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.

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.

Placed, Not Displaced

Two years.

It still feels strange to say that out loud.

After 7 years, 3 months, and 15 days in the Division Office - a place that slowly became home in ways I didn’t even realize - I found myself starting over. It took time to belong there, to find my rhythm, to carve out a space where I knew I mattered. And just when it finally felt like home… I was asked to leave it.

Not out of loss, but out of purpose.

The transition wasn’t easy. New faces. New systems. New demands. And that quiet question that lingers in every new beginning: “Do I even fit here?”

But two years into Science High, something has become clearer.

Maybe I was meant to be moved.

Because here, the need feels different. Wider. Louder in its silence. Seen in the eyes of students searching for direction, in colleagues carrying unseen burdens, in moments that don’t make it to reports but stay with you long after the day ends.

And in those moments, I realized - being needed isn’t about where you were most comfortable. It’s about where you can make the most difference.

I may have left a place I called home, but I stepped into a place where I can help build one for others.

And maybe that’s the point of it all.

Not to stay where we are known, but to go where we are needed.

Two years later, I’m still finding my place.

But this time, I’m not just settling in -

I’m showing up.

Intermission

 Too broke to buy tickets and support productions these past months…

and still too broken to return to the many Arts that have shaped my entire life.

But maybe this, too, is part of the script.

Maybe there are seasons when the artist must sit in the audience.

Seasons when the pencil is just on top of a blank paper.

Seasons when the director must be directed by life.

Seasons when the performer must simply feel - without applause, without spotlight.

I may not be creating the way I used to.

I may not be present in every show, every opening night, every curtain call.

But I really would like to believe that art does not leave us just because we pause.

I would like to believe that it waits. Faithfully. Quietly. Like an old friend who understands.

And if there is one thing the stage has taught me, it is this:

Every blackout is followed by light.

Every silence prepares for a line that matters.

Every ending bows into a beginning.

So to all who are still creating, still daring, still dreaming - keep going.

For those of us healing in the wings, we are clapping for you. Softly. Sincerely.

And when it is time, I pray that we will rise again. Not just to perform - but to live our art even deeper.

Anyway… Happy National Arts Month, everyone. 🎭✨

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.

Quietly Continuing

 I used to think New Year reflections had to be loud - big wins, bold declarations, dramatic reinventions. This year, mine is quieter. And maybe truer.

I enter this new year softer, but stronger in ways that don’t always show.

2025 didn’t teach me how to conquer the world.

It taught me how to stay.

Healing, I learned, isn’t cinematic. It doesn’t arrive with background music or a standing ovation. Most days, it looked like breathing through the hard moments, choosing not to disappear, and showing up -especially on days when retreat felt easier.

There were seasons I survived on autopilot.

Moments when faith wasn’t a proclamation but a whisper: Just get through today.

And that had to be enough.

After more than three decades in theatre - where everything is amplified, projected, performed - I had to relearn how to be human offstage. No script. No applause cue. Just truth. Just breath. Just one more day.

I’m still a work in progress.

Some days, peace visits briefly. Other days, it feels like an ongoing rehearsal with missed cues and awkward pauses. But I’ve learned not to rush the process. Even rehearsals matter. Especially rehearsals.

What grounded me this year wasn’t ambition - it was purpose.

And at the center of that purpose is my daughter.

She remains my reason for choosing life, hope, and tomorrow - even when the days felt unbearably long.

So when I say I’m praying for the next 525,600 minutes, it’s not poetic math. It’s survival math. It’s hope measured in minutes instead of milestones. And if I’m blessed to live through them, I hope to use those minutes to make someone else’s life a little lighter, a little kinder, a little more bearable.

As 2026 begins, I don’t carry grand resolutions.

I carry acceptance.

I release myself from the illusion of control and resign to whatever unfolds next. I am done demanding answers from the dark. If this is the road laid out before me, then I will walk it - worn down, quieter, and stripped of certainty. Still, I pray. Not with confidence, not with expectations, but with a tired hope that the days ahead will hurt less than the ones I’ve already survived.

This is not a comeback story.

This is a staying story.

And for now, staying is the bravest thing I know how to do.

Comfort in the Uncomfortable

 I thought I knew what growth looked like.

When I made the decision to leave SciHi, I honestly believed I was stepping into discomfort - the kind that stretches, challenges, and perhaps heals. I thought that leaving would refresh my mind and spirit, that maybe a new environment could breathe life into the parts of me that were growing tired and heavy. I imagined that taking the risk would pull me forward, out of survival and into renewal.

But life has a way of offering clarity only in hindsight.

Had I gone to the state university, I would have found myself back in HR again - familiar work, familiar structure, familiar comfort. A different building, a new set of faces, better compensation, yes - but still a space I already understood and could navigate with ease. I realized later that what I thought was the braver path might have been the easier one.

SciHi, for all its chaos, pressure, and unpredictability, is where I am tested. It is where I am stretched beyond what I thought possible. It is where I grow, not because things are easy, but because every day asks more of me - not just as an educator or part of administration, but as a human being. I find comfort there sometimes, not because it is comfortable, but because it forces me to evolve.

It is strange - how the place that exhausts you is the same place that shapes you.

How the struggle you want to escape is the very furnace that forges you.

And so I stay, not because I have found peace, but because I am still becoming.

In a world that tells us comfort is the goal, I am learning this:

Growth rarely lives where everything is soft.

Sometimes, the truest comfort comes from the place that keeps us awake, alive, and unfinished.

Yes, I stay. For now.

The Invitation to Leave That Led Me Back to Myself

There was a time when I was running on fumes - high-functioning depression hidden behind a smile and a pile of responsibilities. I was frustrated because no matter how hard I tried, I felt I wasn’t really helping my students or colleagues the way they needed. And in the moments I needed help myself, the people I thought were friends suddenly weren’t there. They disappeared - ghosted me - when all I wanted was someone to talk to.

On top of that, I had to take on tasks and responsibilities no one taught me to handle. Add personal battles and health concerns, and everything felt too heavy, too loud, too overwhelming.

Then out of nowhere, a job posting from a state university appeared. They were hiring an AO IV. Something in me whispered, maybe this is the change I need. Maybe this was the universe giving me a way out - or a way forward.

I applied last September. Got the acknowledgment email… then silence.

Every year, for my birthday, I take a leave on the day itself, plus the day before and after. It’s my little ritual: church, coffee, walking around the mall alone. A quiet reset from the noise of everything.

And last November - just before my birthday - I received two emails. Out of the blue. Scheduling me for exams and an interview. And guess what? Both landed exactly on the days I was on leave. Was it a sign? A cosmic wink? Or just a very welcome coincidence?

I took the three standardized tests. I went to the panel interview and honestly had a blast - even though they started so late I thought the universe was trolling me. I felt confident. Hopeful. Excited.

Then they asked for additional documents. And that excitement grew even more because it finally felt real: the possibility of a new environment where I could be me again - fully, unapologetically. A place where I could start fresh. And yes, a higher salary that would mean so much for my family.

But then something unexpected happened. Despite the momentum, despite the anticipation, despite how much I wanted this… the feeling shifted. The urge - the pull toward this new path - quieted down. I don’t even know how to explain it, except that it just didn’t feel right anymore.

And so, long story already long, here’s the short of it:

For now, I’m staying with DepEd. With Science High. With the students and the work that still somehow tug at my heart even on the hardest days.

And today - of all days - happens to be my 9th year in DepEd. Coincidence?

Do you believe in destiny?

Do you believe in signs?

In serendipity?

Because sometimes, the universe doesn’t always open the door you’re meant to walk through…

but it gives you just enough light to remind you where you still belong.

What Life Has Taught Me So Far (44 Lessons)

Sharing the most important things I've learned the past 44 years.

These lessons didn’t come from winning. They came from struggle, from quiet breakdowns, from days I wasn’t sure I’d recover.🤟🏽

If these 44 lessons bring comfort to someone walking through their own shadows, then every difficult moment had meaning.🙏🏼

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 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.

The Beauty and Burden of Attachment

I’ve always been the kind of person who gets attached — not out of need, but out of genuine connection. Whether with my students, my theatre mates, or my colleagues at work, I don’t just meet people; I carry them with me. Their laughter, their stories, their struggles, even their smallest quirks — they stay.

And when people leave, as they often do, it affects me deeply. Perhaps because all my life, people have left. Friends who drifted away. Mentors who passed on. Students who graduated. Colleagues who moved forward. Goodbyes, no matter how inevitable, never stop feeling like tiny losses. And the truth is, I don’t think I’ll ever get used to it.

This is why I sometimes question if I truly belong in the helping profession. Counseling demands a heart that can listen endlessly, a strength that can carry not just your own burdens but the pain of others, too. And while I do my best, while I try to be strong, I often feel the weight of caring too much. Because I don’t just listen — I absorb. I don’t just guide — I carry. And in the quiet, after the sessions end, I’m left holding both their grief and my own.

Some would say the problem is that I care too much. But I don’t think it’s a problem — it’s just who I am. And maybe it makes the road heavier, maybe it makes goodbyes harder, but it also makes every connection real, every shared moment meaningful.

Because if the choice is between protecting myself by caring less or continuing to get hurt because I love deeply — I’d still choose the latter.

I may never get used to people leaving, but perhaps that’s what gives love its weight. Each farewell reminds me that what we shared mattered, that the bond was genuine, that life was richer because of it. And if my heart aches because I cared too much, then maybe that ache is proof that I lived fully, loved deeply, and walked with others in a way that truly mattered.

A Chapter Called Integrity

A new dawn has come.

The sun rises again over Cebu.

This time, may it rise for everyone.

Not just shine, but burn with purpose.

Not just promise, but lead with integrity.

A new chapter begins.

Let it not be another story.

We’ve heard enough.

Let it be real change.🙏🏼

It’s officially the last day of the school year. The halls grow quieter with every goodbye. In fact, there never was a single goodbye, at least for me.

I’ve always been a lone wolf - used to the silence, familiar with the stillness. As an Administrative Officer, I find strength most times in our incredible Non-Teaching Team. But as a Counselor, I often stand alone.

When the laughter fades and my office empty, I’m left with the echoes of stories shared, tears wiped, battles fought in silence. And now, once again, I find myself alone - carrying the weight of a thousand unspoken prayers for the young hearts I’ve journeyed with, wondering if I made even a tiny difference.

Another school year ends. I stay.

So many years in this calling, and still the unspoken goodbyes never get easier.

The Chair I Return To..

They walk across the stage -

faces lit with dreams,

hearts racing toward tomorrows

they once feared would never come.

And I smile.

Because I knew them when they couldn’t smile at all.

Their names are called,

and the applause rings loud -

as it should.

They’ve earned this moment.

But as they step into the light,

I fade gently back into the shadows.

Not bitter,

just… quieter.

Because this is the part they never see:

the moment after the last goodbye,

when the room grows still,

and the echoes of their laughter

become ghosts I learn to live with.

They walk across the stage into the world -

and I return to my chair,

quietly beginning again

with the next soul who needs to be seen.

That chair has known more grief than most stages.

It’s held the weight of stories no diploma could ever carry -

silent tears, whispered fears,

and hearts held together by hope alone.

And still, I stay.

Again and again.

And again.

Letting them go,

knowing they might never look back.

Because that’s the burden and the beauty of this calling -

to be left behind

so others can move forward.

And yes, it hurts.

Every time.

But I endure it -

because somewhere down the road,

maybe one of them will pause

in the middle of their busy, beautiful life

and remember:

the room,

the voice,

the someone who tried his best

to be a steady presence..

the someone who asked for nothing,

but gave everything.

And for that one moment -

I’ll be whole again.