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.

Buy her flowers

I have been giving my wife a bouquet
almost every year for nearly two decades.

Consistently.
Every Valentine’s Day.

People often ask me why.

Women will say,
“No, we don’t even want flowers.”
“Let's be practical”

Maybe.

But sometimes what they really mean is,
“You don’t have to.”

That is different from,
“I don’t want to be chosen.”

Some people argue that
I have fallen for the marketing of capitalists.
Maybe.

But if marketing reminds me to pause
and honor my wife deliberately,
I am fine with that.

Because this is not about roses.

It is about ritual.
It is about consistency.
It is about never letting the woman who stands beside me
wonder if she still matters.

I would rather let my wife be the envy of others
than let her feel envy toward anyone else.

Because here is what people rarely talk about.

Imagine this.

It is Valentine’s Day at work.

Someone walks in holding a bouquet.
Trying not to hide her smile.

Her coworkers notice.

“That bouquet is so nice.”
“Your husband is so sweet.”
“You’re very lucky.”

How do you think she feels?

Seen.
Chosen.
Proud.

Now imagine the others.

The ones who did not receive anything.
The ones who say, “It’s okay.”
The ones who pretend it does not matter.

It always matters.

Not because of the flowers.

Because of what they represent.

Effort.
Thought.
Consistency.
Public affection.

A quiet announcement that says:

After all these years,
I still choose you.

My wife has never demanded flowers.

Which is exactly why she deserves them.

Love should not be given
only when it is requested.
It should be given
because it is deserved.

Some people say,
“It’s just once a year.”

Exactly.

If you cannot show up intentionally
once a year,
how are you showing up the rest of the time?

For me, flowers are not an obligation.

They are a promise.

A reminder.
A choice renewed quietly.

Every year, I am telling my wife:

I still notice you.
I still pursue you.
I still take pride in loving you.

And one day,
when we are older,
when life is slower,
when the house is quieter,

I hope she looks back and thinks:

He never made me doubt.

That is why I buy her flowers.

Not for tradition.
Not for show.

But because love,
when practiced consistently,
becomes security.

Replicate yourself

“We need more of you. We need to replicate you.”

Our company owner told me that, not just once.
It stayed with me.

Because that is what leadership really is.

 Succession.
Legacy.
Purpose.

Not creating followers,
but developing people who can lead without you.

Not commanding tasks,
but transferring judgment, values, and standards.

Great leaders do not build dependence.
They build capacity.

I was fortunate to have mentors
who believed in me when I was still unfinished.
They saw potential before polish.
Possibility before proof.

They invested anyway.

Now, it is my turn.

But here is the truth:
mentorship requires discernment.

Time is finite.
Energy is sacred.
Wisdom is earned.

Not everyone deserves access to your playbook.

Choose carefully who you pour into.
Choose intentionally who you entrust your life’s work to.

And when you find them,
hope they honor the gift.
That they grow it.
That they carry it forward.

But if they do not,
if they take it lightly,
if they waste the opportunity,

Let them go.

That is not failure.
That is clarity.

Greatness given is never wasted.

It always finds its way
to those ready to build something bigger than themselves.

Culture > compensation

Gone are the days I would accept any role for a higher pay grade
or a shinier title.

Money is no longer the main driver.

Now it is about something deeper.

Working with someone, not under someone.
Because who you work with shapes who you become.

I have had bosses who tracked tasks.
And leaders who developed people.

One checked boxes.
The other built character.

Real leaders do not buy loyalty.
They earn it through trust, clarity, and consistency.

I do not mind skill gaps.
Technical skills can be learned.
That is why you hire for expertise.

What matters more is emotional intelligence.

Understanding people.
Knowing when to challenge.
Knowing when to steady.

Someone who checks in genuinely.

Someone who asks how you are,
not just what is done.

Someone who treats people as partners,
not parts.

That kind of leadership makes people stay,
even when they have options.

Over a decade and a half in the workforce,
I am grateful that opportunities now come more often.

Calls from headhunters are reminders that there are choices.
But what I look for is alignment.

I am not being picky.
I am being intentional.

Money is important.

But working with a true leader,
in a healthy culture,

That is priceless.

Shoulda, woulda, coulda

At one point, I lived out of a suitcase.

Week one in Metro Manila.
Week two somewhere else.

Alternate beds.
Alternate cities.
Alternate lives.

Work gave me access to places,
people,
and perspectives.

I met leaders.
Built networks.
Honed my craft in stakeholder management.

For a while, it felt like I was exactly where I was meant to be.

Then one early morning,
more than 500 kilometers away from home,
while overseeing event ingress in Cebu,
my phone rang.

It was my wife.
Her voice was shaking.

Our one-year-old had slipped in the bathtub.
Head first.
She was alone.
Afraid.
Panicking.

So was I.
Quietly.

Everything around me disappeared.
The checklist.
The stage lights.
The approvals.
The noise.

I was not there.
I could not help.
I could not even hold them.

And it hit me.

What am I really working for?

If I am going to be away this much,
why not be in Singapore, Australia, or Canada?

Thrice the pay.
Better benefits.
Better options.

But there I was.
In Cebu.
Not abroad.
Not earning dollars.

Missing moments no salary can ever buy back.

Priorities change.

Years from now,
I will not remember that event.

 But I will remember the moments I missed.
And I will regret them.

You do not get a second chance at the first five years of your child’s life.
You only get one chance to be present.

I am grateful for every opportunity.
Truly.

But some things matter more.

Any man can be a father.
A provider.

Not every man becomes a dad.

So to my fellow fathers,
we can always return to chasing careers.

For now,
I choose to chase something better.

I choose to be present.

*play Shoulda, Woulda, Coulda by Brian McKnight*

Play where it lands

It started with a gift.

A golf club set personally handed to me by the President of our company.

He said, “You’ll learn a lot out there.”

I thought he meant about golf.
He meant people.

Because golf reveals things the boardroom hides.

 In meetings, everyone’s polite.
Strategic.
Quoting Simon Sinek like it’s a religion.

But on the golf course?
You’ll see who really practices “emotional intelligence”
and who’s one slice away from throwing their driver into the lake.

Some people blame the wind.
Others blame the grass.
One guy blamed the sun.
Even gravity. 

Then there are the calm ones.

Golf’s funny like that.

It silences the loud,
humbles the know-it-all,
exposes the fake calm,
and rewards those who can laugh at their own bad swing.

The fairway doesn’t care about your title or your KPIs.

It only cares if you can recover.

Maybe that’s why the President gave me that set.
Not as a gift, but as a test.

Because in golf,
like in life,
everyone looks good at tee-off.

Character shows up on the second shot.
When the ball didn’t go where you planned.

Never trust a guy who blames gravity.

You burned out your brightest

You do not lose your best people overnight.
It starts quietly.

When you ask them to clean up
after poor performance.

When you “reward” them with more work
because they are “the only ones who can.”

When you keep loading them up
because they are “so reliable.”

When they help out of malasakit,
you call it overstepping.

Yet you volunteer them everywhere
because “the organization needs them.”

When job scopes slowly expand,
and suddenly, work that was never theirs
becomes “part of the role.”

You stretch them for out-of-scope work,
but hesitate to fight for their raise,
their bonus,
their promotion.

You postpone recognition to “next cycle.”
You offer small increases 5% increase,
while their workload grows by 50%

You cite “budget constraints”
instead of acknowledging their real value.

Your best people will accept this, for a while.
Because strong performers are loyal.

But one day, they notice the imbalance.

And when they do,
they do not complain loudly.

They stay professional.
They deliver.
They smile in meetings.

Until one day, they do not.

Because burnout does not explode.
It fades.

Quietly.

Take your top performers for granted,
and you lose the ones carrying the real weight.

The ones making it look easy.
The ones protecting the team from crisis.
The ones creating space for others to breathe.

Their reliability is why systems hold.
Their commitment is why leaders can step away.

Ever notice how things feel heavier
when they take leave?

That is not coincidence.

At minimum, compensate them fairly.
Better yet, value them consistently.

Occasional “good job” is appreciated,
but it does not replace growth, trust, or opportunity.

Because if you do not build a place
where your best people can thrive,

They will build a life
where they are valued.

When the door opens

You waited.

You worked.

You showed up, even when no one was watching.

You sat through the politics.

You endured the silence.

You accepted tasks beyond your pay grade.

You carried weight that was not always yours.

And then, the door opens.

Not with fanfare. Not with confetti.

Just a quiet acknowledgment that you have always belonged.

Because the truth is, the title did not make you ready.

The waiting did.

Every late night.

Every unseen effort.

Every moment you chose grace over resentment.

They shaped the version of you
who can now carry the title with steadiness,
not ego.

You no longer need to prove your worth.

You simply need to embody it.

And when you walk in, remember the waiting room.

Remember those still in it.

The ones who stayed
through the difficult seasons.

The ones who made the journey lighter,
not heavier.

The value builders.
The steady ones.

Because real leadership is not about finally entering the room.

It is about holding the door open
for those who come next.