"Pro" tip

Professionals understand that composure is a skill.

It is not personality.

It is not luck.

It is trained.

Lawyers do not win cases by shouting in court.

They listen.

They think.

They respond with precision.

Surgeons do not panic in the operating room.

They focus.

They execute.

They stay calm when everything is on the line.

Pilots do not raise their voices during turbulence.

They communicate clearly.

They reassure.

They stay steady.

Because the best decisions are made with a level head,

not a raised one.

Somewhere along the way, people started confusing noise with importance.

In many workplaces, emotion has replaced urgency.

Whoever shouts the loudest.

Types in all caps.

Escalates first.

Creates the most drama.

Gets attention.

But attention is not impact.

And volume is not leadership.

The loudest person in the room

is often the least in control.

Shouting does not solve problems.

It fills silence.

It masks insecurity.

It exposes poor thinking.

Real professionals do not react.

They respond.

They ask questions before making accusations.

They gather facts before forming opinions.

They pause before speaking.

They do not let pressure dictate their behavior.

They dictate their behavior despite pressure.

Composure does not mean you care less.

It means you care enough

to stay clear-headed

when everyone else is losing theirs.

It means you protect your credibility.

Your judgment.

Your reputation.

Because in the long run,

people do not remember who shouted.

They remember who stayed calm

and got things done.

That is the way pros work.

Know your no

Every day, we engage with several people.

Each relationship asks something from us.

Every yes has a cost.

Sometimes it costs rest.

Sometimes it costs focus.

Sometimes it costs relationships.

Sometimes it costs peace of mind.

That is when I realized:

“No” is not selfish.

It is a boundary.

And boundaries protect what matters.

They protect your values.

Your standards.

Your purpose.

I am learning to say no when the work does not make me proud.

When quality is not possible.

When it steals time from what matters most.

When integrity is at risk.

When I am simply following the crowd.

When it does not move me forward.

Life constantly invites us to rush.

To answer quickly.

To agree automatically.

To move without thinking.

But wisdom lives in the pause.

In the quiet space between impulse and decision.

Where you ask:

Does this align with who I am becoming?

Does this deserve my energy?

Does this bring me closer to what truly matters?

Learning to say no has strengthened my yes.

When I say yes now,

I mean it.

I show up prepared.

Focused.

Fully committed.

Not resentful.

Not distracted.

Not halfway in.

Because every yes I give

has survived an honest no.

And that makes all the difference.

Open up about giving up

I used to think self-improvement was a private thing.

Something you worked on quietly.

Something you fixed on your own.

Something you did without letting anyone know.

Then I started talking.

Not to everyone.

To a close few I trusted.

I told them the things I wanted to give up.

Overeating.

Overspending.

Overreacting.

Worrying too much.

Procrastinating.

Letting small frustrations become big moods.

Things I was not proud of.

Things I usually kept to myself.

And something changed.

The moment I said them out loud,

they became real.

Not just thoughts.

Not just intentions.

Commitments.

Now, when I reached for something I said I would avoid,

someone would notice.

Not to judge.

To remind.

Not to shame.

To support.

I realized that the more people who know,

the harder it is to quietly go back to old habits.

Accountability keeps you honest.

But more than that,

it keeps you humble.

It reminds you that you are still learning.

Still growing.

Still human.

There is strength in vulnerability.

Admitting what you want to outgrow

does not make you weak.

It invites understanding.

It creates partnership.

It builds trust.

It says, “I’m trying. Help me do better.”

And most of the time, people will.

Progress, I am learning,

does not begin with pretending you have everything under control.

It begins with honesty.

With saying,

“This is where I struggle.”

“This is where I want to improve.”

“This is where I need support.”

So now, when I want to change something about myself,

I say it out loud.

To the people who matter.

Because growth is easier

when you are not doing it alone.

As for my “go up” goals?

That is for another entry. *wink*

Go first

Lately, people have been calling me “bibo.”

The one who volunteers.

The one who raises his hand.

The one who steps in.

And I guess it is true.

I try to go first.

Not first place.

Not first in line for credit.

Just… first to offer.

First to help.

First to try.

First to ask, “Do you need anything?”

I have learned that waiting is easy.

Waiting to be told.

Waiting to be invited.

Waiting to be needed.

Going first takes intention.

Before your partner hints they need support.

Before your parent asks for help.

Before a colleague struggles in silence.

Before a client follows up.

You notice.

You anticipate.

You act.

It is empathy in motion.

This is how you add value.

The people we trust most are not always the loudest.

They are the ones who notice.

They send a message before someone feels forgotten.

They refill the glass before it is empty.

They check in before problems grow.

They do not wait for urgency.

They respond to awareness.

The same principle applies to growth.

Do not wait for perfect timing.

Do not wait for permission.

Do not wait until you feel “ready.”

Seek the difficult path.

Volunteer for the messy project.

Choose the task others avoid.

Because that is where learning hides.

If it feels too easy, it probably is.

If it stretches you, it shapes you.

Growth begins when you stop waiting for instructions

and start moving with intention.

I am realizing that initiative is not about showing off.

It is about showing up.

Again and again.

When no one is watching.

When no one is counting.

When no one is asking.

So if you want to stand out,

do not wait to be chosen.

Choose to move.

Choose to care.

Choose to offer.

Choose to act.

Go first.

Service ace

Novak Djokovic is everywhere.

Breaking the long-held grip of Roger Federer and Rafael Nadal,

rising as the undisputed World No. 1.

Match after match, he delivered what every tennis player dreams of.

Service aces.

Clean.

Confident.

Precise.

Points won before the opponent could even react.

Watching him, I realized something.

In tennis, a great serve sets the tone.

In life, so does the way you treat people.

Life works the same way.

Success is not only about how good you are at what you do.

It is about how good you are with people.

How you listen.

How you respond.

How you show up.

Service is one of the few things that costs nothing,

yet costs everything when neglected.

A smile and a frown take the same effort.

Only one builds trust.

In this age of instant messages and instant opinions,

experiences travel fast.

A good interaction becomes a recommendation.

A bad one becomes a warning.

Every conversation leaves a trace.

With clients.

With colleagues.

With friends.

With strangers.

People may forget what you said.

They may forget what you sold.

But they will remember how you made them feel.

I am learning that true excellence is built on attention and empathy.

On being present.

On being patient.

On caring enough to listen fully.

Serving well is not about being submissive.

It is about being intentional.

Listen before you speak.

Take responsibility when you are wrong.

Respond without defensiveness.

Keep your word.

Follow through.

Treat every message, every meeting, every request with respect.

Because people can feel sincerity.

And they can feel indifference too.

Service is not a job description.

It is a way of living.

A mindset.

A discipline.

A daily choice to treat every interaction

as an opportunity to build trust.

Just like a great serve in tennis,

great service in life sets the point in your favor

before the game even begins.

Your no.1 title

When life forces you to choose,

your priorities reveal who you really live for.

I saw this clearly one day at work.

It was supposed to be a career-defining morning.

A colleague had a major presentation,

the kind that could influence promotions, reputation, and future opportunities.

Everything was ready.

Then he did not show up.

No call.

No message.

Half an hour later, we found out why.

He was at the hospital,

rushing his father who had suddenly fallen ill.

In that moment,

he chose.

Not his boss.

Not his title.

Not his next step up.

His father.

Some people quietly questioned it.

“Sayang!”

“Bad timing.”

“He missed his opportunity.”

But I kept thinking:

Was it really the wrong choice?

Life does this to us.

It puts us in situations where we cannot have everything.

And when that happens,

we reveal what matters most.

We carry many titles.

Son.

Brother.

Husband.

Employee.

Professional.

Entrepreneur.

Investor.

All of them matter.

But not all of them should come first.

Some people slowly make work their main identity.

They miss birthdays for meetings.

They skip reunions for deadlines.

They postpone family for “just one more project.”

Until one day,

there is nothing left to postpone.

We forget why we work in the first place.

Not for applause.

Not for titles.

Not for email signatures.

We work to build a life.

We work to protect people.

We work to provide.

We work to create stability.

But never to replace relationships.

Because companies will remember your output.

Your family will remember your presence.

Your boss may praise you today

and forget you tomorrow.

Your loved ones will carry you

through your hardest seasons.

No paycheck can buy back missed moments.

No promotion can rewind time.

No salary can replace a conversation

that never happened.

Every title carries weight.

But only one will still matter

when everything else is gone.

So I keep asking myself:

When life forces me to choose,

which title will I protect first?

And will I be proud of that answer

years from now?

Half-million dollar lesson

One night, while reading through my postgrad assignment,

surrounded by books and highlighted pages,

I came across a business case that stopped me.

An employee at IBM made a mistake that cost the company half a million dollars.

One mistake.

Five hundred thousand dollars.

I expected the story to end with termination.

It didn’t.

Instead, he was kept.

When asked why, Thomas J. Watson Sr. supposedly said:

“We’ve just spent half a million dollars educating him.”

That line stayed with me.

Where most would see a liability,

he saw an investment.

It made me think about how we treat failure.

In school.

At work.

In life.

We are trained to avoid it.

Do not mess up.

Do not embarrass yourself.

Do not fall behind.

So when we fail, we panic.

We hide.

We make excuses.

But failure, when examined, is information.

It shows you what does not work.

It exposes your blind spots.

It forces growth.

What hurts us is not falling.

It is refusing to learn from the fall.

Every mistake has a cost.

So does every lesson.

The difference is whether we waste it.

Right now, I am still learning.

Still making mistakes.

Still getting things wrong.

Still figuring things out.

And maybe that is fine.

As long as I reflect.

As long as I improve.

As long as I do not repeat the same error out of pride.

Failure is not the opposite of success.

It is tuition.

You pay it in humility.

And if you are wise,

you graduate stronger.

Every fall contains a lesson.

The only real loss

is ignoring it.

Lesson from a less fortunate

My girlfriend had just received her very first paycheck.

She was excited.

Proud.

Quietly happy.

So she decided to treat herself to her favorite fast food.

Nothing fancy.

Just a small reward for hard work.

On the way, a street child tugged at her sleeve and asked for alms.

Most people would have walked past.

She didn’t.

She invited him to eat with her.

Inside, he kept thanking her.

Almost shy about it.

Then he admitted something that stayed with me.

It was his first meal in three days.

Halfway through, she noticed he stopped eating.

He carefully wrapped the rest of his food

and placed it beside him.

Curious, she asked why.

In a soft voice, he said he was saving it

for his younger sister waiting outside.

She was stunned.

Here was a child with almost nothing,

and yet his first instinct was still to share.

Not to keep.

Not to protect his own.

To give.

She told him to finish his meal

and ordered another one for his sister.

As I watched, I realized something.

She gave because she was celebrating.

He gave because that was simply who he was.

That moment changed how I looked at generosity.

It is not about big gestures.

It is not about posting.

It is not about recognition.

It is about instinct.

About choosing kindness

even when no one is watching.

The irony is hard to ignore.

Those who have less often give more freely.

Those who have plenty often hesitate.

Maybe because when you have little,

you understand what it means to need.

And when you understand need,

you learn compassion.

That day, I was amazed by my girlfriend.

But I was even more amazed by that child.

He taught me that wealth is not measured

by what you own,

but by what you are willing to share.

We only pass through this world once.

We will not take our money with us.

We will not take our titles.

We will not take our achievements.

What remains

is how we treated people

when we did not have to.

And maybe that is the real success.

Not in what we accumulate,

but in what we give away.

Before you even speak

Some people have started calling me a “PR guy.”

Someone who can talk to anyone.

Someone who can connect.

Someone who knows how to approach people.

Someone with the “gift of gab.”

It sounds nice.

But the truth is, it is not as easy as it looks.

I have learned that not everyone is easy to approach.

Not everyone wants to talk.

Not everyone is open.

Not everyone feels safe letting people in.

Some people look serious, not because they are cold,

but because life has been heavy.

Deadlines.

Pressure.

Expectations.

Worries.

All of it slowly settles on your face

until you start carrying stress everywhere you go.

That is when I realized something.

Communication does not start with words.

It starts with energy.

Before you say hello.

Before you introduce yourself.

Before you explain who you are.

People already feel you.

That is the message.

And one small thing changes everything.

A sincere smile.

Not the fake kind.

Not the “I’m trying to impress you” kind.

The real one.

The kind that says,

“I’m here. I’m okay. You’re okay.”

A genuine smile lowers walls.

It tells people you are not a threat.

That you are listening.

That you are grounded.

It creates space.

A smile builds trust before facts are exchanged.

It softens tension before problems are discussed.

It turns presence into influence.

I am learning that being good with people is not about talking more.

It is about making others feel comfortable first.

It is about reading the room.

Respecting silence.

Choosing warmth over ego.

So before I walk into any room now,

I try to remember:

Check your energy.

Check your intention.

Check your face.

Because people respond to what you project.

And most of the time,

the strongest introduction is not a title,

not a resume,

not a pitch.

It is a sincere smile.

Because wherever you go,

everyone understands that language.

And life, more often than not,

reflects what you send out.

Give up to go up

Becoming a licensed doctor takes years of study.

Building a physique like Arnold Schwarzenegger takes discipline in the kitchen and pain in the gym.

Climbing Mount Everest means facing 29,000 feet of thin air and no shortcuts.

The pattern is obvious.

If you want to go up,

you have to give something up.

But here is the harder question.

So how do I go up?

And maybe more uncomfortable:

What should I be willing to give up?

On your early 20s, that question feels real.

Do I give up sleep to study more?

Do I give up weekends to build skills?

Do I give up comfort to chase something uncertain?

Because if I keep doing the same things,

I will probably keep getting the same results.

I have read that growth does not happen when things are easy.

Muscles grow when they are torn.

Minds grow when they are challenged.

Confidence grows when it survives embarrassment.

You do not get stronger lifting feathers.

You do not get sharper repeating what you already know.

You do not move forward staying where it feels safe.

So maybe the issue is not talent.

Maybe it is trade-offs.

Maybe going up means:

Giving up distractions.

Giving up ego.

Giving up the need to always look good.

Giving up excuses.

Maybe it means choosing long-term growth over short-term comfort.

I realize something.

Every person I admire gave something up.

Time.

Ease.

Popularity.

Certainty.

Not because they liked suffering.

But because they wanted something more.

So maybe that is the real equation.

If I want a better version of my life,

I need to become a better version of myself.

And that version probably costs something.

Comfort is cheap.

Growth is expensive.

And the higher you want to go,

the more you have to leave behind.

So here is what I am asking myself:

What am I still holding on to

that is keeping me where I am?

Maybe going up is not about adding more.

Maybe it is about letting go.

Because the view is only worth it

if you were willing to climb.

Maroon chapter

If Green & White taught me how the world works,
then Maroon & Gold is teaching me who it should work for.

The transition is jarring.

Physically, the campus alone is overwhelming.
So wide you sometimes need to ride a jeep just to get to your next class.

From air-conditioned classrooms to open halls.
From suits and heels to slippers and conviction.
From cordon bleu meals to Busog Meal A (if you know, you know).
From “What’s your org?” to “What’s your stand?”

Here, no one cares who your parents are.
They care about what you believe in.
And whether you can defend it.

It is a different kind of elite.

I remember my professor joking on Day 1:

“Where did you graduate from?”

A classmate said, “Blue & White.”

The professor smiled and replied,
“What’s that? There are only two schools in this country.
Maroon & Gold… and the others.”

Everyone laughed.

But beneath the humor was a truth.

This place carries its own kind of pride.

Not of wealth,
but of wisdom.

Not of privilege,
but of excellence.

Someone once said:

“Your term paper from the Blue Falcons, Red Warriors, and others?
That’s just a short quiz here.”

They were not exaggerating.

Your school’s cum laude.
Your student council president.
Your valedictorian.

Here, they are just classmates.

If they made it in.

And many do not.

The level is different.

Valedictorians are everywhere.
Debaters.
Researchers.
Scholars.
Thinkers.

People who casually drop insights
that take you days to process.

This place has produced presidents and senators.
National artists and scientists.
Masters of craft.
People who shaped how the country thinks.

And yet, brilliance here is rarely loud.

It is quiet.
Disciplined.
Built on rigor.

Maroon & Gold is teaching me that intelligence is not a trophy.

It is a tool.

And it is meant to serve.

The people beside me are not just classmates.

They are future lawmakers.
Journalists.
Scientists.
Public servants.

People whose names I will read in headlines years from now.

They remind me that knowledge has weight.

Every opportunity carries responsibility.

Every advantage comes with an obligation to give back.

Here, I am learning to speak truth.

More importantly,
I am learning to listen to it,
even when it is uncomfortable.

Even when it challenges what I thought I knew.

As I continue this journey, I am realizing something.

Green and White trained me to excel.

Maroon & Gold is teaching me to exist for something bigger than myself.

To ask better questions.
To care more deeply.
To serve more honestly.

To remember that success means nothing
if it is not shared.

UP, fight.

Green chapter

Reputed as the school of the elite.

And in many ways, they were right.

The Green & White carried a certain reputation.

Your classmates were children of celebrities, politicians, tycoons, even models themselves.

Head-turners everywhere.

People who looked confident.

Put together.

Like they belonged in magazines and boardrooms.

People you noticed from across campus

and quietly wondered how they made it look so easy.

No place for mediocre representation.

At first, it was intimidating.

I came in knowing I had earned my spot,

but still wondering if I truly belonged.

Over time, though, I realized something.

Being surrounded by social elites teaches you something no textbook ever could.

How to navigate people.

Not for clout,

but for connection.

Not to impress,

but to understand.

La Salle taught me confidence in rooms where status was currency.

It made me comfortable speaking with people from very different worlds.

Rarely did you hear pure Tagalog in class.

English flowed naturally.

And one day, you realize, you speak the same way too.

You absorb excellence by proximity.

Not because anyone forces it on you,

but because standards quietly rise around you.

It showed me that influence is not always loud.

And that the real skill is learning how to belong without losing yourself.

Inside air-conditioned classrooms and polished hallways,

you learn a certain polish too.

How to present yourself.

How to manage perception.

How to carry your name.

How to represent Green & White with dignity.

Beyond grades and deadlines, the Green & White teaches standards.

The “Rektikano.”

Show up prepared.

Dress with intention.

Finish what you start.

Speak with clarity.

Act with class.

And then there are the connections.

Classmates whose names you barely notice today,

but one day, you read about.

Running global companies.

Leading major conglomerates.

Building industries.

Shaping the economy.

That is when it hits you.

The real value of the Green & White is not just who you knew.

It is who you were expected to become.

An environment that quietly tells you:

“Do better. Be better. Expect more from yourself.”

Long after graduation, I realized that was the real advantage.

Not just access.

Not just networks.

But conditioning.

To aim higher.

To prepare harder.

To carry yourself with responsibility.

Animo.

Forever grateful to my parents for making this possible.