Transit Dialog

27/10/2025

“𝘞𝘦 𝘩𝘢𝘷𝘦 𝘮𝘰𝘳𝘦 𝘧𝘳𝘦𝘦𝘥𝘰𝘮 𝘰𝘧 𝘦𝘹𝘱𝘳𝘦𝘴𝘴𝘪𝘰𝘯 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘯 𝘢𝘯𝘺 𝘨𝘦𝘯𝘦𝘳𝘢𝘵𝘪𝘰𝘯 𝘣𝘦𝘧𝘰𝘳𝘦 𝘶𝘴, 𝘣𝘶𝘵 𝘮𝘶𝘤𝘩 𝘰𝘧 𝘸𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘸𝘦 𝘦𝘹𝘱𝘳𝘦𝘴𝘴 𝘪𝘴 𝘳𝘦𝘤𝘺𝘤𝘭𝘦𝘥 𝘱𝘳𝘦𝘫𝘶𝘥𝘪𝘤𝘦.”

𝗢𝗳 𝗞𝗲𝘆𝗯𝗼𝗮𝗿𝗱 𝗪𝗮𝗿𝗿𝗶𝗼𝗿𝘀 𝗮𝗻𝗱 𝗗𝗶𝗴𝗶𝘁𝗮𝗹 𝗛𝗼𝗼𝗱𝘀
𝘉𝘺 𝘑𝘶𝘢𝘯 𝘒𝘢𝘳𝘪𝘮𝘭𝘢𝘯

We all like to think we’re brave. The type who’d stand up to bullies, call out injustice, speak the truth even when it hurts. But then the Wi-Fi kicks in, and suddenly, courage has a new face.

Just open a Facebook comment thread. You’ll find ordinary people throwing out cruelty like it’s confetti, bold as lions, while sitting in tsinelas. Behind the screen, insults fly faster than facts. Hatred parades as honesty. Self-righteousness dresses up as “just telling it like it is.” The internet gave us a strange gift: 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘱𝘰𝘸𝘦𝘳 𝘵𝘰 𝘣𝘦 𝘪𝘯𝘷𝘪𝘴𝘪𝘣𝘭𝘦 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘶𝘯𝘣𝘦𝘢𝘳𝘢𝘣𝘭𝘺 𝘭𝘰𝘶𝘥 𝘢𝘵 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘴𝘢𝘮𝘦 𝘵𝘪𝘮𝘦.

But let’s be honest. Is that bravery?

We’ve seen this before. Think of the Ku Klux Klan (K*K). They didn’t march into towns barefaced under the sun. They wore hoods. Why? Because hatred has always been cowardly. It needs a mask, whether it’s a white sheet, a cartoon avatar, or a username like 𝘗𝘪𝘯𝘰𝘺𝘞𝘢𝘳𝘳𝘪𝘰𝘳123.

That’s the truth we don’t like to admit: the cruelty we see online isn’t new. It’s the same poison, just upgraded with better Wi-Fi. The hood is now digital.

And the saddest part? Many of the loudest voices online genuinely believe they’re brave. They confuse volume with conviction. But bravery isn’t measured by how savage your clapback is. Real courage is about what you’re willing to risk for the truth. Clicking “post” costs nothing. Putting your real name, face, and reputation on the line? That’s courage — and most won’t do it.

It makes me think of how satire like 𝙎𝙤𝙪𝙩𝙝 𝙋𝙖𝙧𝙠, 𝙏𝙝𝙚 𝙎𝙞𝙢𝙥𝙨𝙤𝙣𝙨, or even local comedy that pokes fun at politics lands harder than many sermons today. Comedy unmasks illusions. Sermons, more often than not, hand out masks: neat answers, false certainty, and no room for doubt. Satire may be crude or vulgar, but at least it doesn’t hide. It tells us the joke is on us.

So what kind of culture do we want? A culture of honesty, or a digital barangay mob where everyone carries a torch but nobody shows their face?

The truth is, the internet has democratized cowardice. Before, only a few had the cover — literal hoods or social power — to spew venom without consequence. Now, anyone with data load and a phone can join the lynch mob. The hood is no longer cloth; it’s a profile picture. The cross burning is no longer fire; it’s a pile-on in the comments section.

And maybe that’s the real tragedy. We have more freedom of expression than any generation before us, but much of what we express is recycled prejudice. Given the chance to speak the truth, we pick easy mockery. Given the chance to build, we choose to tear down. Given the chance to risk honesty, we hide.

Don’t get me wrong. Anger has its place. Satire, protest, righteous indignation, these can shake the walls of power. But when we unleash cruelty on strangers just because the stakes are low, we cheapen courage. There’s nothing brave about throwing stones when you know no one can throw them back.

So maybe it’s worth asking: If the hood has only gone digital, are we really any different from those who once wore the white sheets? Or are we just better at hiding?

We like to say we’re smarter now, more enlightened. But check your own posts, your own comments. How often have you said things online that you’d never dare say face-to-face? How often do you throw words like weapons, only because the screen protects you?

Here’s the sharp truth: the internet hasn’t made us braver. It just made it easier to fake bravery. And the danger isn’t that hatred still exists. It’s that we’ve convinced ourselves it’s courage.

So the next time you feel bold behind a screen, ask: am I unmasking truth, or hiding under a digital hood?

Because bravery never hides. Cowardice always does.

25/10/2025

“𝘞𝘦 𝘯𝘦𝘦𝘥 𝘮𝘰𝘳𝘦 𝘰𝘧 𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘮. 𝘛𝘩𝘦 𝘮𝘢𝘵𝘪𝘨𝘢𝘴 𝘢𝘯𝘨 𝘶𝘭𝘰 𝘮𝘪𝘨𝘩𝘵 𝘣𝘦 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘰𝘯𝘭𝘺 𝘩𝘰𝘯𝘦𝘴𝘵 𝘨𝘶𝘺 𝘪𝘯 𝘢 𝘳𝘰𝘰𝘮𝘧𝘶𝘭 𝘰𝘧 𝘤𝘰𝘯𝘧𝘰𝘳𝘮𝘪𝘴𝘵𝘴.”

𝙋𝙖𝙨𝙖𝙬𝙖𝙮 𝗡𝗲𝗲𝗱𝗲𝗱
𝘉𝘺 𝘚𝘪𝘭𝘷𝘦𝘴𝘵𝘳𝘦 ‘𝘠𝘰𝘯𝘨’ 𝘈𝘧𝘢𝘣𝘭𝘦, 𝘦𝘥𝘪𝘵𝘰𝘳 𝘪𝘯 𝘤𝘩𝘪𝘦𝘧

We love to say “𝘈𝘯𝘨 𝘩𝘪𝘳𝘢𝘱 𝘯𝘨 𝘮𝘢𝘵𝘪𝘨𝘢𝘴 𝘢𝘯𝘨 𝘶𝘭𝘰.” Maybe that hard head is precisely what keeps the nation’s neck from breaking, especially when there is too much corruption.

We are famously warm and harmonious. We smile through traffic, say opo to authority, and call our bosses Sir even when they don’t deserve it. We are a people allergic to conflict. We worship 𝘱𝘢𝘬𝘪𝘬𝘪𝘴𝘢𝘮𝘢.

But somewhere along the way, that virtue quietly mutated into a virus. Because when everyone agrees too quickly, nobody bothers to think deeply. When we fear mapahiya, we end up being napapahiya as a country.

Social psychologists call it 𝙣𝙤𝙧𝙢𝙖𝙩𝙞𝙫𝙚 𝙘𝙤𝙣𝙛𝙤𝙧𝙢𝙞𝙩𝙮, the pressure to fit in so others won’t dislike us. In the workplace, it means keeping quiet even when a project smells fishy. It means signing papers you haven’t read, simply because everyone else has already done so.

It means saying “𝘈𝘱𝘱𝘳𝘰𝘷𝘦𝘥 𝘱𝘰, 𝘚𝘪𝘳” when what you really want to say is “𝘚𝘪𝘳, 𝘪𝘭𝘭𝘦𝘨𝘢𝘭 𝘱𝘰 ’𝘺𝘢𝘯.”

The result? A bureaucracy filled with decent people 𝘸𝘩𝘰 𝘭𝘰𝘰𝘬 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘰𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘳 𝘸𝘢𝘺.

And because conformity is rewarded, it breeds corruption that grows quietly like mold on a damp wall.

In government recruitment and civil-service training, this mindset takes root early. Applicants are often screened for obedience, not for integrity. They’re asked if they can “follow rules,” not if they are prepared to question stupid ones.

Once hired, they’re taught hierarchy before honesty. A trainee who corrects a superior is told, “𝘏𝘪𝘯𝘥𝘪 𝘱𝘢 𝘯𝘨𝘢 𝘳𝘦𝘨𝘶𝘭𝘢𝘳, 𝘢𝘯𝘨 𝘵𝘢𝘱𝘢𝘯𝘨 𝘮𝘰 𝘯𝘢.” By the time they’re permanent, that spark is gone. The good eggs have either hardened or cracked.

We often mistake the non-conformist for the problem. The employee who refuses to sign the padded voucher, the teacher who questions the procurement, the LGU clerk who insists on transparency.

These so-called troublemakers are the early warning system of a sick institution. They point to the rot when it is still a speck in the woodwork. We need more of them in government.

Corporate experts agree that organizations collapse not from lack of intelligence but from lack of dissent. The “yes culture” kills innovation and ethics alike. Our flood control mess is a textbook case.

Engineers knew what was happening but kept quiet, including those who were conflicted. Nobody wanted to be 𝘒𝘑. So everybody became complicit.

Not all stubbornness is noble. Some people are just egotistical. But there’s a special breed of people who are stubborn with purpose. These are the ones who refuse to let wrongdoing slide, even if it means career su***de.

We need more of them. The 𝘮𝘢𝘵𝘪𝘨𝘢𝘴 𝘢𝘯𝘨 𝘶𝘭𝘰 might be the only honest guy in a roomful of conformists. The maverick might look disloyal, but he’s loyal to something higher—the law, the people, the truth.

Civil-service culture must learn to recognize this type. Instead of branding them “difficult,” agencies should treat them as moral shock absorbers. They’re the ones who ask, “Why?” when everyone else says, “Whatever.”

The next wave of government reform should include resilience training. Teach employees not to endure corruption, but resist it. Teach recruits that 𝘥𝘪𝘴𝘢𝘨𝘳𝘦𝘦𝘮𝘦𝘯𝘵 𝘪𝘴 𝘯𝘰𝘵 𝘥𝘪𝘴𝘳𝘦𝘴𝘱𝘦𝘤𝘵.

Trabaho yan ng Civil Service Commission. Teach everyone that 𝘧𝘰𝘭𝘭𝘰𝘸𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘰𝘳𝘥𝘦𝘳𝘴 and 𝘥𝘰𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘳𝘪𝘨𝘩𝘵 are not always the same thing.

Cultures, like people, evolve when enough individuals stop pretending it's business as usual. So the next time you meet someone who questions, contradicts, or refuses to conform, buy them coffee. Listen to what they have to say.

Because the honest ones often sound like heretics before they become heroes.
Our politicians often quote José Rizal: “There are no tyrants where there are no slaves.” We might add: 𝘈𝘯𝘥 𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘳𝘦 𝘢𝘳𝘦 𝘯𝘰 𝘤𝘰𝘳𝘳𝘶𝘱𝘵𝘰𝘳𝘴 𝘸𝘩𝘦𝘳𝘦 𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘳𝘦 𝘢𝘳𝘦 𝘯𝘰 𝘤𝘰𝘯𝘧𝘰𝘳𝘮𝘪𝘴𝘵𝘴.

𝘗𝘢𝘴𝘢𝘸𝘢𝘺 needed. May we finally learn to see the misfits, the questioners, and the 𝘮𝘢𝘬𝘶𝘭𝘪𝘵 truth-tellers not as threats to our comfort zones, but as harbingers of a better Republic.

24/10/2025

“𝘚𝘪𝘮𝘱𝘭𝘦 𝘢𝘤𝘵𝘴, 𝘳𝘦𝘱𝘦𝘢𝘵𝘦𝘥 𝘰𝘷𝘦𝘳 𝘵𝘪𝘮𝘦, 𝘣𝘦𝘤𝘰𝘮𝘦 𝘢 𝘬𝘪𝘯𝘥 𝘰𝘧 𝘴𝘵𝘦𝘢𝘥𝘺 𝘣𝘢𝘤𝘬𝘨𝘳𝘰𝘶𝘯𝘥 𝘮𝘶𝘴𝘪𝘤: 𝘤𝘰𝘮𝘧𝘰𝘳𝘵𝘪𝘯𝘨, 𝘨𝘳𝘰𝘶𝘯𝘥𝘪𝘯𝘨, 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘲𝘶𝘪𝘦𝘵𝘭𝘺 𝘧𝘶𝘭𝘭 𝘰𝘧 𝘭𝘰𝘷𝘦.”

𝗕𝘂𝗶𝗹𝘁 𝗕𝘆 𝗦𝗺𝗮𝗹𝗹 𝗧𝗵𝗶𝗻𝗴𝘀
𝘉𝘺 𝘔𝘪𝘤𝘩𝘢𝘦𝘭 𝘈𝘯𝘨𝘦𝘭𝘰

In the grand architecture of life, we are conditioned to seek the monumental — the grand gestures, the loud successes, the visible transformations. Yet, with time, we come to understand a deeper truth, often whispered in the quiet corners of our days: 𝘪𝘵 𝘪𝘴 𝘢𝘭𝘸𝘢𝘺𝘴 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘴𝘮𝘢𝘭𝘭 𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘯𝘨𝘴 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘮𝘢𝘵𝘵𝘦𝘳 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘮𝘰𝘴𝘵.

The small things are the stitches that bind the fabric of our existence. They are the moments that do not announce themselves, that rarely make it to the pages of our journals, but linger in our hearts like gentle echoes. A kind word spoken without occasion, the brush of a hand in silence, the scent of someone familiar, the sun slipping through a window on a tired morning — these are not trivial details. They are life itself, distilled into its purest form.

We live in an age obsessed with scale — bigger dreams, louder voices, faster results. But the soul, that quiet center of being, does not speak in volume or velocity. It listens for meaning in the unnoticed. It is nourished not by the fireworks of triumph, but by the subtle warmth of consistency, presence, and grace.

The daily rituals, the familiar things we do without thinking: putting the kettle on in the morning, opening a window to let in fresh air, saying goodnight, sending a quick message to check in, tidying a corner of the room — these small habits are what hold us together. They don’t need to be perfect. They just need to be ours. Simple acts, repeated over time, become a kind of steady background music: comforting, grounding, and quietly full of love.

Think of nature: it is not the thunder that sustains the forest, but the steady fall of rain. It is not only the mountains that feed the earth, but the slow, constant work of roots. Great rivers are fed by tiny streams; even the most towering tree began as a silent, unseen seed. Life teaches us again and again that the smallest elements are often the most essential.

In human relationships, it is the same. People rarely remember exactly what we said or did in moments of grandeur, but they always remember how we made them feel in ordinary moments. The trust built through a hundred small acts of reliability. The comfort of knowing someone will show up, not just when it’s convenient, but when it’s needed most. Love is not proven in one sweeping act — it is proven in a thousand small ones, repeated quietly over time.

There is also a certain humility in noticing the small things. It requires us to slow down, to become present, to listen. Not just to others, but to life itself. The beauty of a morning breeze, the stillness of twilight, the way laughter catches unexpectedly in conversation. These are the things that bring us back to ourselves.

When we are lost or broken, we often search for answers in faraway places. But healing, like love, comes in whispers, not in thunder. It’s the cup of tea left waiting, the call that comes just in time, the silence that lets you cry without judgment.

To live meaningfully is not to chase magnitude, but to honor depth. And depth is always found in the small gestures. It is the patience to notice, the gratitude to receive, the awareness to give. In this, there is immense beauty and quiet power. Because when we begin to value the small things, we begin to see that nothing is truly small.

Every word, every choice, every gesture ripples out, shaping the world in ways we may never see, but that will be deeply felt.

So let us not wait for the big moment to make our lives meaningful. Let us return to the small, the soft, the simple, the sacred. Because in the end, it is always the small things that carry the greatest weight. And it is in them that we find the deepest truths.

23/10/2025

22/10/2025

"𝘐 𝘸𝘢𝘴 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘣𝘳𝘪𝘥𝘨𝘦, 𝘯𝘦𝘷𝘦𝘳 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘥𝘦𝘴𝘵𝘪𝘯𝘢𝘵𝘪𝘰𝘯."

𝗦𝗸𝘆 𝗡𝗮𝗺𝗲𝗱 𝗧𝗵𝗲𝗲 (𝗣𝗼𝗲𝘁𝗿𝘆)
𝘉𝘺 𝘑𝘦𝘳𝘮𝘪𝘦 𝘉𝘦𝘯𝘦𝘥𝘪𝘤𝘵

I wasn’t the god,
not even the myth.
I was the whisper that got lovers to turn their heads,
the draft in the room that pushed two hands together.
they said it was fate.
they never saw me standing just outside the light
tossing coins into their wishing wells
knowing none would echo back to me.

I placed the ring in the drawer,
the book on the shelf,
the perfect line in his mouth that made her stay.
I lined up the dominos.
they watched them fall
and never asked who built them.

I was the bridge,
never the destination.
the rain that made the flowers bloom
for someone else’s bouquet.

they met
because I told her the party would be worth going to.
they kissed
in a corner I had swept clean.
he said,
“I think i’m falling for you,”
on the bench i painted last spring.
and I,
I held my breath like a secret.

they never noticed
I only left the room
so they’d have a reason to be alone.

you know, it wasn’t always this way.
once, I thought maybe.
once, I aimed one arrow
too close to my own ribs.
once, someone looked at me
and I wondered if it could be returned.
but the heavens cleared their throat
and reminded me:

you are not written in the ending.
you are the one who writes it.
you are not the song.
you are the silence
before the first note.

echo repeats, but is never heard.
Cassandra sees, but is never believed.
Icarus loves too loudly
and gets scolded for flying.
and me?

I am the mirrorball,
spinning joy around a room,
even while cracking at the seams.

I am the string in the red thread.
the extra ticket that lets the two of them sit together.
the message sent from a borrowed phone
because he was too scared to say it himself.

I am the one who stays behind
to take the photo.
the one not tagged.
the one not kissed.

I have given people to each other.
placed love like a crown on their heads.
and I have learned to smile
through the split lip of longing.

I have said,
“you should tell her,”
while swallowing the same words
I wish someone would say to me.

I have opened doors
I was never meant to walk through.

Ares did not charge
he dined inside me
carved feasts of my peace with silver teeth
drank from the wells where my joy once slept
they called it a miracle
the way I staged the siege to resemble a wedding
ribbons red as entrails
vows whispered like smoke through broken trumpets

they loved inside the ruins
as I counted the bodies I burned for their chemistry
no one kissed the priest who lit the war fires
no one blessed the boy who became the battlefield

I bore it
the shrapnel praise
the martyr metaphors
the silence after the confetti
like it was a hymn
love happened because I died for it
but they only remembered the doves

maybe I am Penelope
without an Odysseus.
maybe I am the moon…
pulled by tides I cannot touch.
maybe I am just tired
of clapping from the wings
as another curtain call
goes to someone else.

still…
I set the table.
I light the candles.
I cue the music
and I exit stage left
before the couple enters.

because someone must
carry the love
that never lands.
someone must
hold the map
but never arrive.

so tonight,
as they fall asleep
with stars in their mouths,
I sit in the dark,
tracing constellations
I drew for them
in a sky
that never
once
named
me.

20/10/2025

“𝘋𝘦𝘦𝘱 𝘥𝘰𝘸𝘯, 𝘐 𝘬𝘯𝘦𝘸 𝘪𝘵 𝘸𝘢𝘴𝘯’𝘵 𝘭𝘰𝘺𝘢𝘭𝘵𝘺 𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘺 𝘷𝘢𝘭𝘶𝘦𝘥 — 𝘪𝘵 𝘸𝘢𝘴 𝘮𝘺 𝘴𝘪𝘭𝘦𝘯𝘤𝘦.”

𝗧𝗵𝗲 𝗨𝗻𝗽𝗮𝗶𝗱 𝗖𝗼𝘀𝘁 𝗼𝗳 𝗕𝗲𝗶𝗻𝗴 𝗧𝗼𝗼 𝗚𝗼𝗼𝗱
𝘉𝘺 𝘕𝘰𝘦𝘭𝘥𝘳𝘢𝘯 𝘍𝘪𝘳𝘮𝘦𝘻𝘢

It is a perplexing and frustrating phenomenon, especially common in certain cultural and institutional settings: when you do well, more is piled onto your plate. The better you perform at work, the more tasks you’re “rewarded” with. The more diligently you apply yourself in school, the more assignments are handed your way.

This isn’t the reinforcement one would typically expect. It is a bizarre, almost reverse mentality that transforms competence into a heavy liability.

For many, particularly here in the Philippines where this pattern seems deeply ingrained, it raises a profound question about the nature of recognition, compensation, and institutional fairness. Instead of celebrating excellence with genuine appreciation or equitable rewards, systems often exploit it, leaving individuals drained and undervalued.

In the long run, this culture risks discouraging initiative, stifling creativity, and breeding resentment, rather than cultivating the excellence it claims to honor.

𝗧𝗵𝗲 𝗘𝘅𝗽𝗹𝗼𝗶𝘁𝗮𝘁𝗶𝗼𝗻 𝗟𝗼𝗼𝗽 𝗜 𝗚𝗼𝘁 𝗖𝗮𝘂𝗴𝗵𝘁 𝗜𝗻

This phenomenon is annoyingly common, especially in environments I've experienced. I saw it deeply in both my teaching and government stints, rooted in a cultural mindset — especially in our local context — where personal sacrifice is often prioritized over structural fairness.

When I was building a career in teaching, with all the admirable credentials, and was focused on pursuing my passion, they didn't promote me; they essentially used me as a scapegoat. They handed me the department chair, which is a massive responsibility, just to cover for an underperforming colleague during a critical accreditation.

I watched them leverage my dedication and skills to address their managerial failures. That wasn't a compliment. It was a cheap workaround.

My initial reaction was completely human. I thought the heavy load was a compliment. They told me, "You're the only one who can handle this," which sounds great until I realized "handling it" meant doing two jobs for the price of one, often with nothing but a fancy, meaningless title to show for it.

That feeling of it morphing from a "complement" to a "burden and a source of abuse" was the moment the exploitation loop closed on me. It was too late when I finally saw the truth.

𝗪𝗵𝘆 "𝗗𝗼𝗶𝗻𝗴 𝗪𝗲𝗹𝗹" 𝗖𝗮𝗻𝗰𝗲𝗹𝗲𝗱 𝗠𝘆 𝗙𝗿𝗲𝗲 𝗧𝗶𝗺𝗲

In terms of 𝗕.𝗙. 𝗦𝗸𝗶𝗻𝗻𝗲𝗿’s “Operant Conditioning”, this whole system makes no sense. The theory says if a behavior (like my performing remarkably) is followed by positive reinforcement (like a bonus, a raise, or a lighter load), I'd repeat it. What actually happened was this: I gave my best, delivering excellent, on-time work, and in return, I ended up with an uncompensated, soul-crushing workload.

This consequence functioned as a punisher. It actively trained me, and any rational person, to do less. The system punished my high effort and rewarded just barely scraping by. This is the exact reason concepts like "quiet quitting" are now mainstream.

Why should I put in 100 worth of effort when the reward is a 200 workload and zero extra pay? The incentives were completely broken. The sheer lack of compassion from management, who saw my efforts only as free labor, was the bitterest pill to swallow.

It was pathetic to be given titles and designations with absolutely no remuneration. A fancy job title is not a substitute for fair pay or a balanced life. They tried to pay me in "prestige" instead of actual currency, hoping my good-hearted desire to contribute — that college-era impulse I had to "do things for others" — would keep me running on fumes. I now see they were weaponizing my kindness and sense of sacrifice.

𝗪𝗵𝘆 𝗜 𝗦𝘁𝗮𝘆𝗲𝗱 𝗤𝘂𝗶𝗲𝘁

For the longest time, I stayed quiet. I carried the load without complaint because I was scared of how I would be seen if I pushed back. I didn’t want to be called “difficult” or “ungrateful.” I didn’t want to ruin the image of being the reliable one, the team player who never says no. That fear kept me stuck.

But it wasn’t just fear; it was also the way I was raised and the culture I grew up in. Here in the Philippines, we’re taught that sacrifice is noble, that going the extra mile without expecting anything in return is proof of loyalty and commitment. I bought into that mindset completely. I told myself that carrying extra weight was honorable, even when it left me exhausted.

The truth is, my silence was part of the problem. Not speaking up gave permission for the system to keep using me. Every time I accepted another task without question, I reinforced the idea that it was okay to exploit me. And deep down, I knew it wasn’t loyalty they valued — it was my silence.

𝗥𝗲𝗰𝗹𝗮𝗶𝗺𝗶𝗻𝗴 𝗠𝘆 𝗘𝗻𝗲𝗿𝗴𝘆 𝗟𝗲𝗮𝗿𝗻𝗶𝗻𝗴 𝘁𝗼 𝗦𝗮𝘆 "𝗡𝗼"

The final, crucial realization I have reached is the mic-drop moment, the only way I could beat this broken system: "Now, I have come to realize my worth. Just do what you can. And learn to say no."

This is not selfish. It is self-preservation. My skill, time, and energy are valuable resources, and I am the CEO of those resources. Learning to say "no" to the uncompensated, abusive overloads is the only way to draw a boundary that the system is forced to acknowledge.

My commitment now has to be proportional to the compensation and tangible benefits I receive. If they want me to do the work of a department chair, they need to pay me like a department chair. If they won't, then I will only deliver the work I am actually paid for. I'm done rewarding their bad behavior with my exceptional effort. The emotional toll of constantly being the office hero with zero tangible reward is a lesson I won't repeat.

Reclaiming my time and learning to say "no" has allowed me to save myself from burnout. I'm refusing to participate in the High-Performer Penalty and demanding the value I have earned. I had to learn this the hard way. My competence is for sale, not for free exploitation.

18/10/2025

“𝘞𝘦 𝘤𝘢𝘯 𝘤𝘰𝘮𝘣𝘢𝘵 𝘢𝘭𝘪𝘦𝘯𝘢𝘵𝘪𝘰𝘯 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘢𝘯𝘹𝘪𝘦𝘵𝘺 𝘣𝘺 𝘧𝘰𝘴𝘵𝘦𝘳𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘤𝘪𝘳𝘤𝘭𝘦𝘴 𝘰𝘧 𝘵𝘳𝘶𝘴𝘵 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘱𝘳𝘰𝘮𝘰𝘵𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘮𝘰𝘳𝘦 𝘱𝘰𝘴𝘪𝘵𝘪𝘷𝘦 𝘰𝘯𝘭𝘪𝘯𝘦 𝘯𝘰𝘳𝘮𝘴.”

𝗠𝗲𝗻𝘁𝗮𝗹 𝗦𝘂𝗿𝘃𝗶𝘃𝗮𝗹
𝘉𝘺 𝘚𝘪𝘭𝘷𝘦𝘴𝘵𝘳𝘦 ‘𝘠𝘰𝘯𝘨’ 𝘈𝘧𝘢𝘣𝘭𝘦, 𝘦𝘥𝘪𝘵𝘰𝘳 𝘪𝘯 𝘤𝘩𝘪𝘦𝘧

Famine, war, pandemics, and natural disasters have been the grave threats to survival. Our ancestors used to dodge bullets, plagues, earthquakes, and extreme hunger.

Survival meant facing mainly physical debacles. Wars killed millions per decade. Famines, too. Yet on the long arc, battle deaths and famine mortality have sharply fallen compared to the 20th century, thanks to fewer large wars, better diplomacy, and functioning markets.

Food production exploded. We learned to grow, store, and ship. The world often has enough calories; hunger now is mostly about access, conflict, and politics. We had a pandemic, but modern medicine beat it.

Historically speaking, the body has better odds today. Fewer die from war, famine, and germs than in our grandparents’ era. The threats to survival haven’t vanished; they have shifted to the mind, a shift that we must acknowledge and understand.

By 2021, roughly 1 in 7 people worldwide lived with a mental disorder, mostly anxiety and depression. It is a creeping malaise, no dramatic deaths. Still, it’s the new survival issue.

The connection drought comes beside the mental challenge. We have a loneliness epidemic: weak social ties raise heart disease and stroke risk and drain life satisfaction. Health without belonging feels like a hollow victory for many.

Add economic and political despair. Su***de, overdoses, and alcohol surged in parts of the rich world, especially among midlife adults who felt left behind. Meanwhile, battles now happen on screens: attention engineered, outrage monetized.

Today, our anxieties are no longer about war or famine; they are more about push alerts, debt, scams, bullying, gaslighting, ghosting, and doomscrolling.

We wonder if today is worse than the past. If we mean “Will you starve or be shelled?” On average, it is less likely. If we mean “Will your head and heart stay sane and steady amid constant pressure and social dislocation?” We cannot say.

Old problems had concrete fixes. Run to shelter. Boil water. Get penicillin. Wear masks. Policies were visible: build dikes, plant rice, vaccinate. Today, the scarcity has moved from calories and antibiotics to attention, meaning, and trust.

For instance, we are bombarded with information, but our attention is scarce. We seek meaning in our work and relationships, but it's not always easy to find. And trust, whether in institutions or each other, can be hard to come by.

New problems are abstract and relational. You can’t vaccinate a timeline. You can’t raid a warehouse for “meaning.” Solutions sound fuzzy: “strengthen social connections,” “reduce algorithmic harms,” “rebuild civic trust.” 𝘗𝘢𝘳𝘢𝘯𝘨 𝘢𝘯𝘨 𝘭𝘢𝘣𝘰.

Yes, body safety still matters, but mind safety is the new frontline. We still need vaccines, nutrition, and disaster prep, but we need to urgently protect our mental perimeter from the tsunami of inputs that threaten it.

We need to strengthen our boundaries with tech and our defenses against stress: daily sunlight, movement, mindfulness, and sound sleep. We used to think these were “nice to have.” They’re now basic gear.

Money and meaning are also significant issues of survival, as are skills, fair wages, addiction treatment, and social safety nets. Corruption is a heavy anvil on the people’s chests, turning to hate and deepening mistrust of governance.

We need a common understanding, like our forbears did, of the threats to our survival. During cholera or war, consensus was easy: “𝘓𝘪𝘨𝘵𝘢𝘴 𝘮𝘶𝘯𝘢, 𝘬𝘶𝘮𝘢𝘪𝘯, 𝘮𝘢𝘨𝘱𝘢𝘨𝘢𝘮𝘰𝘵.”

Today, threats are invisible and braided — encompassing psychology, algorithms, economics, and identity. We must strive for a shared understanding to effectively combat these threats.

We have to pin down the shared stakes in plain language and explore solutions to isolation, digital overdose, and lack of sleep. We already have the expressways, skyscrapers, modern transport, and conveniences, but having more of these doesn’t bring peace of mind.

Our leaders are good at mud wrestling, often to our applause. But we need more bridge builders, those who can awaken the old Filipino instinct to sit down and settle, 𝘱𝘢𝘨-𝘶𝘴𝘢𝘱𝘢𝘯. That is not nostalgia. It’s a tool for survival.

Our 𝘭𝘰𝘭𝘰𝘴 fought hunger and shells with sacks of rice and foxholes. We can combat alienation and anxiety by fostering circles of trust and promoting more positive online norms. Same bravery, different battlefield. Ending on hope, not hype.

17/10/2025

“𝘛𝘩𝘦𝘪𝘳 𝘲𝘶𝘪𝘦𝘵 𝘣𝘳𝘢𝘷𝘦𝘳𝘺, 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘬𝘪𝘯𝘥 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘥𝘰𝘦𝘴𝘯’𝘵 𝘢𝘴𝘬 𝘧𝘰𝘳 𝘳𝘦𝘤𝘰𝘨𝘯𝘪𝘵𝘪𝘰𝘯, 𝘪𝘴 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘷𝘦𝘳𝘺 𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘴𝘰𝘯 𝘸𝘦’𝘷𝘦 𝘮𝘢𝘥𝘦 𝘪𝘵 𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘧𝘢𝘳.”

𝗟𝗼𝘃𝗲 𝗧𝗵𝗮𝘁 𝗪𝗮𝗶𝘁𝘀 𝗔𝘁 𝗛𝗼𝗺𝗲
𝘉𝘺 𝘚𝘢𝘳𝘢𝘩 𝘔𝘦𝘯𝘥𝘰𝘻𝘢

When I was a teenager, I often wished the years would rush by, or even better, just skip ahead to college. I longed to escape my home, to be free from my mother’s constant nagging and the endless chores that felt unfair on top of school and other responsibilities.

I dreamed of the day I could leave it all behind, to finally live the life I thought I was destined to live. To move at my own pace. To finally be free. And when college came, I was happy because I thought I had won my freedom.

We often talk about how brave it is to leave the home that nurtured us. How brave it is to step out, to face the world, to become the one who leaves instead of the one left behind. But what we rarely talk about is the strength of those who stay.

We rarely talk about the mothers we leave behind. How brave they are to help us pack our things, hiding the heaviness in their hearts behind quiet smiles. How brave they are to send us off with both love and worry tangled in their goodbyes. How brave they are to wave as we disappear from their sight, silently wondering when they will hear the words “I’m home” again.

It takes a strong heart to sit at a dining table with empty chairs, to rest in a living room once filled with laughter but now drowned in silence. It takes strength to open the doors to our rooms only to find remnants of the life we left behind. And with only her own room lit at night, the home that once sheltered us becomes emptier and she, lonelier.

How heartbreaking it must be to call our names, expecting our help, only to realize the house is quiet, that no one will answer back. How painful it must be to see the bed she once nagged us to fix, now left untouched, holding only the neat piles of laundry she folded herself.

The silence she hears now as she eats alone is not the silence of peace; it is the silence that aches, the silence that reminds her of us.

I’ve come to believe that mothers are some of the bravest people we’ll ever know. They carry the loneliness of letting us go, and still, they choose to cheer us on. They swallow their longing and replace it with prayers, with hope, with love. They wait for the day when we come home, even just for a short time, and say those words they miss so much: “I’m home.”

That is why we must never forget them. Call them when we can, even on the busiest of days. Ask them how they’re doing. Tell them about our day. Because more than anything, they’re always yearning for our voice, our presence, our love.
Love your mothers more. Think of them more often.

Because their quiet bravery, the kind that doesn’t ask for recognition, is the very reason we’ve made it this far.

16/10/2025

15/10/2025

“𝘞𝘩𝘦𝘯 𝘰𝘶𝘳 𝘤𝘰𝘶𝘯𝘵𝘳𝘺𝘮𝘦𝘯 𝘤𝘩𝘰𝘰𝘴𝘦 𝘵𝘰 𝘳𝘢𝘪𝘴𝘦 𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘪𝘳 𝘣𝘢𝘯𝘯𝘦𝘳𝘴, 𝘸𝘦 𝘮𝘶𝘴𝘵 𝘯𝘰𝘵 𝘭𝘰𝘰𝘬 𝘢𝘵 𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘮 𝘸𝘪𝘵𝘩 𝘴𝘤𝘰𝘳𝘯.”

𝗦𝘁𝗿𝗲𝗲𝘁 𝗙𝗶𝗴𝗵𝘁𝘀
𝘉𝘺 𝘝𝘪𝘯𝘤𝘦 𝘌𝘭𝘪𝘫𝘢𝘩 𝘊𝘭𝘢𝘳𝘪𝘥𝘢𝘥

The streets have been home to expressions of political unrest. Meanwhile, homes have been the antagonists of these initiatives. “𝘙𝘢𝘭𝘭𝘺𝘪𝘴𝘵𝘴 𝘩𝘢𝘷𝘦 𝘯𝘰𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘵𝘰 𝘥𝘰 𝘸𝘪𝘵𝘩 𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘪𝘳 𝘭𝘪𝘷𝘦𝘴”, “𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘺 𝘫𝘶𝘴𝘵 𝘤𝘢𝘶𝘴𝘦 𝘵𝘳𝘢𝘧𝘧𝘪𝘤”, and worst of all, “𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘺’𝘳𝘦 𝘳𝘦𝘣𝘦𝘭𝘴” are passed off like grenades at dinner and drinking tables. Hearing those warnings as children, dissent has been stigmatized by those we look up to.

Those who contradict the idea of political disagreement are likely Martial Law survivors. It was a time when activists were either stripped of their rights or given bullets to their heads.

During this period, there were 107,240 human rights violations, 34,000 tortured, while over 3,000 were unjustly killed, effectively mobilizing fear. On top of that, they have been brainwashed to think that those who disagree deserve to be labeled as communists. (https://tinyurl.com/3p2zn39c)

The red-tagging rhetoric is still prevalent today. At the end of Duterte’s term, 801 were political prisoners and 442 were extrajudicially killed, most of whom have been red-tagged. (https://tinyurl.com/yzy994nr)

In Leyte, an active student leader was reportedly tailed by military and police personnel, accusing him of involvement with the rebel group for sharing insights against the current administration. Today, it is criminalized by their immediate community. Those with anti-government sentiments are labeled as members of the Communist Party of the Philippines.

That age-old propaganda, however, contradicts itself, because those who advocate for social justice and rise against tyranny are actually the vanguards of democracy – employing their freedom of speech to break the cords of corruption that strangle national progress. They want to see the Philippines stand tall and firm by standing firmly on the streets.

But the country cannot rise if those in power stay comfortably seated and do not stand. So, since most of them refuse to, the people will.

This has been the final resort of our national heroes, and today, it is ours, too. When colonizers turned down requests for equality, 𝗥𝗶𝘇𝗮𝗹 had to write, and 𝗕𝗼𝗻𝗶𝗳𝗮𝗰𝗶𝗼 had to fight.

Thus, when our countrymen choose to raise their banners, we must not look at them with scorn. After all, they are not doing these for themselves alone, but for a future we are all fighting for. If unwilling to join them, one can fulfill their civic duty through deterring the stigma by starting to ask the right questions.

“𝘞𝘩𝘢𝘵’𝘭𝘭 𝘩𝘢𝘱𝘱𝘦𝘯 𝘪𝘧 𝘸𝘦 𝘴𝘵𝘰𝘳𝘮 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘴𝘵𝘳𝘦𝘦𝘵𝘴, 𝘢𝘯𝘺𝘸𝘢𝘺?” is better than “𝘕𝘰𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘸𝘪𝘭𝘭 𝘤𝘩𝘢𝘯𝘨𝘦.” The former shows curiosity, the latter dignifies surrender. And curiosity, if fanned, will flame. To put it simply, the result goes beyond public outrage – it restores deaf ears, rebuilds public trust, and burns towers built on stolen taxes.

Because we chose to storm social media engines, the President budged. Names were dropped. Contractors were investigated. And high officials, such as Martin Romualdez, had to step down. The chapter is far from over, but the pages are certainly turning.

The changes may not be as observable. It may seem like nothing will change. But like the sun creeping through the horizon at dawn, it will be seen, too, and shed light on the streets flooded by darkness and deluges.