Beyond the Classroom Walls

This is my second Teachers' Month in this school, but it still feels different—not because the celebration is new, but because I’m no longer a teacher. Now, I serve as a counselor, guiding students in ways that don’t involve chalkboards or lesson plans. I sit quietly during the celebrations, no longer receiving cards or greetings from classes I once stood in front of.

I think back to my teaching years, to the high school and college classrooms where I spent so much of my life. I remember students walking in with questions and dreams, the long hours spent preparing lessons, and the joy of watching young adults find their voice and confidence. Teachers' Month back then was full of surprises: handwritten notes, flowers from students who were taller than me, and laughter that carried through hallways. It wasn’t about recognition - it was about connection.

Now, I watch from a distance. I see my colleagues celebrated and honored, and I’m genuinely happy for them - they deserve every bit of love. But there’s still a quiet ache, a nostalgia for those days when I was in their place, shaping lives not just through guidance but through teaching itself.

Yet even in this new role, I’ve realized that a teacher’s heart never truly leaves the classroom. I may no longer hold a marker or a lesson plan, but I carry with me the faces and stories of every student I once taught - the high schoolers who grew into confident adults, the college students who chased their dreams. They are etched in my memory like chalk on a well-worn board, smudged by time but never erased.

So this Teachers' Month, I celebrate in silence - not for myself, but for all the educators who continue to light the way. And in my heart, I whisper a quiet thank you to the students who made me a teacher in the first place. Because no matter how my title has changed, I’ll always be one thing at my core: a teacher.

Once a teacher, always a teacher. And some parts of the heart, once filled, can never be emptied.

The Sister Who Grew Away

We weren’t born siblings, but we chose to be. Back then, I was just a boy who dreamed of having a younger sister, and she, along with her brother, wanted a Kuya. Life gave us that gift, and we embraced it. We shared a love for theatre and writing, and our families welcomed the bond we built. For a while, it felt like we were truly family in every way that mattered.

We grew up together, celebrated each other’s wins, and created memories I thought would last forever. I was there for her milestones, proud to watch her grow and find her place in the world. She was there for me, too, in ways only a sibling could be.

But somewhere along the way, life pulled us in different directions. We drifted, quietly and naturally, until years passed without a word. I wasn’t there for her wedding, for the birth of her child, or when she finally became a published author. I missed it all, and yet I never stopped being proud of her. I’ve prayed for her every step of the way, even from a distance.

And now, maybe it’s time to truly let her go - not in anger or regret, but in acceptance. We’ve both grown, and she doesn’t need her Kuya anymore, not the way she once did. That doesn’t erase the love, or the fact that she’ll always be my little sister, a part of my life, and a piece of who I am.

Still, somewhere deep down, I hold on to a quiet hope. Maybe one day, our paths will cross again - not as strangers, but as the family we once chose to be. Until then, I’ll continue to cheer for her from afar, proud of the woman she has become.

She will always be my little sister. A part of my heart. A piece of my story. Even if I’m now just another face in the crowd of her life.

A Love That Never Ages: For Indy

 A pet is never just a pet—they are family. They greet us with joy no matter how tired we are, love us without question, and grow old by our side. Their loyalty never wavers; their devotion never fades. Yet, some see them as replaceable—as if love has an expiration date, as if age or frailty makes them less worthy of our hearts.

To give a pet away or trade them for something “newer” or “younger” isn’t simply a choice. It is a mirror that reflects the kind of love we’ve given—or failed to give. Our pets do not abandon us when we grow older, weaker, or slower; they remain steadfast companions until their last breath. Shouldn’t we honor that same loyalty in return?

Losing Indy to a snake’s bite was devastating. The pain of that day still feels sharp, like an open wound that time hasn’t yet soothed. But when I think of her life, I also think of the way she loved us, the way she stayed by our side without hesitation or judgment. And strangely, I find a small measure of comfort in believing that maybe, just maybe, that snake was a messenger of mercy.

Perhaps it took her from this world before someone could ever “upgrade” her, before she could feel the sting of being unwanted or replaced. Instead, she is in a far better place now, free from pain and fear, running through endless fields where loyalty and love are eternal.

Indy’s absence is heavy, but her love lingers in every quiet corner of our home, in every memory she left behind. She reminds me that loyalty is not a thing we trade for convenience, and love is not something to outgrow. Pets teach us that real devotion doesn’t age, doesn’t falter, and doesn’t fade. It is up to us to prove we’re worthy of that love.

So here’s to Indy—a loyal friend, a faithful soul, and family in every sense of the word. She may no longer walk beside us, but she has left pawprints that time can never erase. And one day, when I cross that bridge of light and color, I hope to see her running toward me, tail wagging, heart whole, and love unending.

The Beauty and Burden of Attachment

I’ve always been the kind of person who gets attached — not out of need, but out of genuine connection. Whether with my students, my theatre mates, or my colleagues at work, I don’t just meet people; I carry them with me. Their laughter, their stories, their struggles, even their smallest quirks — they stay.

And when people leave, as they often do, it affects me deeply. Perhaps because all my life, people have left. Friends who drifted away. Mentors who passed on. Students who graduated. Colleagues who moved forward. Goodbyes, no matter how inevitable, never stop feeling like tiny losses. And the truth is, I don’t think I’ll ever get used to it.

This is why I sometimes question if I truly belong in the helping profession. Counseling demands a heart that can listen endlessly, a strength that can carry not just your own burdens but the pain of others, too. And while I do my best, while I try to be strong, I often feel the weight of caring too much. Because I don’t just listen — I absorb. I don’t just guide — I carry. And in the quiet, after the sessions end, I’m left holding both their grief and my own.

Some would say the problem is that I care too much. But I don’t think it’s a problem — it’s just who I am. And maybe it makes the road heavier, maybe it makes goodbyes harder, but it also makes every connection real, every shared moment meaningful.

Because if the choice is between protecting myself by caring less or continuing to get hurt because I love deeply — I’d still choose the latter.

I may never get used to people leaving, but perhaps that’s what gives love its weight. Each farewell reminds me that what we shared mattered, that the bond was genuine, that life was richer because of it. And if my heart aches because I cared too much, then maybe that ache is proof that I lived fully, loved deeply, and walked with others in a way that truly mattered.

Some Storms leave Bruises You Can’t See

She's small and frail.

He, strong and sure.

When he fell, she tried to catch him

with what little strength she had,

then called for help.

When she fell,

his first instinct was to raise a fist.

True strength isn't tested

when things are calm,

but when they begin to break.

And that's when the soul speaks,

louder than the body ever could.

Advice Culture: Rethink, Reframe, Respect

 “Wala ko mangutana, naa na siya'y tubag/tambag.”

That’s a line many of us in the younger generation have thought (or said) after receiving another piece of unsolicited advice. Whether it’s about career choices, relationships, clothing, or how we eat- there always seems to be an elder ready to comment. Most often, they think they mean well. But that doesn’t make it welcome.

This subtle - but very real - clash between generations reveals deeper cultural and emotional differences in how we perceive help, guidance, and personal space.

Boomers and the Culture of Advice

To many in the Baby Boomer generation (born roughly 1946–1964), giving advice, even when unasked, is a gesture of "care" and responsibility. In their time, life lessons were passed down orally. Elders were considered living repositories of wisdom. If they didn’t speak, who would?

In their minds, advice is a gift. A shortcut through hardship, a lifeline, or an act of care. They often see staying silent as neglectful. To warn, to teach, to remind. That’s how they show concern.

Gen Z and Millennials: Boundaries Over Bluntness

Younger generations, however, operate with a different set of social rules. Raised in an age of mental health awareness, self-help books, therapy speak, and personal development tools, they prioritize emotional boundaries and personal autonomy.

To them, advice that isn’t asked for often feels intrusive, even disrespectful. It can be interpreted as a lack of trust in their judgment, or worse, a sign that their elders are unwilling to just listen without immediately fixing something.

Where Boomers say: “I’m just trying to help,”

Younger folks might respond: “I didn’t ask.”

The Real Conflict: Control vs. Empowerment

This isn’t just about unsolicited tips. It’s a deeper tension between two worldviews:

• One that values control, order, and experience-based authority,
• And one that champions empowerment, self-discovery, and emotional readiness.

Boomers were raised in environments where survival often required conformity and obedience. Younger generations grew up in a world that asked them to question, express, and protect their inner worlds.

The disconnect is understandable.

But it’s not irreparable.

Bridging the Gap

Instead of silencing one another, perhaps what we need is a shift from corrections to conversations.

Imagine if more people simply asked:

“Would you like to know what I can suggest about that?”

“Mind if I share what helped me?”

“Can I offer a perspective?”

Consent, even in small conversations, builds bridges.

Younger people must also learn to recognize the intent behind unsolicited advice: concern, not control. While not all advice is helpful, very few are given in bad faith. That said, older generations must also learn to communicate with empathy and respect. Share, don’t impose. Offer, don’t override.

Evolving the Culture of Guidance

We’re not rejecting wisdom. We're reshaping how we want to receive it.

In this age, advice needs to be timely, respectful, and welcome. Because even the best insights fall flat when they arrive uninvited.

As a mental health professional, nope, I don’t give advice.

But for the Boomers (and honorary Boomers at heart) who just can’t help themselves - 

Go ahead, you can still give advice.

Just check if the cup’s open… before you start pouring.

A Chapter Called Integrity

A new dawn has come.

The sun rises again over Cebu.

This time, may it rise for everyone.

Not just shine, but burn with purpose.

Not just promise, but lead with integrity.

A new chapter begins.

Let it not be another story.

We’ve heard enough.

Let it be real change.🙏🏼

The Distance Between Two Classrooms

 Yesterday was for our Mothers. Today is for our Motherland.

We were at the precinct by 5 AM to assist my mom, a PWD senior citizen, but turns out, unless you're registered in the same precinct, you're not allowed to vote alongside your companion, even if your classrooms are literally right next to each other.

We went early for her, and I didn’t want her to wait for hours just so I could line up as a regular voter.

If it’s the policy, then so be it.

Maybe it’s finally time to get that long-overdue PWD ID.

Or maybe not. I’ve been voting since 2001 and... 🤐

Pilipinas, ang hirap mong mahalin!

It’s officially the last day of the school year. The halls grow quieter with every goodbye. In fact, there never was a single goodbye, at least for me.

I’ve always been a lone wolf - used to the silence, familiar with the stillness. As an Administrative Officer, I find strength most times in our incredible Non-Teaching Team. But as a Counselor, I often stand alone.

When the laughter fades and my office empty, I’m left with the echoes of stories shared, tears wiped, battles fought in silence. And now, once again, I find myself alone - carrying the weight of a thousand unspoken prayers for the young hearts I’ve journeyed with, wondering if I made even a tiny difference.

Another school year ends. I stay.

So many years in this calling, and still the unspoken goodbyes never get easier.

The Chair I Return To..

They walk across the stage -

faces lit with dreams,

hearts racing toward tomorrows

they once feared would never come.

And I smile.

Because I knew them when they couldn’t smile at all.

Their names are called,

and the applause rings loud -

as it should.

They’ve earned this moment.

But as they step into the light,

I fade gently back into the shadows.

Not bitter,

just… quieter.

Because this is the part they never see:

the moment after the last goodbye,

when the room grows still,

and the echoes of their laughter

become ghosts I learn to live with.

They walk across the stage into the world -

and I return to my chair,

quietly beginning again

with the next soul who needs to be seen.

That chair has known more grief than most stages.

It’s held the weight of stories no diploma could ever carry -

silent tears, whispered fears,

and hearts held together by hope alone.

And still, I stay.

Again and again.

And again.

Letting them go,

knowing they might never look back.

Because that’s the burden and the beauty of this calling -

to be left behind

so others can move forward.

And yes, it hurts.

Every time.

But I endure it -

because somewhere down the road,

maybe one of them will pause

in the middle of their busy, beautiful life

and remember:

the room,

the voice,

the someone who tried his best

to be a steady presence..

the someone who asked for nothing,

but gave everything.

And for that one moment -

I’ll be whole again.