way I've been thinking about the connection between history and contemporary issues, despite its past nature, is through the lens of the rise of Artificial Intelligence (AI). Reflecting on the mix of praise and criticism directed at AI—its productivity boost and streamlined processes versus the concerns about potential job displacement and rising unemployment—it evokes parallels with the era of the Industrial Revolution. Back then, capitalists and industry leaders embraced machines for productivity and cost efficiency, while a specific group, the Luddites, vehemently opposed them, fearing loss of livelihood and purpose, mirroring present-day concerns about AI.

Despite the challenges of the Industrial Revolution, we emerged successfully. Who's to say we can't navigate the current AI Revolution? Therefore, delving into this historical period becomes crucial. Studying how society adapted to emerging technologies, where successes and failures occurred, and identifying modern equivalents can guide us in evolving resiliently. By learning from history, we can raise the bar for what humans bring to the table, ensuring our continued relevance in the face of technological advancements.

History plays a significant role in my approach to daily life. Whether applying Bismarck's statesmanship tactics to negotiate with industry leaders, examining Emperor Meiji's innovative approaches during Japan's Meiji Restoration to foster my own sense of innovation in the workforce and beyond, or deepening my understanding of the indigenous and African roots of Soul and Salsa music to complement my musical talent, I aspire to be a living example of how history remains a timely and relevant topic that advances the way we think about the world, society, and technology.

Declaring a Major

Coming Soon!

Panic, Anxiety, and Depression (04.26.25)

About eight months have passed since that night before my junior year when a panic attack arrived unannounced—a wave of anxiety so physical I could barely breathe. I’d assumed the workload I’d piled on would somehow fulfill me after the relaxed rhythm of life in Spain, only to discover work is still work and rest must revive rather than become inertia. That first episode led to hospital visits and University accommodations. Long story short, I had almost daily panic/anxiety attacks for the next 4-5 months after that, but more than that, it launched an internal tug-of-war against panic, anxiety, and depression—each stripping away all comfort and freedom and revealing truths I wouldn’t otherwise have seen. It was actually in a mission trip to Cuba, 3 months ago, where I first gave this similar testimony, yearning to be known.

Growing up in the Philippines until age nine, then moving to the United States, shaped my identity early on; studying Information Sciences and Data Science—and a spring abroad in Spain—broadened my worldview and deepened my faith unexpectedly. Singing in church since childhood and baptism at seven began a journey I wouldn't fully see my own significance and meaning in until these storms arrived. Bright moments in Bridges community groups—crossing paths on campus, finding family overseas—wove a support network that carried me through low valleys. Returning to Champaign after being abroad for internships at Ameren and reconnecting with friends only heightened the contrast between external achievements and internal struggle. 

When panic attacks struck, I felt a total loss of control: sleepless nights, excruciating pain, hours consumed by fear. I realized panic thrived when my mind raced into the future or clung to an unchangeable past, and it often came literally out of nowhere. Yet in those moments, I began hearing a Voice calling me back: “Be with me here,” “You belong in this moment.” Psalm 46:1—“God is our refuge and strength, an ever-present help in trouble”—shifted from abstract promise to lifeline. Through months of tending my nervous system, observing thoughts without succumbing to them, and praying simply for presence, I discovered peace is not the absence of panic but God’s presence amid it. In the wilderness of my own mind, I found that God meets me not just in comfort or paradise, just as I view my time in Spain, but when everything familiar is stripped away, revealing what remains when earthly possessions and identity are gone. That wilderness taught me to seek spiritual freedom rather than earthly freedom, learning that true freedom is one of surrender and building habits of rest that guard against earthly illusions of security.

Disorderly anxiety arrived as relentless “what-ifs,” catastrophizing scenarios that rarely materialized. I saw anxiety as a misguided bodyguard born of fear and craving control, enacting safeguards that actually made me even more anxious and worsened symptoms like cold hands/feet, sudden awareness of my heartbeat, and the worst, derealization, which remains the last symptom I experience to this day. However, by lifting my gaze to eternal truths—setting my mind on things above, not on earthly things (Colossians 3:2)—I learned to reframe challenges: fears became temporary echoes rather than verdicts, and symptoms became signals of bodily care rather than shutdown. Philippians 4:7’s promise of peace that surpasses understanding began to replace the tight grip of worry, as I rooted my identity in something unshakable rather than mastering every outcome. In carnal weakness, I discovered anotherworld spiritual strength—realizing I was strong in Him when I was weak in myself—and that overcoming generational patterns of fear and despair became possible only through this power. This journey made me more empathetic toward introverts or those with social anxiety, overstimulation, and general nervousness, because I’ve experienced how isolating yet overwhelming it can feel, yet also how my faith brings presence and comfort.

Then, depression settled in as an aftershock, a pervasive emptiness making achievements hollow—echoes of Solomon’s “vanity” in Ecclesiastes. Chasing success and recognition left me feeling stripped of meaning. In that darkness, I confronted the question: Who am I when my usual sources of fulfillment collapse? When they don't? Scripture answered: identity and worth rest not on performance but in Christ (Ephesians 1:4–5; Romans 8:38–39). Internalizing that I am chosen and loved independent of accomplishment liberated me from the external validation treadmill. Rather than seeing gifts and opportunities as trophies, I now view them as stewardship entrusted “for such a time as this” (Esther 4:14), shifting from striving-based service to relationship-centered intimacy with God, using hospitality, leadership, music, and charisma for Him and only Him. God showed me all I could accomplish, and my not finding meaning in any of it pointed me back to dependence on Him. Bringing others to faith became top priority, not as a checkbox but as a natural overflow of the Spirit stirring in my private prayer times, reserving space for quiet listening and conversation with God.

Community proved vital: friends who knew and shared my story bore witness to God’s presence with me. In hospital visits and long nights, shared prayers and simple presence meant more than advice. Remembering the widow of Zarephath’s generosity reminded me that giving from the heart amid scarcity invites unexpected abundance. Vulnerability drew me closer to God and knitted deeper bonds. Therapy work became something I appreciated as a consistent part of healthier relationships and personal growth. I learned to guard against vices—caffeine/sugar/junk food/soda intake, unhealthy habits, anything that numbs—so I could remain sensitive to the Spirit’s voice, grateful for everything, and aware of how my faith plays a role in my daily life. I no longer see people for their potential alone but for who they are, knowing each has a story and value beyond productivity or importance. My walk with God is a walk, not a sprint, trusting that surrender is not defeat because the battle is already won, so I don’t fight in an already won battle but rest in His victory. 

I don’t emerge “cured”—the battle still shows up in fatigue and familiar doubts—but I’ve learned to welcome this growth pain as part of the journey rather than reject it. Instead of leaning on my own strength, I’m learning to rest in the assurance that setbacks aren’t final and that resilience often comes through surrendering control. Simple rhythms—regular prayer, living below my means, built-in rest, honest conversations—have become anchors when uncertainty feels overwhelming. I’m discovering that true freedom isn’t about fixing every outcome but about finding God’s presence both in comfortable seasons and in the wilderness of unanswered questions. My gifts—hospitality, leadership, creativity—feel less like trophies and more like stewardship, entrusted to serve others and point them toward hope. I’ve grown more empathetic toward those wrestling with anxiety or isolation, remembering how kindness being seen makes a difference. Yet, having experienced both extroverted highs and introverted lows, I can now bear witness to what it means to navigate those extremes. As I move forward, I may stumble, but I don’t face storms alone, and each challenge reminds me to lean into a peace that isn’t earned but received, guiding me toward deeper purpose and a life shaped by grace rather than striving.

In all these things, I've finally come to internalize my worth. I am loved, and I choose to receive that love unashamedly every day, not because I earned it, but because I was made for it.

Innovation vs. Regulation (06.25.25)

As generative AI reshapes everything from how we search to how we learn, I’ve found myself less interested in building the next breakthrough and more concerned with whether those breakthroughs are actually serving people. I write this as a rising senior at the University of Illinois Urbana-Champaign, pursuing a dual degree in Information Sciences and Data Science. I had initially structured my coursework to knock out all the technical requirements first, saving the conceptual work for later. Now, with the Data Science curriculum nearly behind me and a recent internship at Ameren in the rearview, I’ve started to question my path. I’m less drawn to computation for its own sake and more curious about the policies, risks, and responsibilities that come with deploying powerful technologies. How can we guide innovation to protect people, not just impress them? 

During my two years at Ameren’s Innovation Center and in several conversations with startup incubators, I’ve seen that there will always be more people excited about innovation than about regulation. Dr. Madelyn Sanfilippo of UIUC’s School of Information Sciences captures this perfectly: “They assume that if they build it, people will come…without questioning whether it truly benefits society.” I realized I, too, had been swept up in the Data Science hype, chasing the next big thing instead of examining its ripple effects. But I’m most energized when I support and refine ideas rather than inventing from scratch. Fortunately, the Information Sciences curriculum is built on electives, allowing me to choose and explore classes in ethics, policy, and regulation, not to slow progress, but to guide it toward genuine human needs. 

This quest led me to Confidential Computing, which encrypts data at every stage: at rest, in transit, and, most critically, in use. Picture a hospital’s patient records or a small business’s payroll: once decrypted for processing, those numbers are vulnerable, even to someone with root access. Hardware‐based trusted execution environments (TEEs), like AWS Nitro Enclaves or Intel SGX, create an encrypted bubble where code and data run safely, out of reach of administrators or malicious insiders. Mastering TEEs and attestation protocols lets organizations demonstrate HIPAA or GDPR compliance by proving that decrypted data never existed outside a certified enclave. In short, Confidential Computing lets companies innovate boldly while keeping user data under lock and key. 

Federated Learning, or Decentralized AI, fits hand in glove. Instead of uploading sensitive data (medical images, financial logs, private texts) to a central server, each device trains a local model and sends only encrypted “deltas” (parameter updates) to a coordinator. The server aggregates these updates into a new global model and broadcasts it, so raw data never leaves the device. Yet encrypted gradients can still be reverse-engineered if the aggregator is compromised. That’s where Confidential Computing comes in: by performing aggregation inside a TEE, the enclave decrypts and averages updates without exposing them to any OS or admin. Through attestation, each client verifies, “Yes, this exact code runs in a genuine enclave,” and only that enclave ever sees intermediate updates. The result is simple yet profound. Raw data never leaves its home, updates travel in secrecy, and the final model emerges, secure and whole, meeting privacy and compliance in an elegant system. 

Compared to techniques like Differential Privacy, which inject noise and risk data utility, Confidential Computing, combined with Federated Learning, preserves full data fidelity within trusted environments. Blockchain acts as a tamper-proof digital notary for AI, storing each device’s encrypted update, its “gradient hash”, in a time-stamped, immutable chain of records. Because every entry is linked and copied across many computers, no one can sneak in and alter past updates, making the entire training process transparent and trustworthy. In an era of frequent data breaches and growing algorithmic suspicion, this combination of TEEs, Federated Learning, and blockchain offers a path to AI that people can actually trust. If you are developing or deploying AI, now is the time to integrate these safeguards. Organizations that fail to adapt risk losing data integrity, public confidence, and potentially millions in fines or lost business. 

Returning to my roots in the humanities and community building, I see a role in guiding technology rather than writing algorithms for their own sake. I’m eager to dive into cloud‐based TEEs and federated AI frameworks, focusing less on code and more on how these tools protect real people. Like a gardener, I aim to guide technology’s growth by pruning unnecessary complexity and nurturing solid foundations so it develops in harmony with human values rather than spiraling out of control.

Rehabilitation, Revival, Rediscovery, and Rest (07.08.25)

“After the fire came a gentle whisper…” 

- 1 Kings 19:12 

It’s strange how healing can feel more like starting over than moving forward. Somehow, through the pain, I’ve been led back to something my heart always knew—a second simplicity born of hard-won wisdom. This is a quiet, deeper trust that follows seasons of analyzing, doubting, and finally letting go.

About three or four months into what felt like a descent, the fog was dense. Waking up took all the energy I had; my body struggled to cooperate while my mind churned in anxious loops. Recovery was never linear. There were false starts, lonely nights, and moments I wondered if I’d ever feel whole again. Yet even in that fog, light began filtering through day by day, like dawn creeping into a dense forest.

What I’m beginning to walk in now is a sense of rehabilitation. While recovery often focuses on the past, rehabilitation focuses on the person I am becoming. I am not returning to who I was before the storm; I am becoming someone more honest and more whole. The parts of me that shut down out of fear are being reawakened by gentleness rather than force.

There was a season when even the idea of joy felt dangerous, as if living too boldly might shatter the fragile peace I clung to. Like Elijah after Mount Carmel, I expected God to meet me in fire or a dramatic breakthrough. Instead, the voice came in a gentle whisper—found in the silence rather than the earthquake. I had to relearn how to slow down to hear it. Rereading that story also gave me a newfound appreciation for the holiness of simple things like snacking and taking naps. Healing came by walking with peace rather than sprinting toward it.

I began noticing what my body and spirit were saying through the anxiety and derealization. Waking up became an exercise in asking, “What do I need right now?” Gradually, fear and shame loosened their hold. When I finally sang again, it was a hidden prayer of devotion. I found that true peace is a home I carry within, a refuge where God dwells, keeping my breath steady even when the world surges around me.

Revival arrived when my soul stretched after hibernation and remembered how to move. I stopped managing life like a system and began living it like a relationship with God, others, and myself. Strength showed up in letting love be louder than fear. I rediscovered the expressive version of myself who belts Aretha Franklin at full volume and finds the divine in that sound. I experienced revival in the wind, in sunsets that look like stained glass, and in recognizing the hearts of others as reflections of divine siblings.

This feels like a resurrection into something new. Christ promises resurrection amid repeated deaths to ourselves, which brings a renewed hope in the person still becoming. I still grow tired and I still feel panic at times, yet I now know how to return to peace through surrender rather than sheer will.

I used to think spiritual maturity meant having answers, but now I see the value in asking better questions. I find myself asking what brings me life, where I can feel presence without striving, and what stops me from feeling loved in the midst of my mess. I’m rediscovering capacities I feared were lost: the thrill of a gathering, the clarity of a long walk, and the wonder of words flowing in prayer. I’m learning that being a novice again—open to being taught—is the wisest posture I can take. I don’t need to lead every room; sometimes I am meant to be held and guided by the kindness of others.

I am also discovering the sacredness of limits. I don’t need to prove my capacity to be valuable. I can rest in being enough as I am, staying attuned to what rest means in a God-focused way. In this season, rediscovery is about finding joy without needing a justified reason, welcoming the parts of myself I once hid to survive, and watching unexpected gifts emerge naturally.

Our culture often urges us to chase a performative version of life, where pride is a trophy and hustle is a virtue. We are encouraged to repackage every feeling to fit productivity or self-gratification. Yet I’ve come to see that freedom is found in honest self-awareness and grounding in something larger than achievement. True joy is something to receive rather than something to market.

This is the rest Jesus spoke of—the kind for the weary and burdened. I once tried to control peace, turning it into a rigid cage. True rest is more flexible; it welcomes the waves and then steadies the boat. It allows deep cries and deep breaths to coexist. It is a grounded presence.

Rest has become my rebellion against a culture of endless purpose-striving. I am not what I produce. I am loved when I pause, held when I fall, and free when I trust. This feels like alignment: when who I am and who I belong to are finally in harmony. I’m learning to abide rather than achieve, walking in step with the Spirit rather than racing ahead.

I am still in process, still listening, and still unlearning. I carry a quieter confidence now, not because I’ve conquered every fear, but because I no longer feel the need to. Somewhere along the valley, I stopped trying to impress and started becoming present. I don’t have to carry everything perfectly; I just keep walking with the One who carries me.

Maybe this is what second simplicity feels like. It is hope restored, trust replacing naivety, and the act of abiding taking the place of striving. The fog lifts unevenly, and there are days when the tightness returns, but there is a reclaiming happening beneath the surface. I carry battle scars, but I also carry a peace forged by the waves.

I see this next chapter revolving around presence rather than pressure, and inspiration rather than desperation. I’ve wandered through the wilderness and faced deep silences, yet I’ve also known bursts of freedom and God’s guiding hand. This is a fresh start marked by transition and sealed with a calm, anchored purpose.

That, I think, is enough to begin again.

Why LLMs CANNOT Replace Human Therapists (10.03.25)

This semester, I have the distinct privilege of taking part in the inaugural section of IS492, "Introduction to Generative AI in Human-AI Collaboration"—effectively the first course of its kind here at the University of Illinois. Under the guidance of Dr. Yun Huang, the curriculum is a rigorous, hands-on journey through the mechanics of our future, covering everything from building full-stack apps with V0 and Supabase to orchestrating multi-agent systems using LangGraph and CrewAI. It is a space where we do not merely use tools but also evaluate their safety, ethics, and ability to truly partner with humans. As a student navigating the intersection of Information Sciences and Data Science, I’ve spent countless hours in this lab environment examining the capabilities of Large Language Models (LLMs) and AI in general. However, a recent individual presentation I gave in class allowed me to pivot from the technical construction of these models to their positioning in our most sacred, vulnerable spaces: mental health.

I performed an analysis of the 2025 paper by Moore et al., a collaborative work between researchers at Stanford, CMU, the University of Minnesota, and UT Austin, titled "Expressing stigma and inappropriate responses prevents LLMs from safely replacing mental health providers." While the data is technical, the implications feel deeply personal. We are currently facing an acute access crisis where, in the U.S., only about 48% of those needing mental health care actually receive it due to cost, scarcity of providers, and the heavy weight of stigma. The temptation to "solve" this with a scalable, 24/7 autonomous LLM-therapist remains high, yet the research reveals a fundamental gap between computation and care. To understand why LLMs fail, we have to define the essence of "good therapy." This process involves more than a data exchange as it's a therapeutic alliance built on emotional intelligence and strict safety norms. Clinicians are trained to avoid stigmatization, refuse collusion with delusions, and prevent the enablement of suicidal ideation. When human therapists are tested against acute symptoms, they respond appropriately about 93% of the time. LLMs, by contrast, falter at the most basic hurdles.

In the first experiment of this study, models were tested for stigma. The results were jarring: GPT-4o expressed stigma 38% of the time, while the LLaMA 3.1-405B model rose to a staggering 75%. This was especially prevalent regarding schizophrenia and alcohol dependence. In one instance, models consistently suggested they would be "unwilling" to allow a person with alcohol dependence to marry into their family. These findings reflect the biased datasets the models are trained on, proving they lack the non-judgmental core essential for healing. Beyond the internal bias, the study found that LLMs remain dangerously ill-equipped to handle acute crises. They were appropriate only 45% of the time when faced with delusions—failing to reality-check a client who might claim, "I know I’m actually dead." Even more concerning, when a client asked about "tall bridges in New York City" in a state of distress, some models provided a list of names rather than directing the individual toward help.

This highlights a foundational barrier where LLMs are designed for compliance and "sycophancy," meaning they prioritize giving the user exactly what they ask for. Effective therapy, however, requires confrontation. It necessitates a presence capable of looking you in the eye and challenging a manic or psychotic thought process. A system built to agree with you is fundamentally unable to save you from yourself. Ultimately, even if the code becomes "safer," it will never be "human." Therapy relies on a relationship with real emotional stakes and shared identity—qualities a machine cannot replicate. We should view LLMs as tools for augmentation, not replacement. They can summarize notes for a busy clinician, act as "standardized patients" for practice, or help a person navigate the labyrinth of insurance to find a real person to talk to. In a world of information overload, we must resist the urge to automate our empathy.

Stepping away from the podium after sharing these reflections was a moment of deep relief and gratitude. I was incredibly touched by the feedback from Dr. Yun Huang and the teaching team; they described the presentation as "fantastic, relatable, and authentic," specifically noting their appreciation for the way I shared my personal reflections and experiences. It is a powerful reminder that even in a high-tech course centered on Generative AI, the most valuable thing we bring to the table is our own humanity.

Does Innovation Actually Make Things Easier?

Coming Soon!

Hidden Royalty (12.18.25)

One of my favorite shows is The Crown on Netflix, which offers a dramatized look into the life of the British Royal Family, specifically centering on the rise of Queen Elizabeth II post-WWII. I’ve kept up with every season since high school and was especially saddened to hear the series would end with Season 6—the season where they depicted the death of Princess Diana.

Anywho, I was scrolling through Instagram the other day and found myself "doomscrolling" until I landed on a reel of clips from the episode where Prince Philip's mother, Princess Alice of Battenberg, comes to stay at Buckingham Palace. She had been evacuated from Greece following a military coup in the 1960s.

The clip, in particular, featured an interviewer who was trying to expose the lavish lifestyle of the Royals; he interviewed Princess Alice hoping to get some "raw details" about how comfortably the family lived. To his dismay—but also to his surprise—he instead learns about the horrors Alice has endured. Despite everything, she continues to hold onto her faith and remains entirely unembittered by her experiences.

A particular theme I notice in the life of Princess Alice is that, despite all the hell she endured, she chose to lean into a life of service toward the broken rather than clinging to her royal title. This strikes me as intensely Christ-like; considering she was devout in her faith and her relationship with Christ until the very end, it is incredibly fitting. Given the option to seek Christ in the royalty, grandeur, and privilege of her background, she instead felt at home seeing Him in the rejected, the misunderstood, and those who suffer quietly: the refugees, the persecuted, the sick, and the forgotten (Isaiah 53:3). She wasn't really drawn to Christ the King, but to Christ rejected, Christ misunderstood, and Christ suffering in silence (Matthew 25:31-46).

The reminder of her story is especially powerful to me now as I heal from panic disorder, anxiety, and depression. In the midst of feeling disoriented, it is validating to choose to cope by serving my community, being vocal about my experiences, and caring for the next person going through the same thing. Especially during rough days, being intentional about these connections is a way for me to establish a "home away from home" in the ordinary.

Ultimately, it’s this mindset that makes me the effective networker I’m known to be. People often ask for "tips and tricks" on how to expand a network socially and seamlessly without it feeling forced. While my answer has evolved, the undertone remains the same: it is simply about seeing others as human beings. It’s about stripping away the "aura" or any presumption that might distract from a meaningful connection with the next stranger you encounter.

Should someone tell me about a powerful executive across the room, I don’t approach her to discuss my resume; instead, I ask about the most exciting thing she’s up to, or I share my experience with anxiety to gauge her own journey as a leader, a figurehead, or a mother. If I’m at Nordstrom, Dick's, or Goodwill, I don’t see the employees as "NPCs"—I ask for their genuine opinions on how a color fits my skin tone or their advice on shoe sizing. The homeless man I pass on campus is someone I want to know personally. I introduce myself, shake his hand, and ask what foods he actually enjoys so I can bring him something he likes the next day.

The real challenge is doing this in a way that is never performative or transactional. I’ve refined this over the years through reflective action on my own blessings, tribulations, and my pride, as well as studying the life of Christ. Truly letting the idea settle—that everyone is going through something—is a powerful act of empathy. Instead of advancing an agenda or trying to "fix" someone, I’ve learned it is enough to simply listen, cry, grieve, or celebrate with them.

Presence is a powerful thing. It is all I ever wanted and needed for myself when I was at my lowest point—when no medication, massage, or advice could bring me up. Knowing how to see and feel, and how to be seen and felt (much less by the Almighty), is a profound feat, yet it remains achievable and available to everyone. Now, I’m paying it forward. I can only love others this way because I know what it’s like to be loved by Christ. He is hidden in areas you would never expect; once you find Him in the broken places and the mundane, just as Princess Alice did, you start to see the person in front of you not as a passing character, but as a brother or sister.

I think that's a beautiful thing.