Father’s Day Reflection: The Role I Never Auditioned For

There have been many roles in my life.

Some came with scripts. Some came with rehearsals. Some came with years of preparation.

Fatherhood came with none of those.

No orientation. No dress rehearsal. No opening night where you suddenly feel ready.

One day, you simply become someone's father, and from that moment on, you spend the rest of your life trying to deserve that title.

After more than three decades in theatre, I know how productions work. I know how to manage crises backstage, how to memorize lines, how to guide people toward a common goal. I have spent much of my life helping others prepare for their moment under the spotlight.

But being a father humbled me in ways no stage ever could.

Because children do not need perfect fathers.

They need present fathers.

The older I get, the more I realize that fatherhood is found in ordinary moments. Not in grand speeches or expensive gifts. Not in milestones that get posted online.

It is in showing up.

Showing up when you're exhausted.

Showing up when life has not been kind.

Showing up when your own heart is heavy.

Showing up even when nobody applauds.

Many people know me through my work. They see the performances, the workshops, the conferences, the responsibilities, the accomplishments. They see the titles and the years behind them.

But the most important audience of one in my life has always been my daughter.

She may never fully know how many decisions were made with her in mind.

How many extra hours were worked.

How many worries were carried quietly.

How many prayers began and ended with her name.

She may never know how many times she became the reason I stood back up when life gave me every excuse to stay down.

And perhaps that is part of fatherhood too.

Doing things that may never be recognized, but doing them anyway because love does not keep score.

One lesson fatherhood has taught me is that our role is not to make our children dependent on us forever.

Sometimes, as parents, we become so focused on protecting our children that we forget our real responsibility. We tell them what to do, what not to do, and sometimes even what they should do when we are no longer around.

But I have come to believe that fatherhood is not about controlling a child's future.

It is about preparing them for it.

Teach them.

Guide them.

Let them make mistakes while you are still there to help them recover.

Allow them to experience responsibility, consequences, disappointment, resilience, and growth.

Then trust them.

I did.

And I still do.

There were times when it would have been easier to solve every problem for my daughter, to shield her from every difficulty, to carry every burden on her behalf. But life does not work that way. One day, every parent reaches a point where they can no longer walk beside their child.

So instead of trying to make myself indispensable, I tried to help her discover that she is capable.

Capable of making decisions.

Capable of standing back up after failure.

Capable of finding her way when life becomes uncertain.

Capable of building a life that is uniquely her own.

Because of that, I carry a certain peace.

Not because I am eager for my final curtain call.

Not because I think I have done everything right.

Far from it.

I am still learning. Still making mistakes. Still hoping I am getting some things right.

But if life has taught me anything, it is that none of us are promised tomorrow.

And if my time were to come sooner than expected, I know I have not spent my years merely telling my daughter how to live.

I have tried to show her.

I have tried to prepare her.

I have tried to trust her.

The greatest legacy a father can leave is not a list of instructions to be opened after he is gone.

It is raising a child who already knows how to keep going.

A child who understands that life will not always be easy, but who also knows she is stronger than she realizes.

A child who carries your values, not because they were forced upon her, but because she saw them lived every day.

So this Father's Day, I find myself grateful.

Grateful for every challenge.

Grateful for every lesson.

Grateful for every ordinary moment that, in hindsight, was never ordinary at all.

Of all the roles I have ever played, this remains the one that matters most.

Not because I earned it.

But because a little girl made me her father.

And because of her, I learned that the true measure of fatherhood is not how long your children need you.

It is how well you prepared them for the day they no longer do.

Happy Father's Day. ❤️

A Theatre Kid, Still

I was supposed to be inactive in theatre.

But if there's one thing I've learned about myself, it's that I can never say no when someone asks me to help tell a story. So when Octave Music Camp reached out and asked if I could assist, my response was simple:

"When?" 😄

What I didn't expect was how much Octave's culture would resonate with me. The values, the sense of family, the commitment to the craft, and the genuine care for young artists reminded me so much of the culture we built in my own theatre family, CTC.

I will always be grateful to Ms. Alexandrea and Ms. Claresa for pulling me back into a world I thought I had stepped away from. Through this journey, I was reminded of something I have always known but sometimes forget: despite my ongoing health challenges, theatre still makes me feel alive. It is a natural high, an adrenaline rush unlike any other. When I am creating, mentoring, rehearsing, and sharing stories, the aches fade into the background. It is only when the curtain falls that I remember they were there.

To the cast, production team, parents, volunteers, and everyone who became part of this journey - thank you. Working with all of you has been a blessing. I am proud of what we created together and even prouder of the community that formed around it.

Two full-house shows. Countless memories. Endless gratitude.

I hope our paths cross again on another stage, in another rehearsal hall, and in another story waiting to be told. Until then, know that I will always be here - not just as a coach, not just as a director, but as a friend and a Kuya.

For now, Coach Sonny of Octave's The Little Mermaid Jr. is signing off.

Blessed. Humbled. Grateful. 🎭

The Lone Wolf

Lone wolf all my life.

Tonight, after another rehearsal, I found myself thinking about something that has followed me through different chapters of my life—the feeling of being the odd person out.

I felt it in the office. I felt it in my own theatre group. And now, somehow, I feel it here too.

Everyone already seems to belong somewhere. The directors share years of friendship and history. The stage managers have their own bond. The set movers are a close-knit barkada fresh from senior high school. The cast, for the most part, has grown together through age, shared experiences, and last year's production.

And then there's me.

I came into this production wanting only one thing: to help create the best possible show for these kids. Yet lately, I have found myself wondering whether my presence matters at all. Suggestions are often left hanging. Questions that I believe are valid seem to disappear into the noise. Sometimes I speak and feel as though the words never quite land.

Maybe they don't need me. Maybe they never did.

Tomorrow is the tech run—the day before opening night. Part of me wishes I could quietly disappear from everyone's lives and spare myself the feeling of standing in a room where I don't quite fit.

The truth is, the show will go on. It always does. Rehearsals become performances, performances become memories, and people move on to the next production, the next project, the next chapter.

So tomorrow, I'll be there.

I'll sit behind a projector and operate the background visuals. A simple task, perhaps. One that most people will never notice unless something goes wrong. Yet maybe that has been the story of much of my life in theatre—not always at the center, not always heard, not always seen, but still showing up and doing what needs to be done.

Because the show is not about me.

It is about the young artists who have worked for months to get here.

And if my role in helping them shine is simply to press the right button at the right moment, then I will do it with the same care and commitment I would give any role I have ever played.

Still, I would be lying if I said it doesn't hurt sometimes.

The curtain will rise on Saturday. It will fall on Sunday. And when the final applause fades and the theatre empties, I will probably slip away the same way I arrived—quietly, without fanfare, without needing a farewell.

I have never been good at goodbyes anyway.

Perhaps I'll leave a short note. Perhaps I won't. Perhaps one day I'll simply stop showing up, and the story will continue without me, as stories always do.

For now, there is one more tech run, one more opening night, one more closing curtain.

And for a lone wolf, sometimes that is enough.