x-rays&gammarays

I was born in 1994, and my earliest awareness of the papacy was during the time of Pope John Paul II. As a child, I did not yet understand the depth of his role, only that he was a constant and familiar presence in the Church and in the world. When he passed away, I experienced it simply as the end of something significant, without fully grasping its spiritual weight. All I knew then was that Pope Benedict XVI succeeded him.

In my early years, I did not truly appreciate Pope Benedict XVI. His quiet and reserved nature felt very different from his predecessor. However, as I grew older and began to read his writings, my understanding changed. I began to see him not through the lens of public presence, but through the depth of his faith and theology. His writings revealed a mind deeply rooted in Scripture, tradition, and the mystery of Christ. I came to realize that his contribution to the Church was not in charisma, but in clarity, teaching, and fidelity to the faith.

When Pope Francis succeeded him, I encountered a different expression of the papacy. His ministry emphasized mercy, encounter, and pastoral closeness. What stood out to me most was his consistent call to return to the heart of the Gospel—to love the poor, to welcome the stranger, and to recognize the dignity of every person as created by God. I was also moved by his openness in acknowledging the Church’s past wounds and his call for repentance and healing. In him, I saw a reminder that God’s mercy is always greater than human failure.

Now, as I reflect on the current papacy, I find myself learning again what it means to trust the Church’s continuity through time. At first, I approached it with uncertainty, but I now see more clearly that the Church is guided not by human expectation, but by the Holy Spirit working through very different personalities and gifts.

Looking back, I realize that each pope I have lived through has revealed a different dimension of the Church’s mission. Pope John Paul II reminded the world of courage and witness. Pope Benedict XVI showed the importance of truth, faith, and theological depth. Pope Francis emphasized mercy, encounter, and compassion. Together, they form not contradictions, but a fuller image of the Church’s living tradition.

You learn to keep moving, to grow around the emptiness, but it never truly leaves. You know they’re gone, and nothing in your life will ever feel the same again. Because it isn’t just them you lost—

The Cosmic Reason There’s No Bread- Probably

It was a Tuesday morning, my day off, when I opened the kitchen cabinet, peered inside, and asked the most profound question humanity has ever faced: “Why is there no bread?”

It seems trivial — a minor domestic inconvenience. But as any philosopher (or mildly hungry person) knows, one small question can unravel the entire structure of the universe.

See, I was supposed to buy bread yesterday. I even made a mental list — bread, eggs, dish soap — the trinity of groceries. But somewhere between the Uber drop off and aisle twenty-five, something went wrong. I remembered I also needed to buy coffee; wandered off to get them, passed by the snack section, and saw those spicy chips that make your tongue question your life choices, and the next thing I know, I am at home with a bag of regret and absolutely no bread.

So, really, the bread is gone because of chips.

But I only bought the chips because I was stressed after work. And I was stressed because departmental manger said, “We’ll circle back to that later,” which everyone knows is code for you’re in trouble but we’re saving it for Monday. Naturally, I sought comfort in carbohydrates and sugar. So, truly, the bread is gone because of my boss.

But really, my boss is only my boss because of capitalism — an economic system born from centuries of social evolution. And that evolution only happened because about 3.8 billion years ago, a bunch of chemical compounds on early Earth decided to start replicating themselves. So the bread is gone because of primordial life.

But life only exists because comets delivered water and organic molecules to Earth billions of years ago. And those comets exist because the solar system formed from a giant cloud of gas and dust 4.6 billion years ago. So the bread is gone because of stellar debris.

But that gas cloud only existed because ancient stars exploded in supernovae, scattering their elements across space. Those stars were born from hydrogen, created during the Big Bang. Which means, technically, the bread is gone because 13.8 billion years ago, space itself decided to dramatically expand out of nothing.

Now, this raises an interesting question: did the universe know, 13.8 billion years ago, that by expanding, it would one day create galaxies, planets, oxygen, single-celled organisms, Hominids, Homo sapiens sapiens, yeast, supermarkets, and me — a hungry person on my day off standing in my kitchen at 07:30 a.m. asking the void why there’s no bread?

Maybe.

Because if physics is deterministic, everything that happens — every star that forms, every loaf that burns, every snack I accidentally binge on— is simply the inevitable consequence of what came before. If I could somehow rewind the universe and hit “play” again with exactly the same conditions, I'd forget the bread every single time?

But that can’t be true, right? Surely, we have free will. We make choices. We are masters of our own destiny! (Mostly. Except for when Netflix releases a new series.)

Still, when you think about it, our brains are made of atoms that obey physical laws, and those atoms came from stars, which came from the Big Bang. So if the motion of every atom is fixed by what came before, then maybe every thought you’ve ever had was just the universe acting itself out — and “deciding” to forget the bread was as inevitable as gravity.

Which would mean we’re just cosmic billiard balls, rolling across the table of spacetime, pretending we have a say in where we land. We think we’re choosing our shots, but maybe the cue was set in motion 13.8 billion years ago.

Still, even if that’s true, does it really matter? The bread’s still gone, and the chips are still delicious.

So maybe the point isn’t whether life is predetermined or not. Maybe it’s about accepting that somewhere between the Big Bang and the bakery aisle, the universe simply decided that this morning, I'd be having cereal for breakfast.

I was maybe eight or nine when I first read Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland and watched the Disney classic. At the time, this quote felt whimsical—just another curious moment in a strange, magical world. But it stayed with me. I didn’t understand why then.

Now, as an adult, I find myself returning to these words more often than I expected. There’s a quiet truth behind them that hits differently with age. Back then, life felt like a playground of possibilities. I didn’t need a clear destination—just the excitement of moving forward was enough. But somewhere along the way, I lost that sense of wonder, traded it for the weight of expectations, deadlines, and decisions I’m supposed to have figured out by now.

Still, this quote reminds me: maybe it’s okay not to know. Maybe what matters isn’t the path itself, but that I keep walking. Keep wondering. Keep searching.

Even in uncertainty, there’s a kind of magic. And maybe that childlike wonder isn’t entirely gone—it’s just buried under grown-up noise, waiting quietly for me to notice it again.

I devoured the pages, heart racing, eyes wide — until I reached THAT chapter.

Snape killed Dumbledore.

At fifteen years old, I felt my entire world collapse. I couldn’t breathe. I couldn’t eat. I couldn’t stop crying for days. I felt physically ill — hands shaking, vision blurry, stomach twisting with grief. I remember throwing up, not from food poisoning or fever, but from heartbreak.

Dumbledore’s death shattered something deep in me — the fragile belief that the good always win, that the wise always survive, that magic could protect everything that mattered. That moment marked the end of my innocent, carefree view of the world. It was the first time a story broke me (Dumbledore’s death broke my heart more than Sirius’, btw).

Harry Potter was my childhood. It was my escape, my comfort, my universe. And even now, I still return to it — like visiting an old friend. I hope, one day, my own children will wander those same corridors of Hogwarts, feel the same magic, and carry the same warmth in their hearts.

Because despite the heartbreak, Harry Potter made my childhood glorious.

And that is a kind of magic no spell could ever undo.

⚡️

My Hot Take:

I find it both unfair and unjust that we often portray Maria Clara from Jose Rizal’s Noli Me Tangere and El Filibusterismo as weak, submissive, and unworthy of being seen as a representative figure for Filipinas. This perspective dismisses the strength and resilience she showed in fighting her battles, albeit in her own quiet and unconventional ways.

Let us begin by acknowledging that Maria Clara’s form of resistance was not about loud defiance or outward rebellion but rather about challenging expectations and societal norms in deeply personal and impactful ways. She didn’t just conform to the rigid standards that were placed on Filipina women during her time. Instead, she forged her own path- unfortunately, at great personal cost.

A Fight Against Expectations

Consider the pressures she faced: Maria Clara was expected by society, her family, and her father to follow a conventional role as a wife and mother. Yet, she made a conscious decision to reject these expectations. When she found out that she just lost the love of her life, she walked away from wealth, social status, and familial ties. This wasn’t a mere act of personal heartbreak—it was a rejection of material gains, social ambition, and the compromises that many women were expected to make just to fit into their predetermined roles. How many of us can truly say we would make such a self-sacrificial choice?

She refused the authority of her real father, Padre Damaso, who sought to marry her off to Linares, prioritizing power and status over her own happiness and autonomy. Her rejection of this decision was not just a personal choice—it was a defiance of patriarchal norms that sought to control a woman’s destiny.

Sacrificing for Family and Honor

Maria Clara also chose to protect her family. How many of us today could make a decision that places family loyalty and sacrifice above personal convenience? In our modern context, we see many Filipinos and Filipinas making similar sacrifices, leaving the comforts of home to work abroad just to support their loved ones. These individuals endure hardships to ensure their families have a better future. Maria Clara’s sacrifice, in a historical sense, mirrors this loyalty and commitment.

She showed us a different kind of bravery—subtle but equally significant. Maria Clara’s choices highlighted the strength that lies in prioritizing love, loyalty, and personal sacrifice, rather than seeking self-interest or social approval.

A Call for Empathy and Recognition

I understand that judging a woman from the 19th century by our 21st-century standards might seem tempting. But we must not erase the significance of her struggles and choices by labeling her as weak or submissive. Instead, we should celebrate the strength she displayed in navigating a world filled with oppressive social expectations, familial pressures, and patriarchal norms. Maria Clara fought battles in the only way she could—with quiet resilience, inner strength, and an unwavering commitment to her heart’s choices.

Let us recognize that strength isn’t always about loud resistance or public defiance; sometimes, it’s in the quiet decisions that demand deep personal sacrifice and inner courage. Maria Clara deserves to be seen not just as a symbol of weakness but as a representative of resilience, sacrifice, and the unyielding spirit of a woman who made tough choices according to her circumstances.