Faith in humanity

You never forget a calamity like Super Typhoon Haiyan, one of the strongest ever recorded in the history of the world.

The sharp 300/kph wind that screamed. The eerie silence that followed.
Families spending their nights on rooftops amidst strong winds.
Homes built with lifesavings, swallowed by floodwaters.
Faces searching for family that didn’t make it home.
Children saw bodies lined along the streets, death normalized overnight.

Thousands homeless, orphaned, hungry, traumatized.

And yet, only days later, life went on. Just another disaster, another headline. In a nation so used to calamity, heartbreak can start to feel routine.

But what never becomes routine is how we rise.

Ordinary people turned into rescuers.
Strangers became family.
Even those safe at home found ways to help. Sending donations, amplifying calls for aid, offering comfort in whatever form they could.

I witnessed this spirit firsthand when I volunteered at Villamor Airbase.

Families kept arriving. Tired, hungry, and uncertain of what tomorrow would bring. Some spoke of wanting to return home to Tacloban once it was rebuilt. Many worried about food, jobs, and their children’s schooling.

I lost count of the times I tried to hold back my tears. You could see the exhaustion in their eyes, but also the quiet strength that refused to give up. I watched children play at the activity center. Too young to understand the devastation they had survived, yet laughing anyway.

The volunteers worked tirelessly. The leaders stayed calm, composed, giving clear instructions despite the chaos. For a brief moment, I saw what unity truly looked like.

And in the middle of it all, I knew one thing for sure: together, we shall overcome.

What Naruto taught me

For those who never watched it, Naruto is an anime about a boy who grew up unwanted, ridiculed, and invisible.

A boy born with a monster sealed inside him, carrying a burden he never asked for.

Yet, despite all that, he never gave up on one dream.
To become Hokage, the strongest in his village.
Not for power, but for acceptance.
To be acknowledged.

It’s a story about pain, perseverance, friendship, and finding your place in a world that told you you didn’t belong.

In my case, the monsters weren’t literal. They were questions about career, purpose, and direction.

Everything felt like one big question mark.

 One of the few things I looked forward to after work and grad school was going home to watch movies and series.

At first, Naruto was just another show. A loud, stubborn kid chasing an impossible dream.
But over time, I realized it wasn’t just a story. It was a mirror.

Naruto taught me resilience. That the world doesn’t owe you validation. You earn it through persistence.
Every rejection, every mistake, every person who doubted you… they’re just side quests in your story arc.

He taught me about loneliness too. That being misunderstood isn’t always a curse. Sometimes it’s proof you’re meant for something different.

He showed me that mentors matter. That behind every “strong” person is someone who believed in them when no one else did.

I saw shades of Iruka and Jiraiya (Naruto's mentors) in the people who pushed me, corrected me, and refused to let me settle for less.

And maybe most of all, Naruto reminded me that success doesn’t start with being talented.
It starts with refusing to quit.
With showing up every day.

Because somewhere between the exams, rejections, and small wins, I realized I’ve been chasing my own version of Hokage all along.

9 p.m. version of you

The 9 p.m. version of me is quiet.

He doesn’t chase ideas.
He doesn’t fix problems.
He’s done explaining, convincing, performing.

He’s just tired. And that’s okay.

He sits in silence, staring at the ceiling or the city lights outside the window.
Dinner’s reheated.
Notifications muted.
The world can wait.

This version of me doesn’t care about being “productive.”
He just wants a moment to exist without purpose.

He doesn’t think about deadlines or deliverables.
He just thinks about whether the day meant something.
And sometimes, the honest answer is “not really.”

Because some days aren’t about winning.
They’re about surviving...
the work deadlines,
the term papers for grad school,
the bills to pay,
the hobby you parked,
the date you promised to keep,
the exercise you promised your body but never had the energy for.

And that’s fine too.

Not every day has to be extraordinary.

Some days are just about making it through traffic, through meetings, through yourself.

Ordinary feels new again

I used to rush through mornings.

Everything was a blur. Breakfast, commute, chaos.
All checklist, no consciousness.

But lately, I’ve been noticing things again.
How sunlight hits the same corner of the wall every 7:32 a.m.
How the bus conductor hums under his breath before the first wave of commuters.
How the air smells different right before it rains.

Maybe it’s age.
Maybe it’s burnout.
Or maybe it’s just finally understanding that not everything needs to change to be meaningful.

Because the truth is, life doesn’t move in leaps.
It unfolds in cms.
In the bites of tapsilog.
In small talks.
In shared glances and quiet returns.

We keep waiting for big moments to feel alive.
But maybe aliveness is hiding in the routines we take for granted.

In the sound of the train quietly running.
In the flicker of streetlights.
In the weight of a bag you’ve carried so long it feels like part of you.

Nothing new happened.
But maybe that’s the point.
The shift isn’t in the world.
It’s in the way you finally learned to see it.

Morning I stopped seeing him

Every morning, he was there.

Same corner. Same cart. Same smile.

He sold taho near the bus stop.
“Tahooo!” he’d call, and somehow, it always made the mornings feel softer.

Never learned his name.
Never asked how long he’d been doing it.
But he became part of my mornings
the way sunrise quietly becomes part of a city.

Until one day, he wasn’t there.
No cart. No call. No trace.

Just an empty space where kindness used to stand.

At first, I thought he was late.
Then a day passed.
Then a week.
And then I realized I hadn’t just lost a vendor.
I’d lost a rhythm.

It made me wonder how many lives we brush against without ever really seeing them.
How many small acts of presence go unnoticed until they’re gone.

Maybe he moved away.
Maybe he got tired.
Maybe he’s resting after years of showing up for people who never asked his name.

Whatever it is, I hope he knows that his absence was noticed.
His presence mattered. At least, to me.

Nothing is guaranteed to stay.
No one is guaranteed to stay.
That’s why presence is sacred.

The taho vendor who livens morning.
The guard who goes beyond checking bags.
The parent who checks in unconditionally.
The mentor at work who coaches for free.
Life’s constants aren’t permanent. they’re privileges.

So while they’re still here, don’t just pass by.
Pause. See them.
Acknowledge the miracle of still showing up.

People you meet on the way

You see them every day,
but you don’t really know their names.

The woman selling siomai by the station.
The guard who never forgets to say “good morning."
The bus conductor who still cracks jokes at 6 a.m.
The stranger who gives up their seat without being asked.

They don’t know your story either.
But somehow, your lives intersect for a few brief minutes,
and it’s enough to remind you that the world still runs on kindness.

We often think impact has to be big. A promotion, a project, a breakthrough.

But sometimes it’s just the way someone smiles back after a long day, as if saying, “same.”

You’ll never know what these people carry, just as they’ll never know the battles you fight.
But for those few seconds in transit, you share the same air, the same exhaustion, the same small hope that tomorrow might run smoother than today.

And maybe that’s enough.

Because even when life feels heavy, there will always be people who lighten it. 
Not by fixing anything. But simply by showing up, just like you. 

4 hours on the road

Every weekday, I commute to work.
A bus ride, a train ride, and a jeepney ride all in one way.

I don’t usually drive on weekdays. Not because I can’t, but because I refuse to wrestle with the horrors of EDSA traffic. (If you know, you know.)

On average, it takes me two hours just to get to work. Another two to get home.
That’s four hours a day on the road.

Four hours that could have been spent on something productive.

But can it, really?

At first, I tried to make the most of it. I read books. Listened to podcasts. Wrote down random ideas.
Sometimes, I’d plan projects while standing shoulder to shoulder with strangers on the train.

Other times, I just stared out the window and let my thoughts breathe. Watched the city move. Watched people rush. Watched life happen.

And maybe that’s productive too.

Not everything has to be a hustle. Some days, being still is also work. Some days, letting your mind wander helps you find your focus again.

The commute will always be long, but time spent thinking is never wasted.

We deserve better, but we cannot always be complaining.

Because if you use those hours to slow down, reflect, or simply exist, then you’re still going somewhere.

Paid in grace

Didn’t ask for the role, but said yes to the calling.

I’ve just been elected as one of the leaders of our church’s special ministry. The group of lectors and commentators who read the Word during Mass, lending our voices so others can listen and reflect.

Didn’t expect it. Maybe this is just what happens after years of showing up. Years of serving weekday and weekend masses, whether it’s five in the morning before work or seven on a Sunday night.

It started as my way of giving back. A thank-you to the Lord for giving me the gift of gab and the courage to use it for something that matters.

Yes, it’s volunteer work. Yes, it’s pro bono. But somehow, I always walk away feeling richer.

Because what you receive in return isn’t money. It’s peace. Fulfillment. That quiet feeling that you were exactly where you were meant to be.

Every reading feels like a conversation with God. Every “Thanks be to God” from the crowd feels like an answered prayer.

Years later, I’m still grateful for the chance to serve.

Still tired sometimes but still showing up.

Still paid in grace.