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.