The Teacher Remains

Happy Teachers’ Day. 🤍

Off the top of my head, I remember teaching various Psychology subjects, Humanities and the Arts, Principles of Teaching and Educational Technology, Guidance and Counseling - and probably a few other things in between.

But when I look back at my years as a teacher, I realize that the lessons I cared about most were never confined to a syllabus.

I have always believed that teaching is also about helping young people grow - not just intellectually, but in character, perspective, attitude, and in the way they see themselves and the world around them.

And perhaps one of the greatest rewards is seeing those students years later, now leaders and professionals in their respective fields. But more than their titles or achievements, I am prouder of the persons they have become - people who are respected not simply for what they do, but for who they are.
I may no longer be formally part of the teaching team, although I remain in a teaching-related role. But having trained colleagues in the BPO industry, mentored and directed in theatre for more than half of my life, and spent years working with students in one way or another, I have come to realize something:

Being a Teacher is not just a position you hold. It becomes a part of who you are.

The classrooms may change.
The subjects may change.
The students may grow up and move on.

But the Teacher in you remains.

And after all these years, I can still say:

I am a Teacher.
I will always be a Teacher.🤍

Happy Teachers’ Day to everyone who continues to teach - whether inside a classroom or simply by the way they live, guide, and help others grow. 

Perhaps This Is Why I Survived

After 2 years and 5 months of doing “voluntary” counselor work in school while being the Admin Officer, I can finally say it officially: starting today, I am the school’s Counselor. 😊

Funny thing is, this journey started long before the title became official.

I spent six years as a Guidance Counselor at a state university. But in 2007, after compassion fatigue and the emotional weight of the work, I thought I was done. I gave away my books and notes, gave up two licenses - because I truly believed I would never return to counseling.

Then came 2021 - my second chance at life.

I still don't know all the reasons I was given that chance. But perhaps this is one of them.

Perhaps there are still people I need to reach, stories I need to hear, and lives I can make a little lighter.

This December marks my 10th year in DepEd. I probably won't be here for another decade. But while I am here, I want to give what I can.

And when this chapter eventually ends, I hope I can look back and know that I left the school, and the people I journeyed with, a little better than I found them.

Maybe my life was spared not only so I could keep living, but so I could keep giving.

And if, somewhere along the way, I can help someone find one more reason to keep going—

then perhaps this second chance was worth it. 🤍

One student at a time.

One life at a time.

One more tomorrow at a time.

Every Sunrise Is a Choice

With everything I have gone through in life, one of the bravest things I have ever done was to stay.

To survive.

To keep choosing tomorrow despite the days when giving up felt easier.

To continue living even when the odds seemed impossible.

Every single day is a choice - and every day, I choose life.

Perhaps that is why one of my life's quiet missions is to help others find a reason to stay. To listen. To reach out. To remind people that even in their darkest moments, they do not have to carry everything alone.

Today, on World Suicide Prevention Day, I honor every person who continues fighting battles that others cannot see.

But beyond this day, may we all choose to be a little kinder, a little more present, and a little more willing to ask, “Are you okay?” and actually listen - not just once a year, but every single day.

Sometimes, saving a life begins with simply showing someone that they matter. 🤍

Reason, Season, or Lifetime

For many years, I have known about the concept of Reason, Season, and Lifetime.

I have talked about it with friends. I have shared it with students. I have used it in conversations with people trying to understand why certain individuals entered their lives, made an impact, and eventually walked away.

It is a simple idea:

Some people come into our lives for a reason. They arrive with a purpose — to teach us, challenge us, inspire us, or help us become a different version of ourselves.

Some people come for a season. They walk with us during a particular chapter. They become part of our stories, our struggles, our victories, our memories. But when that chapter ends, the paths that once ran together slowly begin to separate.

And some people… we believe they are lifetimes.

The constants.

The ones we imagine will still be there when the noise fades, when the battles are over, when the spotlight is gone.

For the longest time, I thought I understood this concept.

But life has a way of making us revisit lessons we thought we already learned.

Even at this age, after everything I have experienced, after decades of friendships, relationships, collaborations, battles, and journeys with different people, I still find myself having realizations.

And one of the most painful realizations is this:

Sometimes, we are wrong about the roles people play in our lives.

There are people I thought were lifetimes.

People I believed would be part of the story until the final act.

People I thought would still be there beyond the applause, beyond the achievements, beyond the difficult seasons.

But somewhere along the way, I realized that maybe I misunderstood their place in my story.

Maybe they were not lifetimes after all.

Maybe they were reasons.

And that realization is both surprising and painful.

Because when someone has been part of your life for years, when you have shared countless memories, dreams, struggles, and battles with them, it is difficult to accept that their chapter in your story may have already ended.

Especially when you have always been the kind of person who values loyalty. Someone who holds on. Someone who remembers the people who stood beside you during certain seasons of your life.

But perhaps that is also part of growing older — learning that longevity does not always mean permanence.

A person can be in your life for 20 years and still be a reason.

A person can share some of your greatest moments and still only belong to a particular season.

And a person who leaves does not automatically mean the memories were fake or the bond was meaningless.

Theatre taught me something about stories: not every character appears in every act. Some enter early, change the direction of the plot, and leave before the final curtain call.

But without them, the story would not be the same.

Maybe life is like that.

Some people were never meant to stay forever. They were meant to contribute something, to shape something, to awaken something within us.

The difficult part is accepting that we sometimes hold people to the role we wanted them to play, rather than appreciating the role they were actually meant to have.

At this point in my journey, I am learning to stop forcing people into the category of “lifetime” just because I value them deeply.

I am learning that some goodbyes are not endings filled with anger, but endings filled with acceptance.

I am learning that gratitude can exist even with distance.

That love and letting go can exist at the same time.

Reason. Season. Lifetime.

A lesson I have shared with others for years.

Yet a lesson that, once again, life has asked me to experience personally.

And maybe that is the beauty — and the pain — of being human.

No matter how old we get, there are still lessons we only understand when life makes us live them.

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. 🎭

Where My Spirit Lives

For years, I've always made a distinction between making a living and making a life.

Making a living is the work that pays the bills. It's the job, the responsibilities, the practical side of adulthood that keeps the lights on and provides stability. It is necessary, honorable, and something I am grateful to have.

But theatre has always been something else.

The workshops, talks, mentorships, coaching sessions, and rehearsals I say yes to are what I call making a life.

The truth is, most of these opportunities are not financially rewarding. More often than not, the transportation, meals, preparation time, materials, and other expenses cost more than whatever honorarium I receive. If I looked at it purely from a financial standpoint, many of these engagements would make absolutely no sense.

Yet I keep saying yes.

Because they feed something that money never could.

After more than three decades in theatre, I have reached a point in life where my body constantly reminds me of its limitations. The health challenges of the last few years have changed many things. There was a time when I could simply step onto a stage and tell a story myself. These days, performing is no longer as easy as it once was, and sometimes not even possible.

But whenever I find myself in a rehearsal hall, a classroom, a workshop venue, or simply sitting with young artists discussing a script, something changes.

I feel alive.

For a few hours, I stop thinking about medications, procedures, aches, limitations, and all the things my body can no longer do. Instead, I find myself talking about objectives, relationships, character choices, storytelling, truth, and imagination. I watch young artists discover things about themselves. I watch confidence bloom. I watch dreams slowly take shape.

And somehow, in helping them build their journeys, I am reminded that mine still has meaning too.

Maybe that is why I continue to accept these opportunities whenever I can. Not because they are profitable. Not because they are convenient. But because they remind me that I still have something to give. Something to share. Something that might help another artist take one more step toward their dream.

Of course, reality eventually catches up. Resources are limited. The higher-paying performance gigs that once helped support these passion projects are no longer as plentiful for me. There are times when I simply have to stay home because I can no longer afford to keep saying yes to everything, no matter how much my heart wants to.

And that part hurts.

But I remain grateful.

Grateful that after 31 years in theatre, I still get invited into rooms where stories are being told. Grateful that people still believe there is value in what I can offer. Grateful that despite everything, the fire never really went out.

So while my body allows it, while opportunities still come, and while there are young artists willing to listen, I will continue making a life whenever I can.

Because at this stage of my journey, these workshops, talks, rehearsals, and mentorships are no longer just projects.

They are reminders that I am still here.

Still learning. Still sharing. Still serving.

And if I am fortunate enough to have a little more time, I hope there will be a few more stories to help tell, a few more artists to help guide, a few more rooms filled with laughter, discovery, and dreams.

A few more chances to make a life.

Carrying It Differently

There are things in life you don’t get to choose - your beginnings, your bloodline, even the name you carry. And sometimes, that name is tested not by your own actions, but by the choices of others who bear it with you. It’s a difficult space to be in - having to protect a reputation you’ve worked hard to build, while distancing yourself from behaviors you do not stand for.

But if there’s anything I’ve learned over the years, it’s this: a name may be shared, but a life is not. Character is not inherited. Integrity is not automatic. These are things we choose, every single day, in the way we speak, the way we respond, and the battles we decide are worth fighting.

So I continue to choose restraint over noise, clarity over chaos, and dignity over unnecessary conflict. Not everything deserves a reaction. Not every provocation deserves a stage.

At the end of the day, I may carry the same name - but I am responsible for the meaning I give it.