Afterthought Archives

For two days, the Philippine Senate was paralyzed. Following the corruption arrest of Senator Jinggoy Estrada and with Senator Ronald "Bato" Dela Rosa hiding from an active warrant, Senate President Alan Peter Cayetano and 10 allies boycotted sessions to block internal rule changes, preventing a traditional 13-member quorum.

Everything changed on Wednesday afternoon. Senator Francis “Chiz” Escudero walked into the plenary hall, breaking the deadlock as the 12th lawmaker present.

The newly formed 12-member coalition immediately declared all leadership positions vacant, ousted Cayetano, and elected Senator Sherwin Gatchalian as Senate President Pro Tempore to preside over the chamber.

Why the June 1 and 2 Boycott Backfired

An aggressive constitutional battle has erupted over the legality of the coup. Senator Loren Legarda and the ousted Cayetano bloc argue the reorganization is completely void under Article VI, Section 16(1) of the 1987 Constitution, which dictates that the Senate must elect its President by a majority of all its members—traditionally a rigid 13 votes out of 24.

However, the real game-changer was Cayetano's decision to deliberately withhold a quorum on June 1 and 2. Far from a clever defensive maneuver, this two-day boycott was a massive strategic miscalculation that directly violated Senate rules and created the exact legal loophole his rivals needed.

1. The Dereliction of Duty and Rule XIV

Under Rule XIV, Section 41 of the Senate Rules, a Senate President cannot simply call off a session on a whim. The rules explicitly state that the presiding officer may only postpone a session after consultation with both the Majority Leader and the Minority Leader. By abandoning the rostrum for two consecutive days without consultation, Cayetano’s bloc engaged in a clear dereliction of duty, triggering a fierce public backlash and a direct order from President Ferdinand Marcos Jr. to "get back to work."

2. The Trap of the Avelino v. Cuenco Precedent (1949)

By refusing to show up for two straight days while the minority faction waited in their seats, Cayetano unwittingly recreated the exact conditions of Avelino v. Cuenco (1949).

In that landmark case, Senate President Jose Avelino walked out with his allies to avoid an investigation, leaving only 12 senators on the floor. Those remaining ousted him. When Avelino challenged the math, the Supreme Court dismissed his petition and established two foundational doctrines:

The Jurisdictional Majority: The Court ruled that because certain senators are unavailable or outside the coercive jurisdiction of the Senate (such as Senator Dela Rosa currently hiding from a warrant), the baseline shifts.

The Political Question Doctrine: The judiciary maintains a strict hands-off policy regarding internal legislative affairs. Leadership selection is a purely political matter for the functioning members on the floor to decide.

Why It Was a Bad Strategy

Cayetano’s boycott was designed to hold the legislative branch hostage until his faction regained a numerical advantage. But in politics, you cannot control a room you are not in.

By failing to show up on June 1 and 2, Cayetano left the floor entirely to his opposition. The moment Senator Escudero crossed the aisle to join them, the minority had the 12 active members required to form a "jurisdictional majority" under the Avelino doctrine.

Had Cayetano and his allies simply attended the sessions, they could have used their presence to debate, object, and filibuster any leadership changes. By choosing a total boycott instead, they effectively locked themselves out of the building—leaving the 12 senators inside with the legal authority to turn off the lights on Cayetano's presidency.

References and Sources

Supreme Court of the Philippines: Jose Avelino vs. Mariano J. Cuenco, G.R. No. L-2821, March 4, 1949.

The 1987 Constitution of the Republic of the Philippines: Article VI, Section 16.

Rules of the Senate: Rule XIV, Section 41 (Session Postponements and Mandates).

Philippine News Agency: Bacelonia, W. (2026, June 3). Minority asks Cayetano to resign after 2-day Senate impasse. https://www.pna.gov.ph/articles/1276387

Inquirer.net: Cabalza, D. (2026, June 3). Marcos to Senate: Get back to work.https://newsinfo.inquirer.net/2239274/marcos-orders-senate-get-back-to-work

If you had asked me two years ago if I would ever be willing to become a housewife, my answer would have been a resounding no.

I stepped into my career at the age of twenty, fresh out of college, and since that moment, work became a defining pillar of my identity. My professional trajectory was a series of seamless transitions; whenever one chapter closed, a new one began just days later. There was no room for pauses. Even after getting married, our individual careers were never up for debate. My husband and I operated like two gears perfectly synchronized in our workaholism, sustained by a robust support system that managed our domestic life. We were focused, driven, and constantly moving.

Then, we relocated. And the scaffolding of our old life fell away.

Suddenly, our household dynamics shifted entirely. We found ourselves on our own—no household staff, no external help. The daily commute became a grueling two-hour endurance test. Because our work schedules were completely misaligned, our paths only crossed in the quiet, fleeting moments: a brief goodbye before my early morning drive, and a late-night reunion when I picked him up from his shift.

Day in and day out, we were running on empty. Even our rest days were swallowed whole by the anxious preparation for the coming work week. We weren't just tired; we were losing the space to simply be.

So, early this year, I tendered my resignation. It wasn’t an act of submission to external pressure, nor was I compelled by my better half to step down. Instead, it was an intuitive, deeply personal realization: I felt a profound need to be home. I needed to learn the art of the domestic sphere, not because I was ignorant of its rigors, but because I needed to find a new system that complemented our lives and anchored my husband during a pivotal season in his own career.

Three months into this quiet, intentional lifestyle, the lessons have been profound. Here is what this transition has taught me so much about:

1. The True Meaning of Partnership

I have come to understand that stepping into the role of a housewife does not place me beneath my husband. We remain absolute equals, but we are now executing complementary missions. We occupy different, equally vital roles designed to support the same shared vision for our family. There is dignity in anchoring the home, just as there is dignity in providing for it.

2. Radical Humility

Financial independence is empowering. When I was earning my own income, my purchasing power was high, and there was a certain pride in knowing I was entirely self-sufficient. Transitioning away from that required a re-education of the heart. I have learned to truly appreciate the beauty of a "combined family income"—moving from mine to ours. In letting go of financial self-reliance, I have learned to appreciate my husband’s hard work on a much deeper level, and more importantly, I have learned to trust God’s provision more than ever before.

3. Cultivating Patience

In my past life, if I wanted something, I bought it instantly. Now, I am learning the discipline of waiting and looking at resources through a different lens. This season is teaching me to pause—not just to wait on God’s perfect timing for our needs, but to practice intentionality before making even the most practical purchases. There is a quiet peace in learning not to rush.

4. The Beauty of Simplification

My definition of 'necessity' has drastically changed. Things I once considered essential have now been reclassified as luxuries, or items that can easily wait for weeks, even months. I’ve realized I don’t need a new wardrobe for every changing season, nor do I need a pair of shoes for every single outfit combination in my closet. Today, I find a deeper, truer appreciation for the things I do choose to bring into our home, whether it’s a simple skincare routine or a piece of clothing.

The ad hominem fallacy—the tactical error of swapping a critique of an argument for an assault on the arguer’s character or credentials—is rhetoric's most enduring sleight of hand. While it frequently infects everyday personal friction, its consequences turn genuinely destructive when deployed within the halls of national governance.

In the structural architecture of intellectual debate, targeting the individual is recognized as a bottom-tier maneuver. Models like Paul Graham’s Hierarchy of Disagreement place personal attacks at the absolute baseline of dialectics, hovering just a fraction above primitive, schoolyard name-calling.

Resorting to personal deflation is an act of intellectual bankruptcy that serves as an admission of defeat. By targeting a speaker's persona rather than the argument, an arguer admits, perhaps without realizing, that they lack the logical framework required to counter the actual claim. This maneuver maliciously shifts the goalposts. Instead of moving the discussion forward, it poisons the well and turns what could have been a worthwhile, learning exchange into a pointless squabble.

Logically, the ad hominem is a waving white flag of surrender disguised as a spear. An individual's professional pedigree or institutional identity has zero bearing on the objective veracity of their data. An uncredentialed outsider can articulate an absolute fact, just as a decorated expert can assert a falsehood. Truth carries its own authority, independent of status.

Politics is inherently adversarial and legislative bodies establish strict rules of decorum designed to isolate logical debate from personal animosity. Yet, high-stakes governance remains a breeding ground for this exact fallacy.

This structural evasion was clearly on display during a Philippine Senate session concerning remote legislative voting. When Senator Risa Hontiveros advanced a strict, textual objection under Section 136 of the Senate Rules to challenge a premature motion, the opposition chose to bypass the procedural merits entirely. Instead of addressing the statutory timeline or the mechanics of the rule, Senator Rodante Marcoleta deflected by mounting a classic ad hominem attack. By dismissing her procedural critique on the sole basis that she had no legal background, the maneuver openly substituted a rigorous legislative evaluation for an irrelevant critique of professional pedigree. The tactic was so structurally flagrant that it triggered immediate points of order for decorum violations.

While uniquely short-sighted, this specific maneuver had unintentional reach. In an effort to silence a single minority opponent, the argument effectively insults and invalidates every legislator in the room who did not take a path through law school—including prominent allies within the majority bloc itself.

We rarely get to see the ripples we leave behind. Most of the time, we move through our days completely unaware that a fleeting conversation, a tiny gesture, or a shared quiet space might be the exact anchor someone else needs to survive a difficult week. Michiko Aoyama’s Hot Chocolate on Thursday is a tender, comforting exploration of this exact truth: our silent, everyday impact on the world around us.

The narrative unfurls through twelve interlocking vignettes, tracing a journey that beautifully begins and ends inside the cozy Marble Café in Tokyo. What starts as a simple observation—a barista at the counter noting a regular customer who visits every Thursday for a cup of hot chocolate—soon cascades into a gorgeous human tapestry. Aoyama masterfully shifts the spotlight with every chapter; a character who feels like mere background noise in one story suddenly steps forward as the absolute protagonist of the next.

Weaving through almost every single story is Maestro, the café's enigmatic owner. Maestro, much like the other characters, embody the idea that we do not need to perform grand, heroic deeds to matter. The book reminds us that healing often happens in the margins, and that we are frequently rescuing people without ever knowing we’ve even touched their lives.

In subtle softness, the book also teaches us the art of letting go. So much of our anxiety comes from forcing life into rigid templates, but the narrative gently coaxes us into accepting deviations from our scheduled plans. The characters find strength not by controlling their circumstances, but by embracing the fluid, unpredictable process of living.

Reading this feels like finding shelter from a sudden downpour inside a warm, dimly lit room with a steaming mug between your palms. It bypasses explosive plot twists and heavy drama entirely. Instead, its magic lies in its emotional resonance and the quiet realization that small-scale kindness is a currency that multiplies the moment you spend it.

If your soul is feeling a bit tired, or if you're feeling frustrated that things aren't going according to plan right now, please pick this up. It's a gentle reminder that the world can still be soft, and that sometimes, the best moments are the ones we never planned.

SPOILERS AHEAD IF YOU HAVEN'T SEEN THE MOVIE YET!

One of the many perks of being my husband’s wife is having the absolute privilege of catching advance screenings of select films. On May 16, that privilege came through with The Mandalorian & Grogu at the SM Cinema IMAX SM City Cebu, and my inner Star Wars fan is still buzzing.

Seeing the galaxy far, far away on that massive IMAX screen was a core memory experience, but what really blew me away wasn't just the jaw-dropping space battles or the cinematic scale—it was the heart of this film. 

I’m neither an official movie critic nor a Star Wars nerd/expert, but the emotion of this story hit me straight in the feelings. This movie is a crafted exploration of what it truly means to protect, trust, and choose your own family. And so allow me to share some of the movie's themes.

The Evolution of Care

The quote "The old protect the young, and then the young protect the old. This is the way," isn't just a cool Mandalorian mantra; it’s the emotional thesis statement of the entire film. For seasons, we watched Din Djarin carry the weight of the galaxy on his shoulders to keep Grogu safe. But family isn't a one-way street, and this movie beautifully illustrates the moment that dynamic shifts.

When Mando is incapacitated, Grogu doesn't just hide or wait to be saved—he steps up. Seeing this tiny, vulnerable creature become the caretaker is incredibly profound. It highlights a universal truth about love and family (whether chosen or biological): true strength is cyclical. Grogu’s willingness to protect his father shows that he is no longer just a helpless foundling; he is actively choosing the responsibility of being a Mandalorian. It’s a breathtaking coming-of-age moment that proves caretaking is the ultimate act of devotion. Our little green baby is ready to take on responsibilities!

Empowerment and Trust

When Din Djarin looks at Grogu and says, "Strap in," before teaching him the technicalities of flying, it represents a massive paradigm shift in their relationship. Flying the ship has always been one of Mando’s domain—it’s his control center, his livelihood, and his way of keeping them alive. Handing over those reins (or at least sharing them) is one of the ultimate signs of succession and empowerment.

By letting Grogu into the cockpit as a student rather than just a passenger, Mando is passing on the baton. He is signaling full, uncompromised trust in Grogu’s maturity and future capability. It moves their bond from a protector/charge dynamic into a genuine partnership. Mando isn't just keeping Grogu safe anymore; he’s preparing him to inherit the galaxy.

Breaking Generational Cages

Rotta the Hutt’s arc introduces a fascinating sub-theme to the Star Wars mythos: the fight to redefine oneself against a heavy legacy. In the galaxy, the name "Hutt" is synonymous with greed, crime, and villainy—and being Jabba's son carries an almost inescapable shadow.

Rotta’s journey in this film is a powerful testament to personal agency. Instead of ruling through fear, extortion, and the momentum of his father’s criminal empire, Rotta actively chooses a different path. His alliances with Mando and Grogu aren't transactional; they are built on genuine camaraderie, mutual respect, and honor. By rejecting the destiny handed to him by his bloodline, Rotta proves that identity is carved out through your own actions, not your family tree.

Collective Loyalty

On a macro scale, the movie screams about the realities of genuine alliances and community. We see this play out in two beautiful extremes: the microscopic heroism of the Anzellans and the massive military might of the New Republic Defense Force (NRDF).

The Anzellans represent the grassroots loyalty of true friendship—the tiny, overlooked cogs in the machine who will work themselves to the bone behind the scenes just to get help for the people they care about.

The NRDF represents institutional loyalty. When they arrived in full force to obliterate the Nal Hutta palace and extract their people, it wasn't just a cold military operation; it was a fierce statement that no one gets left behind.

Together, they show that whether you are a tiny droidsmith or a pilot in an X-Wing squadron, showing up for your people when the stakes are at their absolute highest is what keeps the galaxy from falling into darkness.

Walking out of SM City Cebu into the night air, I just kept thinking about how this franchise manages to keep reinventing itself while staying loyal to its roots. The Mandalorian & Grogu isn't just a win for the visual effects team; it’s a massive win for everyone who fell in love with a quiet bounty hunter and a tiny green alien baby (fun fact: Grogu was around 50 years old when he was rescued by Din Djarin but his species age incredibly slow so technically he's still a baby). It reminds us that no matter how vast, cold, or dangerous the galaxy gets, it’s the bonds we forge, the families we choose, and the trust we give to one another that ultimately saves us. 

If you have the chance to experience this on the biggest screen possible, do not hesitate—go buy your tickets immediately. This is the way.

Days at the Torunka Cafe has an incredible way of reframing the "loose threads" of life—not as failures, but as necessary pauses. Satoshi Yagisawa masterfully transforms the cafe into a sanctuary where the past isn't something to outrun, but something to sit with over a quiet cup of coffee.

​The narrative doesn't promise that the world will stop being difficult; instead, it offers the comfort that there is always a place to rest and regroup. By forcing us to notice the steam rising from a cup, the chime of the door bell, and the subtle shifts in body language, the prose demands the very mindfulness its characters are striving to achieve.

​Ultimately, the book acknowledges that mending the past takes time, treating redemption as a non-linear journey. It isn't a straight line from heartache to healing, but a gentle spiral—one where we revisit the same memories, but each time from a slightly higher, more mature perspective.

Sifting through Marigold Mind Laundry by Yun Jungeun

Experiences create memories that either propel us to move forward happily or hold us back. If you’ve ever felt weighed down by the "what-ifs" or the stains of the past, this one is for you.

Takeaways from Memory's Laundry:

The Power of Memory

Our past isn't just a collection of dates; it’s the engine of our present. Some memories give us wings, while others feel like anchors. The book beautifully explores how we can choose which ones to carry.

Happiness is a Choice

One of the most striking themes is the idea that joy isn't just something that happens to us—it’s a decision. How we view our history and how we use those lessons depends entirely on where we want to go. You are the architect of your own journey. 

The Grace of Forgiveness

We often talk about forgiving others, but what about ourselves? Marigold Mind Laundry reminds us that even when memories are painful or heavy with regret, we can look back with kindness. We deserve our own forgiveness just as much as anyone else.

Final Thoughts:

The book is gentle, reflective, and deeply moving. It reminds us that while we can't change what happened, we can absolutely change how we let it wash over us.

Vibe: Soft sunlight, fresh linen, and a quiet moment of peace.

Thoughts on The Vanishing Cherry Blossom Bookshop

The Vanishing Cherry Blossom Bookshop by Takuya Asakura left me in such a reflective mood. Much like other "healing fiction" or Iyashi-kei titles, this story has a way of lingering in your mind long after you’ve turned the final page.

The book explores the mysterious ways lives intersect in a fleeting, almost magical setting. It’s a reminder that some of the most profound moments in our lives don't come with a neat bow or a clear explanation—they just happen.

Reflections from the Bookshop:

Understanding without Explanations.

Life often throws us into experiences that leave us with more questions than answers. Even when we don't get a clear "why," there is so much value in trying to understand all perspectives. It’s about holding space for others' stories, even the ones that feel incomplete or nonsensical at first glance.

Connecting the Dots.

It reminds me of that famous Steve Jobs quote: "You can't connect the dots looking forward; you can only connect them looking backwards." This book beautifully illustrates how the random encounters and "vanishing" moments of today might only make sense years from now. We have to trust that the dots will eventually line up.

The "First-Time" Grace.

Life didn’t come with a manual. Every single person you pass on the street is navigating this world for the very first time, doing the absolute best they can with what they have. Since we’re all "new" at this, the best thing we can offer one another—and ourselves—is kindness.

Final Thoughts:

If you’re looking for a read that feels like a gentle hug and a reminder to be patient with your own journey and the people you journey with, this is it. It’s a story about the beauty of the temporary and the power of empathy.

Vibe: Ethereal, empathetic, nostalgic, and deeply kind.

Notes on The Lantern of Lost Memories

I just finished reading The Lantern of Lost Memories by Sanaka Hiiragi. The story centers on a liminal space—a photo studio between this world and the next—where the departed are given a final, beautiful task: to choose one photo from every year of their life to place into a revolving lantern. This lantern then flickers with the highlights of their existence before they move on.

Some Gentle Reminders from the Pages:

Create memories while the sun is still up.

Reading this was a poignant reminder that death is the only truly inevitable thing we face. Because our time is finite, every ordinary Tuesday is actually a gift. We shouldn’t let a single day pass without consciously creating a memory—even a small one—with the people we cherish. Whether it’s a shared laugh over breakfast or a quiet walk, these are the snapshots we’ll want to hold onto.

Gratitude in the grit.

Life is undeniably challenging, and some years feel heavier than others. But the beauty of the "lantern" concept is that even in our hardest seasons, there are still moments of light. There is always something to be grateful for—a kindness from a stranger, a beautiful sunset, or a moment of peace. Those tiny flickers are what ultimately turn into the memories that define a life.

Final Thoughts:

This book doesn’t shy away from the sadness of goodbye, but it focuses so much more on the value of the hello. It makes you want to pick up a camera, hug your loved ones a little tighter, and be more present in the "right now."

Vibe: Soft, reflective, bittersweet, and surprisingly hopeful.

Just finished The Other Bennet Sister (BBC series) in a single sitting and my Janeite heart is full.

As someone who has been reading Austen for two decades, and having watched several film adaptations of her works, I’m usually wary of sequels and retellings, but this felt so necessary. Mary is so often pushed into the background of Pride and Prejudice as nothing more than a punchline or a cautionary tale.

Seeing the world through her "fresh eyes" was such a gift. It was short, sweet, and gave a much-needed voice to the sister who never quite fit in. I highly recommend this for anyone who loves the Bennet sisters but always felt a little bit protective of Mary.

If you’ve ever felt like the Mary of your own family, this one is for you.

On the brink of a new month comes a fresh set of iyashi-kei (healing) reads.

There’s something deeply grounding about stories that cradle our memories—even the heavy ones—with such quiet tenderness. Since it dropped, I’ve had Memories by SB19 on loop—a track from their new album Wakas at Simula—and it feels like the perfect soundtrack for this kind of reading: reflective, gentle, and quietly profound.

These books feel like a soft place to land. They carry the weight of the past with grace, while still making space for hope and new beginnings. There’s a quiet kind of courage in them that echoes the song’s intentional, grounded energy. In my mind, it already unfolds like a film.

The Lineup:

A lantern for the snapshots of life. (The Lantern of Lost Memories by Sanaka Hiiragi)

A bookshop that only blooms in spring. (The Vanishing Cherry Blossom Bookshop by Takuya Asakura)

A place to clean the stains on our hearts. (Marigold Mind Laundry by Yun Jeung-eun)

Because sometimes, you have to look back at where you’ve been to see where you’re going.

I will be posting my thoughts on each book soon. What’s on your TBR list? 

"As the seasons and the landscapes change, passengers jostle and connect, as this timeless train carries each one forward towards the person they intend to become." — Hiro Arikawa, The Passengers on the Hankyu Line

There is a short, fifteen-minute railway journey in Hyogo Prefecture that connects eight small stations. To most, it is just a routine commute. But for the passengers of the Hankyu Imazu Line, those minutes are where life-altering realizations and unexpected connections happen.

From a woman in a white dress attending the wedding of the man who left her, to a college student struggling with her identity, and a grandmother teaching her granddaughter the quiet dignity of observation—each character boards the train with their own heavy heart or hidden hope.

What makes this story so fascinating is the "butterfly effect" within a single train car. A conversation overheard, a small act of kindness witnessed, or a shared glance on a platform creates a ripple. By the time they reach the end of the line, their lives have been subtly but permanently woven together. It’s a poignant reminder that we are all background characters in someone else’s story, just as they are in ours.

In my own life, those tiny interactions—the familiar nod from a barista or a waiter who already knows my favorite order—feel like real-life versions of these encounters. We aren't just "passengers" in our cities; we are neighbors, regulars, and familiar faces in the peripheral of each other’s lives.

Finishing this book left me looking differently at the "strangers" I pass every day. It’s a comforting, insightful look at how human stories aren't linear—they are a web of brief encounters that somehow lead us exactly where we need to go.

Hiro Arikawa reminds us that no one is truly an island, even on a short commute.

Lately, my Kindle has been a sanctuary of light-hearted, heart-warming, and deeply comforting stories. These three titles, in particular, have mirrored my own journey in the most unexpected ways:

1. The Restaurant of Lost Recipes by Hisashi Kashiwa

The search for a taste of the past. Whether it's a specific bowl of udon from a long-lost childhood or a stew prepared by a departed loved one, the Kamogawas reconstruct these recipes to help their clients find closure, joy, or a bridge back to a forgotten part of themselves.

This book feels like a warm hug in literary form, like the other books in the Kamogawa series by same author. It explores the profound connection between food, memory, and the people who shape our lives.

This was a nostalgic trip down memory lane. It brought back vivid echoes of the recipes I learned in my youth—flavors I haven’t tasted in years but can still perfectly recall. It has rekindled a dormant spark to get back into the kitchen and recreate those staples very soon.

It’s remarkable how a single flavor can hold the grace to heal the parts of our hearts we often keep hidden, even from ourselves.

2. What You Are Looking for is in the Library by Michiko Aoyama

In a small community center in Tokyo, there sits a library that offers much more than just a quiet place to read. It is presided over by an enigmatic, larger-than-life librarian who spends her days felting small, mysterious gifts and sensing exactly what her visitors are searching for -- even when they don't know it themselves. Visitors soon discover that the standard recommendations and the unexpected bonus title they are provided with by the librarian holds the exact wisdom, comfort, or push they needed to change their lives.

This is a story about the quiet magic of libraries and the way a single encounter -- or a single sentence -- can illuminate a path we couldn't see before.

I found a quiet companion in this book throughout our move. It reminded me that we are never truly lost; provided there is movement and the will to keep going, the way forward reveals itself. In the beauty of its simplicity, I re-learned that the answers we search for aren't always in the grand transitions, but in the small, heart-warming moments we often pass by.

3. The Healing Hippo at Hinode Park by Michiko Aoyama

In the shadow of a modern apartment complex sits a quiet, unassuming playground called Hinode Park. There, among the swings and slides, stands a weathered, stone-carved hippo ride named Kabahiko. To most, he is just an old piece of playground equipment with peeling paint and teary eyes. But a local urban legend suggests otherwise.

The story follows five neighbors, from a struggling student to a lonely new mother, who each find their way to the hippo in moments of quiet desperation. As they reach out to Kabahiko, they discover that while the "magic" might be a legend, the act of seeking comfort leads them to the very connections and self-reflections they were missing.

After the restaurant of recipes and the library, this felt like the natural next stop on my journey through "healing fiction". I loved the idea of an inanimate object serving as a catalyst for human connection. Kabahiko was a witness to lessons about vulnerability, community, and the small ways we mend ourselves.

With the dust of our move finally settled, this story remains with me. It captures the profound truth that transitioning into a new role—or weathering a difficult storm—isn’t about losing who we are. It is an invitation to evolve; a chance to discover hidden facets of ourselves and stir the strengths that have been waiting, quietly, to be rediscovered.

****

There is a profound comfort in finding pieces of my own story tucked between these pages. While transition is rarely easy, it is always an evolution; it is proof that the right words have a way of finding us exactly when we need them most.

The day settled over me with a heaviness I couldn’t quite name. Not exhaustion, at least not in the ordinary sense. It felt deeper, older — like the remnants of adrenaline that had burned too brightly for too long. The aftermath of deadlines, of grade disputes, of rushing to mend errors that appeared faster than I could catch them. I wasn’t negligent; the days were simply too short for the expectations they carried. And yet, my body bore the weight as if it had weathered a storm no one else had seen.

I learned yesterday that I would be oriented to a new, different hospital next week. The news arrived quietly, but my body responded loudly. A sudden tightening, a quiet shutting down, the way an animal recoils before it understands why. I felt the shift before I had the words for it. And that startled me. Because by now, I know the landscape of my own strengths. I know how I teach, with clarity and steadiness. I know how I manage clinical work — capable, composed. I know how I navigate research, careful and precise. I’ve never been the type to step back from a challenge.

But lately there’s been a strange dissonance within me.

My mind, ever confident, says: Of course you can.

My body, weary in a way I can’t ignore, whispers: Not like before. Not without cost.

It’s as though something inside me is quietly undoing itself, rearranging its priorities when I’m not looking.

I find my thoughts wandering — drifting, really — toward a life I’ve only half-admitted wanting. A slower life. A gentler one. Teaching part-time, perhaps. Filling the rest of my days with the soft rituals of tending to a home, learning the domestic languages I’ve never had time to speak. I imagine mornings without urgency, afternoons shaped by choice rather than obligation. The vision arrives uninvited, but it feels like truth.

There are moments when doubt creeps in, asking if this is laziness disguised as longing. But I know — with the quiet certainty that lives in the chest, not the mind — that it isn’t. This doesn’t feel like giving up. It feels like being pulled toward something I don’t yet have the courage to claim.

Maybe this is what transition feels like.

Not dramatic, not loud — but subtle. A slow unraveling. A gentle turning of the soul toward a new direction.

Maybe I am simply tired in the way people become tired when they have carried themselves through too many seasons without pausing.

Tonight, the truth feels simple:

I am not lost.

I am being rerouted.

The move, unpremeditated as it was, proved a necessary severance—a deliberate claim to a clean slate. It was a flee from a professionally toxic environment that had left me utterly depleted, seeking a haven where I could truly heal and feel safe.

For months, my routine functioned as an impenetrable shield: safe, predictable, and consciously excised of the clinical practice integral to my former role. I immersed myself in academic lectures, convinced that this quiet stasis was the solitary path to mend a weary soul. Yet, the stillness only gave way to a profound vacuum—a vital frequency missing from the calculated rhythm of my new life.

Yet as the months went by, I felt my once-vivid passion for teaching begin to fade. The joy of the classroom had been replaced by a hollow sense of obligation. Then came a mandate: the following term would require an inescapable return to the Operating Room (OR). The prospect of new clinical training in an unfamiliar environment filled me with visceral dread—despite recalling a time when the OR had once been a place of profound thrill and confident mastery.

On Day Two of that mandatory clinical immersion, the impossible occurred. It wasn't an explosion, but a quiet, resonant sound—the audible affirmation of an engine, long silent and deemed discarded, now softly roaring back to life. Amidst the familiar routine of the OR, I grasped a profound truth: The work itself—the precision, the focus, the connection—was the potent source of energy that had been absent for months. This quiet roar of a suppressed passion was fiercely and unexpectedly rekindled.

This sudden, powerful re-ignition feels like an unforeseen grace, marking the decisive conclusion of a waiting season. It is not an ending, but a beautiful prologue. I've learned that our deepest passions often wait patiently for our healing, ready to roar back to life when we cease attempting to outrun them. Perhaps this stripping away of my vocation was God's design all along: a meticulous process intended to heal and restore me, piece by piece, until this core segment of my identity was wholly reaffirmed.

And just like that, the first semester has passed. The academic calendar, an ever-present drumbeat in our lives, once again marks a moment for pause and reflection. But unlike the classes I’ve handled before, this semester was… different.

The most immediate, and perhaps most profound, change was the sheer scale. My classes ballooned, about twice the size of the intimate groups I was accustomed to. What used to be a comfortable, almost conversational, dynamic transformed. The familiar landscape of individual faces and ready names blurred into a wider vista.

There's a certain beauty in the intimacy of a smaller classroom. You learn the details – the quiet brilliance of one student, the persistent curiosity of another, the subtle signs of a concept finally clicking into place. You match names with faces, and beyond that, you begin to match names with personalities, with aspirations, with individual learning journeys. It’s a space where mentorship feels natural, where a quick chat after class can make all the difference, and where the sense of community is palpable.

This semester, those moments became rarer, more fleeting. The sheer volume of students meant that the individual connections, the ones I so valued and found so rewarding, were harder to forge. The energy in the larger hall is different – a hum, a collective presence, rather than a chorus of distinct voices. I found myself delivering lectures to a sea of faces, hoping my words resonated, but lacking the immediate feedback of those familiar, engaged eyes.

It’s not to say there weren’t rewarding moments. The energy of a large group can be infectious, and seeing so many minds grappling with complex ideas is its own kind of inspiration. There's a power in the collective learning experience, a shared intellectual journey that transcends individual interactions. But I confess, a part of me missed the quiet satisfaction of knowing each student by name, of understanding their unique perspectives, of truly seeing them.

This shift has challenged me to rethink my pedagogical approaches. How do you foster engagement in a larger setting? How do you ensure that no student feels lost in the crowd? How do you maintain a sense of connection when one-on-one time is a luxury? These are the questions I’ll be carrying with me into the break, and into future semesters.