5 feet

We went to the highlands for a breather. 

Cool air.
Quiet mornings.
A cabin with a staircase connecting it to the world below.

Then an accident.

I took one step down.

My foot slid.

My body tipped backward.

Then impact.

My back hit the first step.

Then the next.

And the next.

Each stair catching my spine like a drumbeat.

Thud. Crack. Thud.

Five feet does not sound high

until you fall it.

I landed flat.

Then I stood up.

Because men stand up.

There was a scrape.

A little blood. But no pain.

Adrenaline is merciful and deceptive.

“It’s fine,” I said.

By 11pm, the lie expired.

The pain arrived without knocking.

It did not ache, it pierced.

Every attempt to turn felt like a blade

being twisted inside my lower back.

We were far from everything.

No pharmacy.

No quick relief.

Just darkness and breathing through it.

“Anak, huwag mo i-baby ang sakit.”

They say mothers know best,
so I listened.
And endured.

The next day,
I carried on like normal.

Lifted my 12-kilo son.
Carried 20-kilo luggage.
Changed the water jug.

The usuals.

Small proofs of strength.
Quiet acts of denial.

Three nights passed.

Pain stayed.

Like something inside me had shifted,

and never quite returned.

I saw a specialist.

I needed to get scanned.

Then the verdict.

A thin crack in my spine.

Plus a slipped disc.

The first, temporary.

The second, possibly permanent.

Enough to redraw months of your life.

“Strict bed rest. One month.
Then come back for follow-up.”

No lifting.

No sudden movement.

No pretending.

Just flat on your back

replaying the fall in your head.

Five feet.

That’s all it took.

Pain has a way of humbling you.

It strips away the illusion that you are unbreakable.

It reminds you that strength is not about rising quickly.

Sometimes strength is accepting stillness.

Sometimes strength is healing before proving anything.

That day did not give me cake memories.

It gave me perspective.

Your body keeps score.

And gravity does not negotiate.