Last Saturday, I turned 47.
The celebration was simple. No grand party. No fireworks. No desperate attempt to prove that 47 is the new 27 by engaging in activities my knees would later report to the authorities.
At this age, birthdays become less about celebration and more about inventory. You count blessings more carefully than candles. You spend less time wondering where you’re going and more time appreciating how far you’ve come without completely losing your mind.
Before anything else, this birthday reminded me of one person: my mother, Mama Vita.
For most of my life, she was both mother and father. She carried burdens that, looking back, should have required two people. Yet she did it with quiet determination, extraordinary sacrifice, and a stubborn refusal to surrender to circumstances.
Whatever resilience I have today, I borrowed from her.
Whatever success has found its way into my life bears her fingerprints.
She taught me that strength is not measured by how loudly you speak but by how much you can carry without complaining. Looking back now, I realize that the first manual I ever read about life was not written in a book. It was written in the daily example of a woman who never gave up.
Which brings me to the Philippines.
At 47, I have finally come to understand our national condition.
We never read the manual.
Every few years, we encounter the same problems—corruption, political division, poverty, disinformation, personality politics—and react as though they have appeared unexpectedly, like a surprise guest at a family reunion.
We promise ourselves that this time will
be different.
This time, we will choose wisely.
This time, we will learn from history.
This time, we will stop confusing popularity with competence.
Then election season arrives and the country collectively decides that experience is optional, facts are negotiable, and charisma deserves extra points.
The cycle begins again.
The Philippines sometimes feels like a nation attempting to assemble a complicated machine while proudly ignoring the
instruction booklet.
We tighten random screws.
We discard important parts.
Then we wonder why something is rattling.
Yet despite all this, ordinary Filipinos continue performing miracles.
They wake before sunrise, survive traffic that seems personally offended by their existence, stretch household budgets like Olympic athletes, and somehow still find reasons
to laugh.
That ability to laugh may be our greatest renewable resource.
If resilience were an export product, we would dominate the global market.
At 47, however, I have also learned that cynicism is easy. Anybody can complain. Anybody can point fingers. Anybody can produce a social media post that sounds intelligent for seven minutes.
Hope requires more work.
Hope requires believing that people can still learn.
That institutions can still improve.
That the next generation can make better decisions than ours.
So this birthday, my wish is simple.
May we become a country that values wisdom more than noise, truth more than tribal loyalty, and competence more than
performance.
And may we finally discover what every 47-year-old eventually learns:
Life becomes easier when you stop pretending you know everything and start reading the manual.
Mama Vita understood that long ago.
Perhaps the country still has time to
catch up.Last Saturday, I turned 47.
The celebration was simple. No grand party. No fireworks. No desperate attempt to prove that 47 is the new 27 by engaging in activities my knees would later report to the authorities.
At this age, birthdays become less about celebration and more about inventory. You count blessings more carefully than candles. You spend less time wondering where you’re going and more time appreciating how far you’ve come without completely losing your mind.
Before anything else, this birthday reminded me of one person: my mother, Mama Vita.
For most of my life, she was both mother and father. She carried burdens that, looking back, should have required two people. Yet she did it with quiet determination, extraordinary sacrifice, and a stubborn refusal to surrender to circumstances.
Whatever resilience I have today, I borrowed from her.
Whatever success has found its way into my life bears her fingerprints.
She taught me that strength is not measured by how loudly you speak but by how much you can carry without complaining. Looking back now, I realize that the first manual I ever read about life was not written in a book. It was written in the daily example of a woman who never gave up.
Which brings me to the Philippines.
At 47, I have finally come to understand our national condition.
We never read the manual.
Every few years, we encounter the same problems—corruption, political division, poverty, disinformation, personality politics—and react as though they have appeared unexpectedly, like a surprise guest at a family reunion.
We promise ourselves that this time will
be different.
This time, we will choose wisely.
This time, we will learn from history.
This time, we will stop confusing popularity with competence.
Then election season arrives and the country collectively decides that experience is optional, facts are negotiable, and charisma deserves extra points.
The cycle begins again.
The Philippines sometimes feels like a nation attempting to assemble a complicated machine while proudly ignoring the
instruction booklet.
We tighten random screws.
We discard important parts.
Then we wonder why something is rattling.
Yet despite all this, ordinary Filipinos continue performing miracles.
They wake before sunrise, survive traffic that seems personally offended by their existence, stretch household budgets like Olympic athletes, and somehow still find reasons
to laugh.
That ability to laugh may be our greatest renewable resource.
If resilience were an export product, we would dominate the global market.
At 47, however, I have also learned that cynicism is easy. Anybody can complain. Anybody can point fingers. Anybody can produce a social media post that sounds intelligent for seven minutes.
Hope requires more work.
Hope requires believing that people can still learn.
That institutions can still improve.
That the next generation can make better decisions than ours.
So this birthday, my wish is simple.
May we become a country that values wisdom more than noise, truth more than tribal loyalty, and competence more than
performance.
And may we finally discover what every 47-year-old eventually learns:
Life becomes easier when you stop pretending you know everything and start reading the manual.
Mama Vita understood that long ago.
Perhaps the country still has time to
catch up. by engaging in activities my knees would later report to the authorities.
At this age, birthdays become less about celebration and more about inventory. You count blessings more carefully than candles. You spend less time wondering where you’re going and more time appreciating how far you’ve come without completely losing your mind.
Before anything else, this birthday reminded me of one person: my mother, Mama Vita.
For most of my life, she was both mother and father. She carried burdens that, looking back, should have required two people. Yet she did it with quiet determination, extraordinary sacrifice, and a stubborn refusal to surrender to circumstances.
Whatever resilience I have today, I borrowed from her.
Whatever success has found its way into my life bears her fingerprints.
She taught me that strength is not measured by how loudly you speak but by how much you can carry without complaining. Looking back now, I realize that the first manual I ever read about life was not written in a book. It was written in the daily example of a woman who never gave up.
Which brings me to the Philippines.
At 47, I have finally come to understand our national condition.
We never read the manual.
Every few years, we encounter the same problems—corruption, political division, poverty, disinformation, personality politics—and react as though they have appeared unexpectedly, like a surprise guest at a family reunion.
We promise ourselves that this time will
be different.
This time, we will choose wisely.
This time, we will learn from history.
This time, we will stop confusing popularity with competence.
Then election season arrives and the country collectively decides that experience is optional, facts are negotiable, and charisma deserves extra points.
The cycle begins again.
The Philippines sometimes feels like a nation attempting to assemble a complicated machine while proudly ignoring the
instruction booklet.
We tighten random screws.
We discard important parts.
Then we wonder why something is rattling.
Yet despite all this, ordinary Filipinos continue performing miracles.
They wake before sunrise, survive traffic that seems personally offended by their existence, stretch household budgets like Olympic athletes, and somehow still find reasons
to laugh.
That ability to laugh may be our greatest renewable resource.
If resilience were an export product, we would dominate the global market.
At 47, however, I have also learned that cynicism is easy. Anybody can complain. Anybody can point fingers. Anybody can produce a social media post that sounds intelligent for seven minutes.
Hope requires more work.
Hope requires believing that people can still learn.
That institutions can still improve.
That the next generation can make better decisions than ours.
So this birthday, my wish is simple.
May we become a country that values wisdom more than noise, truth more than tribal loyalty, and competence more than
performance.
And may we finally discover what every 47-year-old eventually learns:
Life becomes easier when you stop pretending you know everything and start reading the manual.
Mama Vita understood that long ago.
Perhaps the country still has time to
catch up.
