Some Things Are Worth the Wait (MacGyver Coffee)

This Christmas Eve morning began with a small first: using the coffeemaker we received as a gift back in 2005. It’s been sitting quietly all these years, patient and unused, until today.

Of course, the moment came with a lesson. I thought I bought ground coffee - turns out I bought actual coffee beans. No grinder in sight. So, improvisation happened. A blender, a little laughter, and a reminder that sometimes we make do with what we have.

The coffeemaker worked. The coffee was good. But more than that, the morning felt right.

Some gifts don’t expire. Some lessons take time. And some moments - simple, imperfect, and a little funny - are exactly how Christmas Eve should begin.

Simple Guide to Psychological First Aid (PFA)

When I prepared the Learning and Development proposal for our GAD seminar - one of those complicated processes I had to learn and master on my own - I was also set to be the second speaker for the event. It was a practical decision: it helped save funds, and I was qualified to speak on the planned topic.

Anticipating that time would be tight during the program, I recorded my talk in advance. I’m sharing it here now, through this blog entry, in case it may be helpful to you who are reading this - or to someone who might need it in the future.

A Constellation I Was Lucky to Find

Sometimes life gives you people unexpectedly - not grand, not loud, not even planned - just quietly placed in your path, and somehow, everything feels lighter. This family became that for me.

Beautiful, yes. But more than that - kind. Humble. Genuine. The kind of beautiful that isn’t just seen, but felt. Talent like water - natural, flowing, effortless - and hearts that shine just as brightly as their gifts. It’s rare to meet people like that, and even rarer to be welcomed by them.

I didn’t know that meeting them would soften something in me.

I didn’t know that friendship could heal without trying, just by existing.

But here I am - better than I was. Braver than I was. More alive than I was. And all because God allowed our stories to cross.

I’m grateful - deeply, quietly, honestly grateful. They may never know the full weight of their impact, but I hope someday they do. I hope they realize that their kindness didn’t just pass through me - it stayed, it shaped, it changed me. And I will carry them with me, in memory, in gratitude, in the curve of every growth from here on.

I don’t know how long our seasons together will last. Maybe a lifetime, maybe a chapter, or maybe just a handful of pages that mattered more than long chapters ever could. But this I know:

They made me better, simply by being my friends.

And that’s a blessing I will never take lightly.

If they ever read this, I hope they feel my heart in every word. I hope they know that they are seen, valued, loved - not because of what they do, but because of who they are. I hope they know they left light in places I didn’t know still needed it.

Some friendships don’t fade - they stay, they settle, they become part of you.

If ours is one of those, I’d be grateful beyond words.

And if it isn’t, I’ll still thank God forever that it existed at all.

Like light they entered - softly, without demand, yet changing everything.

On ordinary days, they became the warmth I didn’t know I was missing.

Quiet kindness, loud talent - beauty felt more than seen.

Under their friendship, something in me healed, slowly and gently.

Every laugh, every moment - a blessing I will carry always.

Zeal in their hearts, grace in their souls - proof that goodness can look like people.

Comfort in the Uncomfortable

 I thought I knew what growth looked like.

When I made the decision to leave SciHi, I honestly believed I was stepping into discomfort - the kind that stretches, challenges, and perhaps heals. I thought that leaving would refresh my mind and spirit, that maybe a new environment could breathe life into the parts of me that were growing tired and heavy. I imagined that taking the risk would pull me forward, out of survival and into renewal.

But life has a way of offering clarity only in hindsight.

Had I gone to the state university, I would have found myself back in HR again - familiar work, familiar structure, familiar comfort. A different building, a new set of faces, better compensation, yes - but still a space I already understood and could navigate with ease. I realized later that what I thought was the braver path might have been the easier one.

SciHi, for all its chaos, pressure, and unpredictability, is where I am tested. It is where I am stretched beyond what I thought possible. It is where I grow, not because things are easy, but because every day asks more of me - not just as an educator or part of administration, but as a human being. I find comfort there sometimes, not because it is comfortable, but because it forces me to evolve.

It is strange - how the place that exhausts you is the same place that shapes you.

How the struggle you want to escape is the very furnace that forges you.

And so I stay, not because I have found peace, but because I am still becoming.

In a world that tells us comfort is the goal, I am learning this:

Growth rarely lives where everything is soft.

Sometimes, the truest comfort comes from the place that keeps us awake, alive, and unfinished.

Yes, I stay. For now.

The Invitation to Leave That Led Me Back to Myself

There was a time when I was running on fumes - high-functioning depression hidden behind a smile and a pile of responsibilities. I was frustrated because no matter how hard I tried, I felt I wasn’t really helping my students or colleagues the way they needed. And in the moments I needed help myself, the people I thought were friends suddenly weren’t there. They disappeared - ghosted me - when all I wanted was someone to talk to.

On top of that, I had to take on tasks and responsibilities no one taught me to handle. Add personal battles and health concerns, and everything felt too heavy, too loud, too overwhelming.

Then out of nowhere, a job posting from a state university appeared. They were hiring an AO IV. Something in me whispered, maybe this is the change I need. Maybe this was the universe giving me a way out - or a way forward.

I applied last September. Got the acknowledgment email… then silence.

Every year, for my birthday, I take a leave on the day itself, plus the day before and after. It’s my little ritual: church, coffee, walking around the mall alone. A quiet reset from the noise of everything.

And last November - just before my birthday - I received two emails. Out of the blue. Scheduling me for exams and an interview. And guess what? Both landed exactly on the days I was on leave. Was it a sign? A cosmic wink? Or just a very welcome coincidence?

I took the three standardized tests. I went to the panel interview and honestly had a blast - even though they started so late I thought the universe was trolling me. I felt confident. Hopeful. Excited.

Then they asked for additional documents. And that excitement grew even more because it finally felt real: the possibility of a new environment where I could be me again - fully, unapologetically. A place where I could start fresh. And yes, a higher salary that would mean so much for my family.

But then something unexpected happened. Despite the momentum, despite the anticipation, despite how much I wanted this… the feeling shifted. The urge - the pull toward this new path - quieted down. I don’t even know how to explain it, except that it just didn’t feel right anymore.

And so, long story already long, here’s the short of it:

For now, I’m staying with DepEd. With Science High. With the students and the work that still somehow tug at my heart even on the hardest days.

And today - of all days - happens to be my 9th year in DepEd. Coincidence?

Do you believe in destiny?

Do you believe in signs?

In serendipity?

Because sometimes, the universe doesn’t always open the door you’re meant to walk through…

but it gives you just enough light to remind you where you still belong.

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.

 

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.

They Never Knew

They came to be helped.

Battered by life, broken by love, searching for answers in the quiet corners of a room where words are whispered, not shouted.

They sat across from me, eyes heavy with things they couldn’t name,

hearts carrying storms they didn’t know how to weather.

They thought I was the one holding the map.

That I knew the way through the darkness.

That I was the helper.

But in truth..

they were the ones who held the gentle light my spirit had lost sight of.

With every trembling story, with every silence that begged to be heard, with every brave unraveling of pain -

I was the one quietly stitched back together.

They never saw the cracks in me.

I hid them well.

But in holding space for their healing, somehow, the light slipped through and found mine.

They came to be saved,

and yet it was their rawness that rescued me.

Their truth became my tether.

Their resilience - my reflection.

So now, I carry this sacred irony with me:

that in giving, I was given.

That in helping them rise, I, too, stood again.

They came to be helped..

and never once knew they were helping me all along.

Me, After the Pause

It’s been three years since I last blogged.

My journey with blogging began in 2009 - on and off for about 13 years. That space held everything and anything about my life. I started it in the hope that someday, my daughter would read it and understand who I was, especially when I’m no longer around.

I never thought I’d return to blogging. But here I am.

This time, I’m letting go of the old and embracing a new perspective. A quiet rebirth.

Because the truth is, I’ve lived more in the last five years than I did in the previous forty. And with that, comes the need to tell new stories.

To you who's reading this - welcome, and thank you.

Let’s see where this takes us.

Chase time with me.