Photo we almost didn’t take

We were in a rush that day.

Didn’t want to be late and end up in a long queue for Disneyland.

My son was bouncing with excitement, clutching his Lightning McQueen like a VIP pass.
I, on the other hand, was mentally counting tickets, snacks, strollers, and sanity.

“Come on, we’ll miss the parade,” I said.
But my wife stopped, smiled, and said, “Wait, let’s take a photo.”

I sighed. That kind of sigh parents do when they think time is more important than memory.
Still, I stood beside them. Forced a quick smile. One click. Done.

Hours later, as the day unfolded.
The laughter. The rides. The slurpee smudges.
That photo became my favorite from the trip.

Not the castle shot. Not the fireworks.
Just that imperfect, rushed photo before the fun even began.

Because it wasn’t about the pose. It was about proof.
Proof that we were there. Together. Tired, sweaty, but happy.

We often think memories will make themselves, but they don’t.
You have to pause for them.
To freeze the moment before it moves on without you.

So next time someone says, “Wait, let’s take a photo,” don’t roll your eyes.

Don’t rush. Just take it.

Stop looking ahead

We were walking through the park one afternoon, and I was deep in my phone.

Checking messages, replying to emails, scrolling through updates I didn’t even care about.

“Daddy” he said. “You’re missing it.”
“Missing what?” I asked, still half-distracted.
He pointed to the sky.
“The clouds are shaped like trucks!”

I looked up. There they were. A pick-up truck towing a car made of cotton and sunlight.

For a moment, I laughed.
Then I felt a quiet kind of guilt.

He wasn’t just showing me clouds.
He was showing me what I’d stopped noticing.

Somewhere along the way, adults trade wonder for Wi-Fi.
We start seeing days as schedules instead of stories.
We stop looking up.

That day, I put my phone in my pocket.
We lay on the grass.
Named every cloud. Let time breathe again.

It didn’t make me more productive.
But it made me more present.

And maybe that’s the better kind of progress.

One day, I’ll remind him to look ahead.
But today, he reminded me to look up.

Buy the damn ice cream

I used to stop myself from small joys.

I’ll just buy it next time.
I don’t really need it.
It’s not practical.

Until one day, my son pointed to the freezer and said, “Daddy, let’s get the ice cream before it melts.”

Simple. Obvious. But it hit me.

Because life, much like ice cream, does melt when you wait too long.

So that day, I bought the ice cream.

We sat by the couch, messy and laughing, spoons clinking against the tub.

It wasn’t even the best flavor, but it was the best moment.

And that’s the thing: we overthink joy.
We audit it, postpone it, try to earn it.
But sometimes, happiness is just about saying yes faster.

So here’s a small reminder, from one overthinker to another: Buy the damn ice cream.

Send the message.
Take the photo.
Say “I love you” first.

Because all of it melts if you wait too long.

5 more minutes, Daddy

He talks so fluently now.

Full sentences. Clear thoughts. Even opinions.

The same boy who once pointed and babbled now negotiates bedtime like a lawyer.
“Five more minutes, Daddy. Promise, super duper last one.”
And somehow, he always wins.

The other night, he said, “Daddy, it's my turn. I can do it myself.”
Just like that.
No hesitation. No need for help.

I smiled. Then paused. Because beneath that pride was a tiny crack in my heart.

One day you’re in love with a baby.
Next, you’re talking to a little person with his own words, humor, and world.

And while I’m amazed by how fast he’s learning, a part of me wants to slow it all down.

To freeze the way he still reaches for my hand when we cross the street.

To hear the way he still mispronounces “carbonara” and calls it “cargobanara.”

To keep him in that sweet in-between. Old enough to talk, but young enough to need me.

But that’s the deal, isn’t it?
We raise them so they can eventually run ahead.
Even if every step forward is one more goodbye to the version of them we first fell in love with.

So I listen to his stories.
Record his voice.
Take too many photos.

Love them loudly. Capture them often. The rest can wait. 

Paycheck I didn't expect

Was with my son at a toy store, looking for Tomica vehicles to add to my, I mean, my son’s extensive collection.

Someone who looked to be in his late twenties approached me.
“Excuse me, Sir, did you happen to teach college back in the 2010s?”

“Oh yes,” I said.

His eyes lit up. “Sir! Long time no see!”

He told me he’s now working in a big company. Stable job, good life. He said I was one of the few teachers who made him believe he could actually make it.

That moment stopped me.

Wow. Guess I did touch someone else’s life, after all.

Sometimes, life gives you moments like that.

Reminders that your effort, though buried in attendance sheets and old lectures, quietly took root somewhere.

The salary may not build wealth, but the stories you build will outlive you.

You don’t always see the fruit of your work right away.

But when it does come back, it often finds you when you least expect it.

Maybe while you’re buying that Tomica for yourself, I mean, your kid.

Return on imagination (ROI)

"Wow. That’s a massive Duplo collection.
Why would you spend almost 3,000 USD on Legos?”

Fair question.

To some, they’re just colorful blocks.
Overpriced plastic that ends up scattered on the floor.
To us, they’re building tools for imagination.

Every brick my son stacks teaches him something.
Focus. Patience. Creativity.
How to dream. How to fail.
And how to rebuild when things fall apart.

I’ve seen him build towers taller than his arms can reach.
Laugh when it crashes, then rebuild.
Faster, better, stronger.

That’s not just play. That’s practice.
For life, for resilience, for creation.

Someday, those same hands will build something far greater.
Not out of plastic, but out of passion and purpose.

That’s the real ROI.

Board books aint boring

“Wow, massive collection of children’s board books.”

Was surprised too. Until I realized my son's little library is worth one iPhone Pro Max plus a brand-new top-of-the-line PlayStation.

PSA for incoming parents: children’s books cost as much as the self-help books for adults.
10 to 15 USD apiece, on average.

“Why need so many? Pretty sure those stories already have their iterations on YouTube.”

Maybe. But I’d still pick the books.

Because books are worth the investment.

In case you haven’t heard the cliché: A book is a portal,
A book is a teacher.
A book doesn’t just tell you something,

It transforms your child.
Quietly, privately, one page at a time.

You don’t always notice it happening.
But the version of your child who closes the book is never the same as the one who opened it.

Replicate yourself

“We need more of you.<br>We need to replicate you.”

The owner of the company told me that once.
It stuck with me.

Because that’s what leadership really is. Succession, legacy, and purpose.
Creating versions of you through others.
Mentoring, not just commanding tasks.

A wise man once said,
Great people make other people feel that they can be great too.

I’ve been blessed with people who believed in me when I was still rough around the edges.
They saw what I could be, not just who I was.

Now, it’s my turn.

But here’s the thing. We need to be selective.
Be wise in discerning who to spend your precious time and energy on.
Choose who to pass on your life’s work.
Not everyone deserves access to your playbook.

When the time comes and you finally find them, pray that they value the gift.
That they carry it forward.

But if they don’t? If they turn out ungrateful?
Move on from them.
Their loss, not yours.

Worry not.

Greatness given is never wasted.
It finds its way to those who are ready to build it further.

You burned out your brightest

You don’t lose your best people overnight.
It starts small.

When you ask them to clean up after your poor performer’s mess.
"Reward” them with more work because they’re “the only ones who can.”
Then load them up again because they’re “so reliable.”

When they extend help out of malasakit, you shut them down because “they’re overstepping." Yet you volunteer them to service all employees because “the organization is thin so they need to stretch themselves.” 

When you start tweaking definitions, to convince them that tasks that aren't theirs are now theirs.

You stretch them thin for out-of-scope work, but never fight for their raise, bonus, or promotion.

You justify their silent patience with “next cycle.”
Or you do give them an increase, but only by 5%, despite the workload increasing by 50%.

You call it “budget constraints” instead of admitting they deserve better.
You gaslight them to be “grateful.”

Your best people will take it, for a while.
Because great employees don’t quit easily.

But one day, they’ll realize their care isn’t being reciprocated.

When that day comes, they won’t make noise.
They’ll stay professional, smile in meetings, and hit their deadlines.

Until one day, they won’t.
Because burnout doesn’t scream. It fades quietly.

Take them for granted, and you’ll lose the ones who carry your team’s weight.
The ones doing the actual heavy lifting.

Their agility is the reason you can scroll through social media during office hours.
Their malasakit, overtime, and crisis mitigation are the reasons you can enjoy weeknights and weekends.
Their dependability is why you can go on leave for weeks without worry.

Ever notice how when they go on PTO, you suddenly have more meetings? you suddenly feel "tired."
Cause they’re the ones actually doing the work while you go volunteering them then credit-grabbing.

At least, compensate properly.
Value them genuinely.
Occassional “I'm proud of you" and “Nice work," while it sounds good, are not enough.
Those cannot feed mouths.

Because if you don’t,
they’ll start building a life where they’re valued.

Culture > compensation

Gone are the days I’d take any job just for a higher pay grade or a shinier title.
Money isn’t the main driver anymore.

Now it’s about something else.
Working with someone, not under someone.
Because who you work for shapes who you become.

I’ve had bosses who manage tasks.
And leaders who build people.
One checks boxes. The other builds character.

Real leaders don’t buy loyalty.
They earn it through trust, vision, and consistency.

I don’t mind skill gaps. Technical skills can be learned.
That's why you are hiring me. For the subject matter expertise.

What matters is emotional intelligence.
Understanding people.
Knowing how to play their strengths and steady their weaknesses.

Someone who checks in once in a while, genuinely.
Someone who asks how you are, not what you’ve finished.
Someone who treats you as a person, not a cog in a machine.

Because that kind of leadership makes people stay, even when they can leave.

Over a decade in.
Grateful that at this stage, opportunities knock more often.
Frequent calls from headhunters remind me there are options.
But what I look for now is alignment.

I’m not being picky. I’m being intentional.

Money is nice.
But working with a true leader.
That’s priceless.

Shoulda, woulda, coulda

At one point, I had the curse perk of frequent travel.

Week 1 in Metro Manila.
Week 2 somewhere else.
Alternate weeks. Alternate beds. Alternate lives.

I was able to fly around the country thanks to my work.
Met so many people, interacted with different walks of life, and honed my mastery in stakeholder management.
For a time, it felt like I was exactly where I was meant to be.

Then one early morning, while I was over 500 kilometers away from my family, overseeing ingress for an event in Cebu, my phone rang.
It was my wife. Her voice was shaking.

Our little one had slipped in the bathtub, our one-year-young son, head first.
She was alone.
Naturally, she panicked.
I did too, on the inside.

Everything around me, the checklist, the stage lights, the people asking for final approvals, just disappeared.

I wasn’t there. I couldn’t help. I couldn’t even hold them.

And then it hit me.

I felt helpless.
And I was reminded, what am I really working for?

If I’m going to be away this much, why not do it in Singapore, Australia, or Canada?
Five times the salary. Better benefits. Maybe even better weather.

But there I was, in Cebu, not abroad, not earning dollars.
Missing moments his peso can never buy back.

Priorities change.
In the greater scheme of things, I won’t even remember the event I was working for.
But missing my son’s milestones, that I’ll remember.
That I’ll regret.

You can’t take back the first five years of your child’s life.
You only get one chance to be present.

While I’m grateful for all the opportunities, priorities must be set straight.

Any man can be a father. A provider.
But not everyone can be a dad.

Fellow dads, we can always go back to chasing a career.

For now, let me chase my dream of being a present dad.

Now play “Shoulda, Woulda, Coulda” by Brian McKnight.

Play where it lands

It started with a gift.

A golf club set personally handed to me by the President of our company.

He said, “You’ll learn a lot out there.”

I thought he meant about golf. He meant people.

Because golf reveals things the boardroom hides.

 In meetings, everyone’s polite. Strategic. Quoting Simon Sinek like it’s a religion.

But on the golf course? You’ll see who really practices “emotional intelligence” and who’s one slice away from throwing their driver into the lake.

Some people blame the wind.
Others blame the grass.
One guy blamed the sun.
Even gravity. 

Then there are the calm ones.

Golf’s funny like that.

It silences the loud, humbles the know-it-all, exposes the fake calm, and rewards those who can laugh at their own bad swing.

The fairway doesn’t care about your title or your KPIs. It only cares if you can recover.

Maybe that’s why the President gave me that set.
Not as a gift, but as a test.

Because in golf, like in life, everyone looks good at tee-off.

Character shows up on the second shot. When the ball didn’t go where you planned.

Never trust a guy who blames gravity.

When the door finally opens

You waited.
You worked.
You showed up, even when no one was watching.

You sat through the politics.
You endured the silence.
You accepted taks beyond your paygrade. 
You carried the weight that wasn’t always yours.

And now, the door finally opens.

Not with fanfare. Not with confetti.
Just a quiet acknowledgment that you’ve always belonged here.

Because the truth is, the title didn’t make you ready.
The waiting did.

Every late night. Every unseen effort.
Every moment you chose grace instead of bitterness.
They built the version of you that can now carry the title with steadiness, not ego.

You no longer need to prove your worth.
You just need to walk in it.

And when you do, remember the waiting room.
Remember the ones still in it.
Those who stick during tough times.
Those who were with you in the journey to make it lighter, not heavier.
The value adding ones. The loyal ones. Just like you.

Because real leadership isn’t about finally getting in the room.

It’s about leaving the door open for those who come next.

View from the middle

Middle management is not a punishment.

It’s a perspective.

From here, you see everything.
Pressure from the top.
Confusion at the bottom.
The chaos that travels in between.

You’re close enough to the frontlines to understand the struggle,
but close enough to the boardroom to understand the politics.

You are the bridge that holds both worlds together.

Some days, it feels like being stretched.
Other days, it feels like being invisible.
But on your best days, it feels like purpose.

Because the middle is where balance is built.
Where decisions meet reality.
Where empathy meets execution.

You may not have the corner office,
but you’re the one who keeps the corners from collapsing.

It’s not glamorous.
It’s not loud.

But it’s leadership in its purest form.

Leading without distance,
Influencing without applause.

So don’t resent the view from the middle.
Own it.

Because from here,
you see everything the others miss.

Waiting room of leadership

You’re doing the work of an executive.

Carrying the weight.
Solving the problems.
Adding value.
Holding the team together when no one else will.
Literally doing your boss's leader's work.

But the title isn’t yours.
Not yet.

You tell yourself to be patient.
That good things take time.
That recognition will come.

But waiting quietly doesn’t mean it doesn’t sting.
Because deep down, you know you’re already leading.
Just without the label.
Just without the deserved salary.

You watch others get promoted faster, and you wonder if it’s you,
or if politics simply speaks louder than performance.
or if your boss is just threatened to be outshined by you.

Still, you stay.
Not because you’re stuck,
but because you believe that how you lead today
determines who you’ll be when the title finally arrives.

The waiting room is uncomfortable.
But it’s also sacred.

It’s where leaders are refined, not just assigned.
It’s where patience meets preparation.
And it’s where you learn that leadership is not a position, it’s a posture.

So keep showing up.
Keep doing the work no one claps for.

Because when the door finally opens, you won’t just walk in ready.

You’ll walk in proven.

Be the Alfred

Everyone wants to be Batman.
Some even settle for being Robin.
But very few choose to be Alfred.

Alfred doesn’t fight crime.
He doesn’t need the spotlight.

But he’s the reason Batman stands back up.
He’s the voice that steadies chaos.
He’s the one who knows where the pain hides,
and still shows up with tea and truth.

That’s the quiet burden of middle management.
You’re not the hero on the poster.
You’re not the sidekick on the frontline.
You’re the one who keeps the mission alive in between both.

You fix what breaks.
You translate impossible expectations into possible actions.
You hold the line when both the top and bottom lose faith.

It’s not glamorous. It’s not loud.
But it’s essential.

Because without an Alfred, there is no Batman.
Without a stabilizer, even the bosses good leaders crumble.

So if you ever feel unseen, uncredited, or underappreciated, remember this:
heroes make headlines, but Alfreds make history.

Not every leader wears the cape.
Some just keep the lights on in the Batcave.

CC Culture

Leadership is trust.

But somewhere along the thread, it became CCs and screenshots.

We started asking our team to copy us “for transparency,”
but sometimes, it’s really for control.

We track every task, every update, every reply,
not because the work won’t get done,
but because we’ve forgotten how to trust the people who do it.

Micromanagement looks like diligence on the surface,
but underneath, it’s just fear in disguise.

Fear of being left out.
Fear of not being needed.
Fear of being outshined by your team member. 

True leadership doesn’t need a paper trail to prove involvement.
It creates ownership so strong that results speak louder than reports.

Because the best teams don’t move in chains of CCs,
they move in trust.

So the next time you’re about to say “CC me” to your team,
ask yourself: Is it really about alignment... or assurance?

Empower your people.
Trust the process.

Learn to let go.
Control is heavy.
Trust makes everyone lighter.

Managing up (without losing yourself)

Leading down is expected.

Leading across is challenging.
But leading up? that’s an art form!

You navigate egos that are bigger than budgets.
You soften truths so they can be digested.
You fight for your team without sounding defensive.
And you say “noted” to decisions that don’t make sense. Because diplomacy keeps the lights on.

You tell yourself it’s part of the job.
That managing up means being strategic.
And it does. But sometimes, it also feels like being invisible.

You write the decks they present.
You polish the words they take credit for.
You build the results that make them look visionary.
And yet, when it’s time for recognition, you fade quietly into the background.
No acknowledgment. No promotions.

That’s the duality of leadership.
To obey without surrendering, to serve without shrinking.

Because managing up isn’t about pleasing the people above you.
It’s about protecting the people below you.

So yes, play the game.
Speak their language.
Make them feel in control.

But never forget your own voice in the process.

 Because one day, when it’s your turn to be “the boss leader,”
your team will only rise as high as your integrity stood when you weren’t yet in charge.

Why I still care (even if it hurts)

Every boss leader I know has thought about quitting.
Not the job, but the caring.

Because caring hurts.
It means staying late to fix someone else’s mistake.
It means absorbing stress that was never yours to begin with.
It means showing grace to people who sometimes don’t deserve it.

You tell yourself to stop.
To focus on the deliverables.
To treat work like a transaction, not a calling.

And for a while, that works.
You become efficient. Focused. Detached.
You stop caring...
and strangely, it feels peaceful.

But it also feels empty.
Because no matter how tired you get, something in you still believes that how you lead matters as much as what you deliver

So you care again.
Even when it drains you.
Even when it feels one-sided.

Not because they always deserve it,
but because you do.
Because caring is part of your DNA as a leader.
And you refuse to let exhaustion rewrite who you are.

Maybe that’s the real mark of leadership:
not the title, not the targets,
but the choice to keep caring even when it hurts.

Do it even if your "boss" is not being a "leader."
Do it even if you don't have a role model to look up to. 
Do it even if they are not your "real family."
Don’t stop being good only because those around you sucks.

Even if you have the choice not to.
Even if they don't deserve it.
Care. Touch lives.

What if you finally stopped going beyond your paycheck?

A leader should be strong.
A leader must deliver.
A leader must care, communicate, and carry everyone along.

But somewhere between endless meetings and mounting targets, leadership starts to feel like a performance.

Middle management lives in that squeeze.

You’re expected to hit metrics, manage egos, and stay “inspiring” while deadlines crush you from both ends.

Top management expects results. Sometimes without clear direction.
Your team expects empathy. Sometimes when they don’t deserve it.
And somehow, you’re supposed to give both... without breaking.

Then the thought hits you:
What if I just stopped trying to be inspiring?
What if I stopped caring about their personal lives?
What if I stopped being empathetic?

What if I just chose to be a boss instead of a leader?
After all, a boss and a leader have the same salary anyway.

What if I focused only on the technicals?
It would be easier.

No more pep talks.
No more checking if they’re okay.
And truth be told, top management doesn’t check on you either.

What if you finally stopped going beyond your paycheck?
Saved the amor and malasakit for your loved ones, instead of your “work" mates, "boss" and "staff" alike.

You could. You always have the choice.

Same salary. Less energy. Less stress.

But then again...

Everyone wants a 10

Everyone wants a great leader, but not everyone asks if they are a great team member.

Some team members demand a 10 out of 10 leader without pausing to ask if they themselves are even at a 5 out of 10.

Expectations are heavy. Reality is that leaders are often judged more harshly than the ones they lead.

In moments like this, the response of true leadership is not resentment but resilience.

The answer is simple: we love them anyway.

Even if they are not lovable? Yes. 

It is about parenting team members. Guiding, building capacity, and elevating them beyond where they started.

Bosses can demand, but leaders must lift.

That is the weight and the privilege of leadership.

Results start with guidance

One of the blind spots I often see in leadership is the gap between asking and teaching.

You cannot ask team members to do something if you haven’t first shown them how to do it.

Leaders, you cannot expect an output that you never taught them how to create.

When leaders skip this step, what follows is frustration on both sides: unmet expectations for the boss, and confusion or discouragement for the team.

That’s why clarity and teaching go hand in hand.

It’s the leader’s job to lead, to set the direction, transfer knowledge, and equip people to succeed. Only then is it fair to ask for performance.

On the other hand, bosses who only demand output without guiding the way may get compliance, but rarely get growth.

The distinction is simple. Leaders build capability before setting expectations. Bosses expect results without building the path.

Teams thrive when leadership leads first, then expects.

Because when people are taught well, they will not just deliver, they will excel.

When patience becomes the harder choice

He didn’t get it again.

Same task. Same instructions. Third time this week.

You know that moment when you can literally feel irritation climbing your throat? The kind of frustration you try to hide behind a “professional tone,” but it leaks through anyway.

But instead of snapping, I asked, “What part was unclear?”

He looked down, hesitant. Then he said quietly, “I think I understood it... I just didn’t know how to start.”

That stopped me.

All this time, I thought I was giving directions. But what he really needed was guidance.
He wasn’t lazy. He was lost.

And there’s a difference between the two.

Leaders often mistake clarity for understanding, assuming words automatically translate into execution. But people don’t just follow what they’re told, they follow what they grasp.

Don’t presume your team members have the same level of comprehension, the same experience, or the same mastery as you. They don’t, yet. That’s why you’re the senior. That’s why you’re the leader.

Leadership isn’t a test of how well others keep up.
It’s how far you’re willing to slow down so they can catch up.

That afternoon, I stayed a bit longer. We redid the task together. He took notes, asked better questions, and I saw the spark I thought he’d lost.

Maybe the real measure of leadership isn’t how many times you repeat instructions, but how many times you choose to stay patient when you’d rather give up.

The apology I never sent

It was 11:42 p.m. when I typed the message:

“Hey, sorry if I came off harsh during the meeting earlier.”

Then I stared at it. For ten minutes.

I didn’t hit send.

I told myself, “He needed that tough feedback.”
Then another voice said, “But did he need it delivered like that?”

I do and teach communication for a living.

I remind leaders that tone matters as much as timing.

Yet that day, I snapped. because I was tired, cornered, and chasing deadlines I didn’t create.

I deleted the message. Slept. Woke up still uneasy.

By morning, I decided to speak in person. He smiled, surprised.
“I was actually the one about to say sorry,” he said.

That’s when it hit me.

Two people willing to apologize can heal a team faster than one person trying to win an argument.

Sometimes the message you don’t send matters more than the one you do.

Life and purpose: updated

Today, I took on a new role.

No contract.
No salary.
No days off.
Just a lifelong commitment written on my heart.

It comes with a job description that no manual can fully explain.
24/7 responsibility, resource management, crisis handling, client care, values formation, and leadership by example.

The compensation isn’t monetary,
but the benefits are beyond anything I’ve ever known.

Because this role gives you sleepless nights,
but it also gives you mornings filled with purpose.

It stretches your patience,
but expands your heart in ways you didn’t know were possible.

Today, I took on a role that changes everything.

I am now a father.

And nothing will ever compare.

Grateful beyond words for this blessing.
And for my incredible wife. for her strength, her grace, and for bringing our little miracle into this world.

Forever changed.
Forever thankful.