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. ❤️

Les Misérables, The Stars Didn’t Align.

As Les Misérables: The World Tour Spectacular rises tonight at The Theatre at Solaire, I send the whole team a heartfelt break a leg, with a quiet ache in my heart.

Some people have a favorite show.

I have a lifetime with Les Misérables.

I was there at the beginning - 1996 to 1997 - kicking out Fantine as the Foreman, blending into the ensemble, eventually stepping into the Master of the House as Thénardier. I didn’t know then that the music, the story, and the weight of it all would quietly stitch itself into my life.

Years later, in 2011- 2012, I returned not just as a performer but as a director, carrying Jean Valjean on my shoulders - onstage and off. By then, *Les Mis* wasn’t just a show. It was a language I spoke fluently. It shaped how I told stories, how I understood mercy, justice, and grace.

In 2013, my theatre family and I watched the film together.

In 2016, we sat together again for the international tour, letting the music pass between generations, letting it mean something different this time.

By 2019, my place had shifted again. I stood beside young artists, mentoring, cheering, believing in them as they carried *Les Misérables* forward in their own voices. I wasn't in the spotlight anymore. I was blessedly content watching the next generation find their way through the same songs that once carried me.

And this year - thirty years after it all began - the circle breaks.

For the first time, I won’t be part of it. I won’t be watching from the dark, or listening from the wings, or holding space for others to shine. The stars didn’t align, and some stories don’t grant us the ending we imagine for ourselves.

It’s a quiet kind of grief - the kind that only comes when something has walked with you for decades. Still, I’m grateful. Not every artist gets to live inside a story for thirty years. Not everyone gets to meet it again and again in so many forms.

Les Misérables gave me roles, purpose, family moments, students, and lessons I still carry. Even if I’m absent this time, the music hasn’t left me.

The circle may break - but the story remains.

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.

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.