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.