Faith in humanity

You never forget a calamity like Super Typhoon Haiyan,

one of the strongest ever recorded in history.

The 300 kph winds that screamed.

The eerie silence that followed.

Families spending nights on rooftops amid raging storms.

Homes built from life savings swallowed by floodwaters.

Faces searching for loved ones who never made it home.

Children seeing bodies lined along the streets,

death normalized overnight.

Thousands left homeless.

Orphaned.

Hungry.

Traumatized.

And yet, only days later, life went on.

Another disaster.

Another headline.

In a nation so used to calamity,

heartbreak can begin to feel routine.

But what never becomes routine

is how we rise.

Ordinary people became rescuers.

Strangers became family.

Those safe at home found ways to help,

through donations, messages, shared posts,

and quiet acts of comfort.

I witnessed this spirit firsthand

when I volunteered at Villamor Air Base.

Families kept arriving,

tired, hungry, uncertain of what tomorrow would bring.

Some spoke of returning to Tacloban

once it was rebuilt.

Many worried about food, jobs,

and their children’s schooling.

I lost count of how many times

I tried to hold back my tears.

You could see the exhaustion in their eyes,

but also a quiet strength that refused to give up.

I watched children play at the activity center,

too young to fully understand the devastation they had survived,

yet laughing anyway.

The volunteers worked tirelessly.

The leaders stayed calm and steady,

giving clear direction 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:

My faith in humanity is intact.

I saw it in tired eyes that still hoped.

In hands that kept helping.

In hearts that refused to harden.

Together, we shall overcome.

10pm version of me

The 10 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 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 wonders if 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 owed your body but did not have 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.

And if you made it to 10 p.m.,
still breathing, still trying, still here,

that counts.

The quiet version of you is not a weaker one.

He is the proof
that you showed up
even when no one was watching.

Plot twist

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 centimeters.

In the bites of tapsilog.

In small talk.

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.

Plot twist:
Nothing changed.

But maybe that’s the point.

The shift isn’t in the world.

It’s in the way

you finally learned

to see it.

And suddenly,

even a regular Tuesday

feels like a small win.

Not bad for someone

who used to sleepwalk through mornings.

Turns out,

I wasn’t waiting for a new life.

I was just waiting

to wake up to this one.

Familiar, then gone

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.

I 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.

That 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 brightens mornings.

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.

Passing lives

We see them every day,

but we 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

#Employed #Blessed

but #Tired

Being tired from work is one thing.

Being tired from the commute is another.

A bus ride.

A train ride.

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 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 planned 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, yes.

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

On weekends, I serve at church.

I said yes to the calling.

For faith.

For gratitude.

As a way of returning God’s gift of speaking to me

by helping spread His Word.

Recently, I was elected as one of the leaders of our church’s special ministry.

I did not expect it.

Maybe this is what happens

after years of simply showing up.

Years of serving weekday and weekend Masses.

Five in the morning before the work commute.

Seven in the evening after a long day.

No spotlight.

No applause.

Just service.

It started as my way of giving back.

A quiet thank-you to God

for the gift of speaking,

and the courage to use it for something that matters.

Yes, it is volunteer work.

Yes, it is unpaid.

But somehow,

I always walk away feeling richer.

Because the return is never money.

It is peace.

It is fulfillment.

It is that quiet assurance

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 congregation

feels like an answered prayer.

Years later,

I am still grateful for the chance to serve.

Still tired sometimes.

Still juggling responsibilities.

Still showing up.

Still paid in grace.