Kapitan Toki: Blurry Vision, Sharp Perspective

I cried through most of Midnight Girls. Maybe because it touched several deeply personal nerves at once: growing up as the child of an OFW, my previous work in labor policy, and even now, still navigating the realities and quiet exhaustion of working-class life. The film doesn’t simply tell a story--it confronts a reality many Filipinos know intimately, yet rarely speak about with honesty or compassion.

It’s another remarkable work from Director Irene Villamor (Sid & Aya, The Loved One), whose sensitivity as a storyteller is unmistakable here.

At first, the ensemble--Jodi Sta Maria, Sanya Lopez, Jane Oineza, Loisa Andalio--felt like an unexpected mix, but the chemistry among them ultimately gave the film much of its emotional weight. Jodi once again demonstrated extraordinary command of her craft, while Sanya was the biggest surprise for me! Together, they portrayed women shaped by vastly different circumstances yet bound by the same instinct to endure--their resilience sharpened by the daily grind of working-class life. Pinalaki ng SexBomb para lumaban, indeed!

What resonated with me most was the way the film humanized OFW entertainers in Japan--people often reduced to stereotypes, moralized by society, exploited by necessity, and sometimes misunderstood even by the very families and loved ones they sacrifice everything for. But the film’s empathy extends beyond the OFWs themselves, capturing as well the quiet fractures carried by their families--especially the children left behind, who grow up navigating absence as a defining condition of life.

Midnight Girls refuses to flatten these lives into mere symbols of shame or sacrifice. Instead, it restores their complexity, dignity, and humanity.

If I had to give my 2025 a personality, it would not be loud, impressive, or eager to perform. It would sit back, barefoot, untroubled by how it was perceived. It would quietly remind me that grounding is not stagnation. It is the deliberate choice to feel the earth beneath you before deciding where to walk next.

That understanding came into focus during my trip to Tawi-Tawi, which became one of the year’s quiet anchors.

For many, the place exists only as an idea shaped by assumptions, seen through lenses that judge quickly and look briefly. But what I encountered instead was a gentle refusal to hurry. Time seemed less insistent there. There was no pressure to explain, optimize, or prove anything. It was then that I noticed the irony: places like Tawi-Tawi are often overlooked precisely because they do not announce themselves.

And grounding never does. It hums.

Over the course of the year, I learned to sit with silence, not as absence, but as space. Silence became where clarity slowly gathered. It softened the need to perform and stripped away what was unnecessary. Within that space, my judgment steadied, my emotions became less reactive, and my work began to feel more intentional, meaningful not because it was visible, but because it was aligned.

And most importantly, I learned to hold peace without feeling the need to justify it. Peace is often mistaken for passivity or withdrawal, as if calm signals disengagement. In 2025, peace revealed itself as strength. It was discernment. It was knowing when to lean in and when to step back. It was choosing alignment over adrenaline, depth over urgency.

I see now that while 2025 expanded my life outward, it also drew it decisively inward. As I step into a new year, I carry that grounding with me: the dignity of quiet work, the confidence that grows from silence, and the conviction that peace is not the absence of ambition, but the ground on which ambition can stand, steady and sure.

God loves you ̶b̶u̶t̶ ̶n̶o̶t̶ ̶e̶n̶o̶u̶g̶h̶ ̶t̶o̶ ̶s̶a̶v̶e̶ ̶y̶o̶u̶!̶

It's easy to dismiss that as cynicism -- another graffiti scrawl born of despair. But maybe it isn't mockery. Maybe it's a confession, a mirror held up to a world that has grown too comfortable with its own indifference.

For all the miseries we endure, perhaps the problem was never divine neglect. Perhaps it lies closer to home -- in how readily we mistake sentiment for compassion, or how easily we confuse sympathy with responsibility.

We like to say that education is the great social equalizer. I still believe it—shaped by years in both government and the private sector in my past career, working to expand access to quality learning and make it relevant to the needs of future industries. The promise is simple: give everyone a fair shot in school, and you give them a fair shot in life.

But my recent return to graduate studies has reminded me how much work remains to make that promise real for all. While not my first time in a private school, this re-entry—after spending much of my earlier education in the public school system—felt like crossing a threshold. What was once financially out of reach for my family is now accessible to me—and the difference is striking: faster processes, efficient systems, and staff who greet you with genuine warmth. Here, the learning journey feels dignified.

It was not always so. In public schools, my enrollment memories are of hours-long queues under the heat or in the rain, sometimes with students arriving before dawn to secure class slots—only to find quotas already filled, forcing them to return the next day. Some even had to sing, dance, or perform some arbitrary task to win a professor’s favor for a slot. At registrar counters, anxious young faces were too often met with raised eyebrows and clipped tones instead of empathy. These may now feel like throwbacks I can laugh about, but I realize they were not mere inconveniences; they were markers of an undignified learning journey, where unnecessary hurdles were accepted as part of the cost of getting an education.

Amid a stormy, rain-soaked week comes the Antoinette Jadaone film Sunshine, making its Philippine premiere like a long-awaited ray of light! For days I've been stuck indoors, restless as monsoon rains and typhoons swept across most of Luzon, including Metro Manila -- and this film felt like the warmth I didn't realize I needed.

But beyond the weather, Sunshine feels like the light this country needs: a daring narrative that shatters the silence around topics we often avoid -- women's bodies, their dreams, and the freedom to choose their own path. In a society where conservative ideals still smother discussions on sex education, sexual and reproductive health, and women's autonomy, Sunshine feels quietly radical simply for telling the truth.

Maris Racal commands the screen in the titular role, playing a young gymnast fiercely chasing her Olympic dream -- until life throws her an unexpected curve: an unplanned pregnancy. The film poses a powerful question: What happens when the world demands you abandon your dream just to conform? Sunshine's struggle transcends sport -- it's about reclaiming agency, not just for herself, but for every woman whose voice has ever been silenced.

"Drown out the noise" -- the film's unforgettable refrain -- serves as both lifeline and battle cry, capturing the suffocating weight of societal expectations and the courage it takes to rise above them. That line lingered, reminding me that quiet defiance is often where we find our truest selves.

Anxious. I’ve been carrying so much lately—work deadlines, school responsibilities, personal obligations—all piling up at once. And honestly, it’s exhausting.

What makes it harder is the silence from people I thought I could count on. I used to feel some level of support, some care. But when things got intense, when I actually needed backup the most, I was left alone.

Last-minute disappearances, vague apologies—it all speaks volumes.

Pride March is more than a celebration—it's a vibrant journey of chasing truth, claiming space, and affirming that no one walks alone.

For the LGBTQIA+ community and its allies, each step is a defiant declaration of identity and hope, a pursuit of a world where love is free and authenticity is safe.

The road is not always easy, but it is vividly colorful—painted with stories of struggle, resilience, and joy. Along the way, there is solidarity in the crowd, strength in shared voices, and beauty in the refusal to fade into silence.

Pride is proof that even when the journey is long, we walk it together—and we walk it proud.

I thought it was butterflies in my stomach. Then I second-guessed it—maybe it wasn't butterflies.

Just a vague sense that something was shifting.

Whatever it was, it felt intense. Not unpleasant—just… noticeable. Like something meaningful was beginning to take shape.

For a while, I truly believed it was real—or at least becoming real. There were signs.

Or so I thought.

But looking back, maybe that was just me. Maybe I projected meaning onto something that didn’t carry the same weight for you.

And now, stepping back, I realize—I might never know if it was ever real at all.

That it was butterflies...

Every Saturday in the town of Panglima Sugala in Tawi-Tawi, the age-old practice of barter comes vividly to life.

I was in Barangay Batu-Batu just in time for Adlaw Pagtabuh-tabuh, a weekly market where trading is done through barter—a system in which goods are exchanged for other goods, rather than for money. It felt surreal to witness something I had only read about in history books now unfolding before me.

Once the capital of Tawi-Tawi, Batu-Batu saw the seat of government transferred to the nearby town of Bongao in the late 1970s. But despite this political transition, the barangay remains a vital hub of local life. Many Sama-Badjaus continue to reside here, while others return regularly on market days.

Batu-Batu is surrounded by fertile lands, dense forests, and rich coastal waters—all vital sources of sustenance and livelihood for the Sama-Badjaus. The quaint barangay—and Panglima Sugala more broadly—continues to serve as an important commercial hub for the province.

Batu-Batu feels timeless, where tradition is not merely preserved but actively woven into the fabric of daily life. Here, barter isn't a staged cultural display, but a functional and enduring mechanism of community exchange and social cohesion.

Tawi-Tawi stands as the Philippines’ largest producer of seaweed, anchoring the livelihoods of many coastal communities across the province. Locally known as agal-agal, seaweed is harvested and either sold fresh—often tossed into vibrant, flavorful salads—or dried and stored in warehouses before being transported to larger markets like Zamboanga City for industrial use.

Both the seafaring and shoreline Sama-Badjaus sail in with wooden boats laden with reef fish, shellfish, and seaweed harvested from the Sulu and Celebes Seas. Likewise, farming Sama-Badjaus from the island interiors bring root crops, vegetables, coconuts, bananas, and other produce to trade.

Over the weekend, I found myself at the southernmost edge of the Philippines—Sitangkai, a remote municipality in Tawi-Tawi that lies closer to Malaysia than to Zamboanga or even Sulu's Jolo. Often dubbed the "Venice of the South", Sitangkai earns this moniker from its intricate network of waterways, where boats—not wheels—serve as the primary mode of transportation. But beyond this passing resemblance to the famed Italian city, Sitangkai holds a quiet charm that is entirely its own.

Sitangkai’s waterways converge at the so-called 'Boulevard'—a broad canal that stretches from the village’s main entry point, marked by a distinct welcome arch, all the way to the Municipal Hall at its farthest reach.

Set among islands and shoals that once sat at the heart of ancient maritime trade routes, Sitangkai has long been home to the Sama-Bajaus—our seafaring brothers and sisters who have thrived for generations through fishing and cross-island trade. Life here moves to the rhythm of the tides, and the culture is rich with traditions shaped by the surrounding Sulu and Celebes seas.

At certain times of the day, traders line the edges of the Boulevard, their wooden boats brimming with goods—from fresh vegetables and fruits to the day’s catch of fish. Buyers gather as well, negotiating prices and making their own offers in a lively exchange. I was there at around 5 p.m., and the place was still buzzing with activity.

Today, Sitangkai’s strategic location continues to make it a vital trading port, serving as a gateway for goods moving between the Philippines and neighboring Malaysia. In its floating markets, currencies are flexible—and stories, traded just as easily as goods, flow freely from locals, traders, and visitors alike. Here, borders blur and cultures converge.

Just behind the Municipal Hall sits the local high school. A graduation ceremony was underway when I visited. I saw graduates and their parents dressed in some of the most beautiful attire I’ve ever seen at such an event—vibrant, elegant, and deeply expressive of pride. Their joy was unmistakable, and rightfully earned.

Indeed, Sitangkai stands as a quiet yet enduring reminder of the Philippines’ maritime roots—and of our deep, living ties with our Southeast Asian neighbors, carried not by wheels, but by the open waters that have long connected our histories, economies, and lives.

Just me getting the most out of this blazer—worn once for a beige-themed wedding years ago, mothballed, and finally making a comeback at work today! 😅

Ex Ex Lovers feels like a familiar breath of fresh air, evoking the same emotions I experienced years ago while watching the Marvin-Jolina movies that shaped my childhood. It’s refreshing to see a film that keeps things simple yet delivers a coherent and heartfelt storyline.

While it’s not perfect—some acting choices might feel cringeworthy by today’s standards—that’s actually part of its charm. The film fully embraces its '90s nostalgia, and that’s exactly what makes it special. As a longtime Marvin-Jolina fan myself (I even chose UP Baguio for college because Labs Kita, Okey Ka Lang? was shot there), I might be biased in appreciating their undiminished on-screen chemistry. Plus, as a solid ka-eme of And Walang Kwentahang Podcast and practically anything that's Direk Tonet and Direk JP including their filmographies, it was not difficult to like the movie in the first instance. And honestly, I don’t mind one bit of its flaws.

MarJo never fails.

Beyond nostalgia, what stood out to me was how Ex Ex Lovers subtly tackled real social issues—particularly the struggle of leaving a dysfunctional, toxic relationship in a country where divorce isn’t an option. Yes, that’s the Philippines—one of only two places in the world, alongside Vatican City, that still refuses to legalize divorce.

And the film's ending… I might not have fully processed it yet, but it felt like a delicate mix of closure and moving forward—portrayed as something almost magical for both Marvin and Jolina’s characters. In that moment, it felt incredibly real, as if it were the actual Marvin and Jolina themselves. And in a way, this resonated with me personally, as someone navigating my own struggles of feeling stuck. I think it will resonate with you, too.

From reel to real.

Jo Malone's English Pear and Freesia -- love it, hate it. To me, it's amoy altar ng lola (it can overwhelming at times) but it takes me back to childhood, to my grandmother who cared for me.

In my flat, I have a special nook featuring the Mother and Child, now beautifully complemented by a bulul -- a rice god, they say. I've always wanted a bulul, but they can be quite pricey. I'm glad to have finally found one in Dapitan. It may not be an antique, but it feels perfect for me and my Cordilleran origins. Maybe to some their pair-up is odd, but to me, they create a harmonious and spiritual ambiance enriched by the personal stories they carry -- making them all the more special.

The year 2024 has been a season of abundant blessings, and I'm endlessly grateful to my Lord for every moment!

Statement shirts, by intention or not.

One of the most transformative lessons I've now embraced is letting go of my anxiety about the future. Life has shown me that when you focus on savoring each moment and living fully in the present, progress happens naturally -- often without you even realizing it. Before long, you find yourself achieving your goals, or better yet, discovering new ones along the way.

Reflecting on the past, I remember how impatient I used to be. I would constantly compare myself to others, feeling frustrated and disheartened whenever I thought I was falling behind the rat race and failing some more of society's expectations. That mindset drained me. Eventually, I grew tired of obsessing over the idea of winning, and chose instead to embrace the journey and enjoy the process.

Paulo Coelho's words in The Alchemist -- "And, when you want something, all the universe conspires in helping you to achieve it" -- have been a guiding principle for me especially during pivotal moments in my life, including now. Once again, I've seen this truth in action. When your heart is aligned with your deepest desires, life has a way of opening doors, offering opportunities -- and delivering the most wonderful surprises!

As I step into 2025, I feel a renewed sense of purpose and trust in the journey ahead. This new year is a blank canvas, and I'm committed to filling it with moments of gratitude, intentional choices, and of course, unwavering faith in the beauty of what's yet to come.

While doing my afternoon jog on Avenida in Lingayen, I passed by my pharmacist-friends Jam and Ed's Family Care Pharmacy. I was so happy, I was let inside and I got the chance to learn how they organize the medicines, and where I can easily access what for me are the life-saving antihistamine pills and the ever-miraculous Lola Remedios syrup. I was reminded of how carbocistine... or carboceistine... or maybe c@rb0$i$t33n3?... should be spelled--which obviously didn't register for long in my goldfish memory.

Rx's are a symbol for prescription drugs, Jam taught me, and generic drugs work the exact, same way as the branded ones. Bioflu, Neozep and Decolgen have matching formulation, and are essentially the same flu-cold medicine despite being marketed differently, I was told.

Curious, I asked how they decode the seemingly hieroglyphic handwritings of some doctors on prescription notes, and whether pharmacists have to take a special course to hone such skill. Jam just laughed at me, but eventually shared how her experiences--good and not--made her learn the ropes of such an amazing profession.

My family has a history of kidney disease, and I've so far witnessed three from my kin enduring dialysis sessions two or three times a week and swigging a minimum of 10 maintenance pills daily, and all of these for two or a few more years and perishing soon after.

From one of them, my uncle--my father's only sibling--I've experienced what I had thought were just some intelligently written hostipal scenes on TV dramas. I saw myself as among the characters, as I was speeding to bring my ailing uncle to the nearest hospital one evening. There, and with my Lola--my uncle's mother--we were led to an emergency room that's full of some more ailing patients. A CPR was administered to my uncle, and right in front of me. He was salvaged from near death, but a couple of hours later he succumbed to death. I knew my Lola was very much heartbroken, and I could imagine how painful it must be for her to outlive her own child.

Years later, my OFW dad--my Lola's only remaining child--had to be immediately flown back to the Philippines as he was diagnosed of kidney failure. At the airport he was in the very site I had seen him ethusiastically pushing one or two carts full of balikbayan boxes and bags of duty-free chocolates, running towards me for a tight hug. This time, he was in a wheelchair and couldn't get up to give me a hug.

Recently, my dad's health has gone worse, that he had to undergo his first dialysis sessions, and that meant he now has to do those regularly. It's heartbreaking for me to see him side by side that blood machine. But he's fighting, and so I should too.