If This Was My Last Birthday

 

What Life Has Taught Me So Far (44 Lessons)

Sharing the most important things I've learned the past 44 years.

These lessons didn’t come from winning. They came from struggle, from quiet breakdowns, from days I wasn’t sure I’d recover.🤟🏽

If these 44 lessons bring comfort to someone walking through their own shadows, then every difficult moment had meaning.🙏🏼

To The Boy I Once Was

Some Friendships Don’t Fade - They Grow Stronger with Time

I didn’t plan to vlog that night. It was just another dinner with my high school friends - the same group I’ve shared laughter and life stories with since we graduated in 1997. After our graduation three decades ago, we’ve made it a point to meet at least a couple of times a year. It’s our quiet promise to each other - a tradition that’s survived moves, careers, families, and even the long silence of the pandemic lockdown.

Every dinner feels familiar - the same jokes, the same stories, the same laughter that somehow never gets old. We eat, we talk, we play billiards or basketball, like we always do. It’s a rhythm that feels like home.

But this night turned out different.

After dinner and another round of friendly teasing over missed shots and old memories, they surprised me with a cake - my very first birthday cake from them. I didn’t see it coming. The laughter turned into applause, and the jokes quieted into something that felt a little like love - the kind that doesn’t always need to be said, just shown.

I don’t usually get surprised, but that moment caught me completely off guard. It was simple - no grand gestures, just sincerity. And it meant more than I could say.

Maybe that’s what friendship really is - showing up, year after year, and still finding new ways to make each other feel remembered. Through the years, we’ve changed in so many ways - older faces, weaker bodies, busier lives - but the bond remains the same. Maybe even stronger.

As I looked around the table, I realized something: not everyone gets to keep the same friends this long. Some friendships fade with time; ours somehow learned to grow with it.

So yes, this vlog wasn’t planned. But I’m glad I pressed record. Because someday, I’ll want to remember this - the laughter, the stories, and the night they made me feel celebrated without even trying.

Here’s to friendship that lasts. To laughter that never grows old.

And to being surprised by kindness, even after all these years.

One Ordinary Day

I don’t really know why I decided to record that day.

It wasn’t special. Nothing grand happened. It was just a regular morning - clinic visits, coffee, quiet moments in church, and work from home. But maybe that was exactly the point.

Lately, I’ve been feeling the weight of time more than ever. My body reminds me of it every day - the leftover aches, the fatigue that never really went away after COVID, the slow realization that I’m not as strong as I used to be. And maybe that’s why I took out my old phone and pressed record.

Because I wanted to remember.

Not the milestones, not the big scenes - just this: the quiet rhythm of an ordinary day. The hum of life that keeps going even when I feel like slowing down.

Maybe it’s age. Maybe it’s fear. Maybe it’s acceptance.

There are moments when I feel that I don’t have much time left in this world - not in a tragic way, but in a quiet, honest way. And because of that, I’ve learned to hold on to the small things: the warmth of morning light, the calm of coffee steam, the silence of prayer.

I wanted to capture what “living” looks like for me now - the kind that doesn’t shout, but simply is.

Because if one day I’m no longer here, maybe these pieces of ordinary life will remind someone - maybe even me - that I tried. That I lived. That I was grateful.

So yes, I’m trying to document simple, routinary days.

Because sometimes, it’s in the most ordinary days that we find the clearest reflection of who we are - and how much of life we’ve truly loved.

Echoes After the Curtain Call

I’ve learned never to take for granted every moment on stage - every light cue, every line delivered, every heartbeat shared with an audience. You never really know when it might be your last.

This week would’ve marked my 33rd year in theatre - three decades of stories, songs, and souls shared under the spotlight. There was a time when the stage felt like home, where purpose and passion intertwined. But lately, watching others perform while I sit on the sidelines has taken a quiet toll on my mental health. The silence after a lifetime of curtain calls can feel heavier than I ever expected.

Maybe it’s time to move forward - to accept that I am no longer who I once was, and that’s okay. The curtain may have closed on one chapter, but the story isn’t over. I pray it isn't.

Still, my heart remains grateful - for every memory, every role, and especially for those who continue to remember me even when I’m no longer in the spotlight. And to those who still believe I have something left to share - who invite me to pass on what I’ve learned to the next generation - thank you. You remind me that my place in theatre may have changed, but my purpose remains.

Oh well… happy 33 years in theatre, old soul. The stage may not always be mine to stand on, but it will forever be where my heart belongs.🙏🏼

The First Click

I did something completely new recently - and honestly, a little terrifying. For the first time, I tried making digital journals and planners. What started as a simple curiosity (“Can I even do this?”) somehow turned into hours of experimenting with layouts, fonts, colors, and the small details that make planning feel personal and inspiring.

And then, in what I can only describe as a moment of beautiful insanity, I decided to actually put them up for sale - on Etsy and RaketPH. Me. Selling my own creations. Online. To strangers.

It’s surreal. I’ve always been more comfortable on stage or behind the scenes - directing stories, crafting characters, helping others express themselves. But this time, I’m the one putting something mine out there. Not a performance, not a script - but a product of quiet creativity, designed to help others find order and meaning in their own days.

I don’t know if anyone will buy them. I don’t even know if I’ll make a single peso. But I do know this: today, I turned an idea into action. I stopped saying “someday” and started doing. And that feels… liberating.

Special thanks to Theresa, whose inspiration sparked the creation of my very first journal - the first of, hopefully, many more to come. She has helped me tremendously, reminding me that sometimes all it takes is one person to light the spark. And the name of my online shop? The one sentence I kept on reminding her to do - Love Yourself.

Maybe that’s what courage looks like - not always grand gestures or life-altering leaps, but simply clicking “Publish” and letting your small dream meet the world.

The Stage Forgot My Name

There was a time when my name meant something. I was always called - to perform, to direct, to organize, to help. I was part of the noise, the light, the movement. I was needed.

Now, the silence feels heavier. People remember me only when they need something - a contact, a favor, a piece of advice. Then, when it’s done, the quiet returns.

And in that silence, I start to wonder if I was ever really seen, or if I was just a tool - useful until I wasn’t. Maybe that’s what hurts the most: not being forgotten, but realizing I was never truly remembered.

I used to find purpose in giving, in showing up, in being the reliable one. But lately, I don’t even know what’s left to give. I feel drained - emotionally, mentally, even spiritually. It’s as if all the versions of me that people once needed have slowly faded, and what’s left is someone I barely recognize.

And now, they’re doing benefit shows - the same kind I used to organize, perform in, and direct through the years. I see the posters, the photos, the laughter, and not a single message, not even a small invitation to be part of it. Not even to watch.

It’s a strange kind of pain - to watch something you helped build continue without you, as if you were never really there. Maybe that’s what it means to be forgotten - not suddenly, but slowly, piece by piece, until the world goes on and doesn’t even notice you’re missing.

I tell myself it’s fine. But some nights, it’s not. Some nights, it hurts more than I can say.

The Silent Enemy Called Home

Some days, I hate this job. Not because of the students, but because of the parents. I sit there listening to a child break down, carrying scars they should never have, and all I can think is: this isn’t their fault. They’re just kids. But the problem? It’s the very people who are supposed to protect them.

And that’s where I feel useless. Because what can I do? I can talk to the student until my throat dries, I can hand them coping mechanisms, I can give them every ounce of reassurance - but the moment they go home, it’s all undone. The shouting, the neglect, the impossible expectations, the constant criticism… all from the parents.

And the worst part? I can’t change it. I’m not allowed to. I can’t go storm into their homes and demand, “Stop hurting your child!” I can’t make them see the damage they’re inflicting. I’m trapped by professional boundaries and policies, while a child suffers in silence.

Some nights, I go home carrying their weight, asking myself why I even bother. Because at the end of the day, I’m just patching up wounds that will keep reopening. I’m a temporary escape, not a cure. And it kills me.

I may never fix the home they return to, but maybe - just maybe - I can help them believe they deserve better. And perhaps one day, when they are older, they will be the kind of parent they always wished they had. That hope is the only thing that keeps me from despair.

My Quiet Corner

Always OP - out of place - wherever I am. In the office, I’m just there on the sidelines, never really part of the flow. Even back when my theatre group was still alive, where I should’ve belonged the most, I still felt like an outsider. How strange is that - to feel like a guest in something you built yourself?

I guess that’s why I’ve always kept to myself. Being OP everywhere takes the fight out of you. You get tired of trying, tired of pushing yourself into spaces where you never really fit. So I learned to stay quiet. I learned to hide in my own world. People say “introvert” like it’s just a personality, but for me it’s survival. My solitude isn’t just a preference - it's the only place where I don’t feel judged or out of place.

But I won’t lie - sometimes it hurts. Sometimes I wish I could just belong, even for a while. Still, I’ve learned to carry it. Being alone has made me tougher, whether I wanted it to or not. I know how to stand on my own. I know how to find comfort in silence.

Maybe I’ll always be OP. Maybe I’ll always be that loner in the corner. But maybe that’s who I am - and maybe that’s okay.