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.

The game that raised me

As a stereotypical Filipino boy, basketball found me early.

On dusty courts.

On improvised rings.

On borrowed shoes.

On afternoons that felt endless.

On watching NBA highlights,

dreaming of seeing a game live one day,

even though America felt impossibly far away, and impossibly expensive.

Like most kids here,

I did not just play basketball.

I imagined myself inside it.

I imagined the crowd.

The lights.

The noise.

The moment.

And somehow, it never left.

Not because I dreamed of making it to the pros,

but because the game slowly became part of who I am.

Before I learned how to speak with confidence,

I learned how to dribble.

Before I learned how to deal with pressure,

I learned how to take a shot with people watching.

Before I learned how to handle failure,

I learned how to miss.

From Michael Jordan, I learned that failure is not the end.

You fall.

You lose.

You come back.

From Kobe Bryant, I learned discipline.

My favorite. The one I followed most.

First in.

Last out.

No excuses.

From LeBron James, I learned leadership.

Stay consistent.

Carry the pressure.

Lift others.

From Stephen Curry, I learned belief.

Trust your shot.

Trust your difference.

Play your way.

Four players.

Four lessons.

All shaping one kid from the Philippines.

When I think about it now, maybe that is what life is.

A little persistence.

A little discipline.

A little leadership.

A lot of courage.

Basketball taught me that greatness has versions.

Sometimes, it looks like trophies.

Sometimes, it looks like improvement.

Sometimes, it looks like showing up when you want to quit.

Sometimes, it is not about being the star.

Sometimes, it is about building your shot.

Finding your rhythm.

Understanding your role.

And playing your own game well.

Because in the end, the real win is not becoming someone else.

It is becoming comfortable with who you are.

And committed to who you are becoming.

Maybe that is who am I.

A work in progress.

Raised by the game.

A Mamba fan at heart.

Still learning.

Still trying.

Still showing up for the next play.

To my future self

Hi, Kian.

Starting this blog feels strange.

Not in a bad way.

Just unfamiliar.

It is one thing to think quietly in your head.

It is another thing to write those thoughts down and let other people see them.

Sometimes I stare at a blank screen, not knowing how to begin.

Sometimes I type something, delete it, then start again.

I keep wondering if this is even worth doing.

Who am I to write about life when I am still trying to figure out mine?

Right now, I am on my early 20s.

Still learning how to manage time.

How to deal with pressure.

How to balance dreams with reality.

How to stay hopeful when things do not go as planned.

Most days, I feel confident.

Some days, I feel completely lost.

And maybe that is normal.

Everything right now feels like a work in progress.

My career.

My relationships.

My priorities.

My mindset.

Nothing feels finished yet.

This blog is becoming part of that process.

A place where I can be honest without pretending I have it all together.

A place for small wins, quiet failures, and honest questions.

So this is really for you.

The version of me reading this years from now.

I do not know where you are in life when you find this.

What you have achieved.

What you have lost.

What you are proud of.

What still keeps you awake at night.

But I hope you remember this version of yourself.

The one who tried.

The one who kept learning.

The one who did not wait until everything was perfect.

I hope you did not stop being curious.

I hope you did not stop caring.

I hope you did not stop growing.

And if you ever feel tired, stuck, or unsure, come back here.

Read this again.

Remember why you started.

Remember that you once believed in yourself enough to begin.

Wherever you are now, I hope you are still becoming.

One honest thought at a time.

The first page

Every person carries a collection of stories that shape who they become.

Some are victories.

Others are lessons disguised as heartbreaks.

KIANthology is mine.

A space for reflections between the personal and the professional.

Between studying leadership and learning life.

Between doing well and doing good.

I write to remember.

I write to make sense.

I write because words have always been my way of turning moments into meaning.

Each month, I will do my best to share small pieces of my life,

and the quiet lessons they leave behind.

While I juggle work, dreams, and everything in between.

This is not a brand.

It is a body of work.

A slow, ongoing autobiography written in fragments.

One post.

One thought.

One season at a time.

If you found your way here, welcome.

Stay a while.

Let’s make sense of this world,

one story at a time.