November 15, 2015
Since childhood, I have always been drawn to storytelling, especially the stories told by the elderly. As children, we would gather around them, sitting quietly with eager ears and wide eyes, absorbing every word they shared. Their voices carried memories of lives once lived, of times and places we had never seen. Listening to them felt like watching a movie unfold in our imagination. Their stories always left me mesmerized.
Now that I am older, I find myself keeping a notebook and pen close at hand. Writing stories or simple diary entries has become my way of expressing thoughts that often remain unspoken. When no one is around to listen, the blank pages of my notebook become my silent companion. In many ways, my own life feels like a story waiting to be told.
Tonight, while sorting through old CDs and inserting them into my computer, I stumbled upon a forgotten file. It was a narrative I had written during a sleepless night long ago. The date on the document read December 22, 1998. As I opened it, a quiet wave of nostalgia washed over me, reminding me that some moments, no matter how many years have passed, still affect me.
December 22, 1998
It’s late. I sit alone in my room in Cebu, my thoughts drifting toward Manila where my wife and baby daughter are. The distance between us feels heavier at night. I miss them deeply. Memories of our wedding day, the moment my daughter was born, and the first time I held her in the clinic remain vivid in my mind, so close in memory, yet painfully far in reality. I was not even there for her christening, a moment I wish I could have shared with them.
Months earlier, my work had been caught in the wake of a company restructuring. I was given a difficult choice: resign or relocate. I chose to keep my job, even if it meant living far from the family I had just begun to build. In a strange twist of fate, the relocation brought me back to Cebu, my beloved hometown. It was a return filled with mixed emotions, both comforting and bittersweet.
Life, I have learned, rarely unfolds according to the plans we try to design. We prepare, we hope, and we imagine a clear road ahead, yet life often leads us down unexpected paths. My own life’s journey says it all. It has been quite tough, a life that often felt like being hurled through the air on a trapeze, holding tightly to my grip so I wouldn’t fall.
Uncertainty started during my early teenage years. I felt lost and overshadowed by ill fate, unsure of where my life was heading. My world seemed to pause when my family could no longer afford to support my studies to give way for my three other older siblings. For two long years, I drifted without direction. While other young teenagers my age were busy with school activities and planning their futures, I felt painfully left behind. Deep within my heart was a quiet but persistent longing to return to school.
Yet there I was, wandering through a maze of uncertainty. During those years, I spent much of my time immersed in nature. Occasionally, I joined other out-of-school youths. We played sports, indulged in gambling, at times, when money was rare, scavenging through village dumps in search of anything that could be sold. But more often than not, I preferred solitude, especially by the sea.
I spent countless hours watching the tides rise and fall, swimming, and find comfort in the rhythm of the waves. During low tide, I would gather what the sea had to offer, shellfish, small fish, and other simple bounty from the sea. Over those two wandering years, I slowly learned the skills of a fisherman. At times, I was even able to share some of my catch with neighboring families, which brought me a quiet sense of purpose.
Those days were filled with both adventure and reflection. I often walked across rice paddies, streams, ponds, and mangrove forests. Birds and insects moved freely around me, while the fresh air carried the earthy scent of the land. In those moments, surrounded by nature’s beauty, life felt simple, yet peaceful.
It came to pass. We needed to leave that place behind for fear for our safety. The neighborhood where we lived had slowly become troubled, filled with drug addicts and harmful influences. The growing tension disturbed the peace of our home. One frightening incident pushed us to act, my younger sibling was almost harmed when she was dragged by a passing drug addict. Thankfully, one of her friends informed us just in time. Had it not been for that quick alert, something far worse might have happened.
With heavy hearts, we had to transfer to a new location somewhere. It was late in the evening when we departed. Riding in a hired jeepney, jam-packed with family belongings, I felt a strange mixture of nostalgia and excitement about what awaited our family. Traveling at that late hour in those days was swift and quiet. Traffic was almost nonexistent in the late 70s and early 80s. Cars were few, and horse-drawn carriages were still a common sight in our town.
As the jeepney moved through the empty streets, the cool evening breeze brushed gently against my cheeks. I watched silently as rows of streetlights passed by and houses stood still in the night, their windows glowing softly in the dark. The streets were quiet, no voices, no crowds, only the steady hum of the jeepney carrying us forward.
After an hour or two of travel, we finally arrived at our new home. It was small for a family of eight, but space hardly mattered. One of my older siblings remained behind, and the other one followed suit later, staying with our aunt and her family, which made the household a little less crowded.
At first, adjusting to life in the hilly countryside was difficult. There were only a few teenagers my age in the area, and I often felt isolated. I became somewhat lethargic, preferring to stay indoors most of the time. But whenever boredom crept in, I would step outside and spend my days tilling the soil beside my grandmother’s house, planting vegetables.
It came to pass. I finally returned to school, thanks to the help and encouragement of my grandmother. Although I had fallen behind by two years, I worked hard to regain my footing. With determination and persistence, I was able to rise to the top of my class. When I graduated, I received recognition for my good conduct, a small but meaningful affirmation that my humble journey and quiet perseverance had value.
Soon, my high school days came to pass, yet one reality remained unchanged, our family was still struggling financially. I faced a difficult choice: stop studying and look for work, as I often did during school vacations, or search for scholarships that might allow me to continue my studies. I tried the latter, but never waited to see the result of my tests for I made another choice. Through the encouragement of a priest-professor who believed in me, I eventually entered the seminary.
There I was, wearing clerical attire and beginning the path toward becoming a priest. At first, it felt like a remarkable turning point, from a humble background to someone whom others respected and looked up to. The first two years were fulfilling. Slowly, my confidence grew. The shy and withdrawn boy I once was began to change. I learned to become more open, more sociable, and more comfortable around people.
During that time, I even experienced my first romantic relationship when I was serving in a parish, something that was certainly not encouraged for someone aspiring to enter the religious ministry. Yet the experience gave me a sense of maturity and emotional growth. It was a period filled with discovery and quiet joy.
But it came to pass. That season did not last. During my final years in the seminary, everything seemed to shift. Circumstances gradually turned against me, and the path that once felt certain began to feel heavy with doubt. Various struggles weighed on my mind, and I eventually fell into a period of quiet disheartenment. A year before I was supposed to begin theological studies, I made a drastic decision to leave the seminary.
In time, I returned home, the same house where I now sit while writing this story. My parents found it difficult to accept my return. To them, leaving the seminary felt like abandoning something sacred. But for me, preserving my peace of mind mattered more than enduring a life that no longer felt right.
For few months, I remained at home, trying to find my place again. My parents often told me I had changed. My father, in particular, struggled to understand the person I had become. He said I was now too idealistic, filled with ideas that did not fit the realities of our life. Our differences often led to arguments, as neither of us could fully understand each other.
Not wanting to become a burden, I searched for work. I managed to find a few jobs, but each one lasted only a few months. Soon, I found myself unemployed again. Misunderstandings with my parents deepened, and my pride often made things worse. One day, during a heated exchange, my father spoke words that wounded me deeply. He said that even if the soles of my shoes wore thin from walking everywhere in search of work, I would never find a job because I was still childish. At that time, I had been teasing our youngest brother who was still a child as we played Nintendo games, something he didn't like.
Those words hurt more than I cared to admit at the time. They stung in a way that lingered long after the moment had passed. Yet, looking back, I realize that sometimes pain has a purpose. Harsh truths, though difficult to hear, can awaken a determination that comfort never could. In that moment, my father’s words felt unkind, even cruel, but they planted a quiet resolve within me to prove that I was capable of more.
In time, that hurt transformed into motivation. It pushed me to work harder, to rise above my doubts, and to chase something better than what I might have settled for. It was hard to accept then, but now, I am grateful. Without that moment, perhaps my life would have drifted toward a lesser version of myself, a life of complacency rather than growth.
Eventually, an opportunity came for job training in Manila. I left home and began what was meant to be a six-month training program. Yet months turned almost two years as I continued working for the same company in that location away from home. For the first time in my life, I felt the pride of being independent, earning my own income and standing on my own feet. It was also there that I met the woman who would later become my wife.
Living far from home gave me the motivation to pursue personal growth. When new opportunities arose, I stepped forward with determination. Eventually, I moved into a higher career path and became a staff member in a bank. For the first time, I realized I was earning more than I ever had before.
After three years with the same employer, I decided to marry my girlfriend of three years. Not long after our wedding, we were blessed with a baby girl, a gift beyond words.
Yet again, it came to pass, life, as it often does, took another unexpected turn. Few days ago, circumstances separated me from them as a result of company restructuring. I found myself returning once again to my hometown as there was no other vacancy where to put me in.
Tonight, sleep refuses to come as I think about my wife and my daughter. And so I write this story instead.
That is all for now.
Good night to me, and to the noisy crickets outside.
My pen and notebook, it is time for you to rest as well.
Nothing really lasts forever. Everything eventually comes to pass, and that is part of life. Change is where growth begins, and every ending quietly makes room for new beginnings.
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