Lesson, so far

We are still inside it.

Still no clear end.

No clear timeline.

We are witnessing how businesses change,

sometimes quietly,

sometimes painfully.

Derma clinics are closed.

Salons are shut.

Spas are dark.

Computer shops have their lights off.

Meanwhile, other businesses are everywhere.

Food delivery apps keep multiplying.

Riders fill the streets.

Phones replace counters.

Notifications replace queues.

Resellers of “essentials” are thriving.

Alcohol. Masks. Vitamins. Groceries.

E-commerce, which used to feel optional,

is now necessary.

Buy through an app.

Pay digitally.

Wait for delivery.

While some prefer brick and mortar,

right now,

preference does not matter.

What works, matters.

And the pandemic is making that very clear.

Some businesses are struggling

because they cannot move.

Some are surviving

because they learned quickly.

Some are growing

because they were already flexible.

Others are changing

because they have no choice.

It is uncomfortable to watch.

Friends are losing income.

SMSEs are closing shops they built for years.

Staff are waiting without answers.

At the same time,

new sellers are appearing online every week.

Not because they are perfect.

Not because they are big.

Because they are willing.

Willing to try.

Willing to learn.

Willing to adjust.

The pandemic is teaching.

Not gently.

Not slowly.

It is teaching through pressure.

It is teaching that stability is temporary.

That “normal” is fragile.

That comfort can disappear overnight.

It is teaching that adaptability is not optional.

If you cannot change,

you break.

If you can adjust,

you survive.

Sometimes, you even grow.

Growth is not just about expanding.

It is about responding.

Responding to what people need now.

Responding to new limits.

Responding to reality.

Not yesterday’s reality.

Today’s.

The pandemic is not rewarding size.

It is rewarding speed.

It is rewarding humility.

It is rewarding courage.

Courage to admit,

“This way no longer works.”

Courage to say,

“I need to learn again.”

Courage to rebuild

while everything feels unstable.

It is teaching us that survival is not stubbornness.

It is movement.

And growth is not about holding on to the past.

It is about becoming useful in the present.

That is the lesson, so far.

Make it count

We are still at home, thankfully.

Still alive.

This is life, for now.

But if the world was going to slow us down,

we would not let it stop us.

My wife and I consciously started to learn new things.

I began formally studying a new language.

Slowly.

I opened books I had been postponing for years.

A backlog I always meant to finish

“when things calmed down.”

Things never really do.

So now was the time.

In the kitchen, my wife was learning too.

She learned how to bake.

Tried new dishes.

How to follow recipes.

How to adjust when something went wrong.

While the world felt unstable,

we were building skills at home.

Quietly upgrading ourselves.

Without announcements.

Without applause.

Just effort.

Because whenever this finally ends.

We will meet people again.

Sit across from friends.

Share meals.

Someone will ask,

“How have you been?”

And we don’t want to say,

“Same.”

We want to say,

"Changed. Improved."

“Learned something."

“We grew."

Not to impress.

But to be honest.

Because this season costs too much

to be wasted.

It takes our freedom.

Our routines.

Our certainty.

So we choose to take something back.

So when the doors open again,

we will not just step outside.

We will carry something with us.

And say that quarantine was not wastes

We made it count.

K-rantine

We got home, thankfully.

Alive. 

But the world feels smaller now.

Not just in distance,

but in rhythm.

Days feel repetitive.

Time moves differently.

We stay home because we have to.

And somehow, in the middle of all this uncertainty,

my wife and I found a routine.

We started watching Korean dramas together.

At first, it was just something to do.

A way to pass the time.

A way to sit beside each other

without needing to talk too much.

One episode after dinner.

Another before bed.

Sometimes more,

because tomorrow looks exactly like today.

Slowly, it became our ritual.

We watched strangers fall in love in Crash Landing on You,

build dreams in Itaewon Class,

fight injustice, forgive wounds, and choose hope,

again and again.

And we watched them

together.

On the same couch.

Under the same blanket.

Sharing quiet laughs.

Shared reactions.

Shared silences.

At first, I thought I knew why we kept watching.

The storytelling is cinematic.

The lighting is careful.

The pacing is thoughtful.

Every frame looks like it belongs in a photograph.

Every scene is picturesque.

Every moment feels intentional.

I assumed that was enough.

But slowly, without realizing it,

those stories became our windows.

Windows to places we cannot go.

Lives we cannot touch.

Dreams that still feel possible.

While everything outside feels uncertain,

these stories keep moving.

There is tension.

There is loss.

There is waiting.

But there is also progress.

There are small victories.

There are endings.

And in a season where nothing feels certain,

it helps to be reminded

that things can still move forward.

We do not watch to escape.

We watch to steady ourselves.

To remind each other

that struggle can have meaning.

That patience matters.

That love grows quietly,

in ordinary days.

Some people are learning to bake.

Some are learning new skills.

We are learning how to be still together.

How to be present.

How to enjoy silence.

How to sit beside each other

without distractions.

We are learning that rest is not weakness.

That closeness does not need an occasion.

That hope can be practiced,

even through subtitles.

I do not know how long this season will last.

I do not know when things will feel normal again.

But I know this:

These nights matter.

They are shaping how we slow down.

How we listen.

How we choose each other

even when the world feels unstable.

When life becomes busy again,

I hope we remember this.

The couch.

The quiet.

The shared stories.

Not as something we survived,

but as something we learned from.

A reminder

that even in uncertain times,

we can still build small, steady rituals

that carry us forward.

Now it is here

The sun is setting over the beach in

Boracay.

Unbothered.

Generous with color.

People are still walking barefoot on the sand.

The sea looks the same as it did yesterday.

My phone vibrates.

The news announces the first confirmed cases in

Philippines.

Talk of lockdowns follows almost immediately.

Restrictions.

Borders.

Movement.

Paradise suddenly feels provisional.

I have seen this virus on international news.

In other countries.

In crowded hospitals.

In numbers that rose too quickly to feel abstract.

Lethal, they said.

Unforgiving.

Relentless.

Back then, it felt distant.

Contained by geography.

Something happening elsewhere.

Now it is here.

And the distance collapses.

I start thinking about ordinary things.

Dental visits.

Derma sessions.

Appointments that were routine just days ago,

now floating, undefined.

Small concerns, maybe.

But they were signs of normal life.

Of continuity.

Of a future we assumed would arrive.

Then the heavier questions come.

Will my wife and I be okay?

Will our parents be okay?

Will I still have a job?

Not eventually.

Soon.

I look around and realize

how quickly certainty drains out of a place.

How a destination

can turn into a waiting room.

We count what we have.

A few face masks left.

Enough for now, I think.

I wonder if we will still be allowed to go home.

Or if we will be locked down here,

suspended between sunset and uncertainty.

The sky turns orange.

Then purple.

It is beautiful

in a way that almost feels inappropriate.

Fear and beauty

sit side by side.

Neither cancels the other out.

So I pray.

For safe passage home.

For our families.

For everyone.

For the grace to stay steady

when nothing else is.

The sun disappears.

Night settles in.

And as the world begins to close

in ways we do not yet understand,

I hold on to the only thing

that still feels solid.

Faith.

Faith that this will not define us.

Faith that fear will not have the last word.

Faith that we will learn, adapt,

and care for one another.

So let’s be kinder.

More patient.

More careful.

More prayerful.

Let’s look out for our families.

Our neighbors.

Our frontliners.

Our communities.

This will be hard.

But it will not break us.

Together, we shall overcome.