I didn’t call it blogging yet. I called it surviving. On February 24, 2006, I launched aboutmyrecovery.com, and the first thing I ever wrote was this: “I chose joy over sadness. It is said that grief is inevitable, but misery is optional.”

I didn’t realize then how far those words would take me.

By that point, I’d already been online for ten years, mostly quietly. Reading forums, following other people’s stories, taking comfort where I could. But I hadn’t told my own story yet. Luijoe had been gone for four years. The grief wasn’t the screaming kind anymore. It had shifted into something quieter, heavier. Like wet sand sitting in your chest. I needed somewhere to put it.

So I started writing.

I wrote about the stockings I still hung for my son. The smell of cinnamon and nutmeg during Christmas baking. The day Butch surprised me by saying he wanted to go to Divisoria to buy ribbons. I wrote about motherhood and grief, and that strange, stubborn act of decorating a Christmas tree even when your heart isn’t in it. I wrote because I wanted other bereaved parents to feel it too: you are not alone.You can survive this.I know because I almost didn’t.

That first post also said: “I realized that it did no good to sit in my misery pit. It did no good for the loss of my son to lead to the loss of two.”
The loss of two. My two surviving daughters. I kept going because of them. Because of Butch. Because somewhere in that fog, I decided that Luijoe’s death would not be the end of our family’s story.

Twenty years changes a person.

From blogger, I became @momblogger. From momblogger, I became an advocate. I found myself speaking up about human rights, about media literacy, about causes I never imagined touching when my world was small and cozy and all I wanted was to be a doting mother. The pain of losing Luijoe gave me a strange kind of courage. It taught me I could survive what I thought would kill me. And if I could survive that, I could face anything.

I remember someone once told me I was too old to be an activist. That I should just “stay home and blog and criticize…just to be popular.”

I became a blogger because of Luijoe, to give hope to mothers who lost a child. I don’t need to be popular. I would rather have Luijoe back than be a blogger.

But here I am. Still here. Still writing.

Five years ago, when I celebrated my 15th blogging anniversary, I added a podcast. “Have Coffee with Me,” I called it, because by then I had also become a budding coffee producer. Life kept surprising me like that. Each chapter layered on top of the grief, not replacing it but growing around it the way a tree grows around a wound in its bark. I have not been consistent in creating podcasts, though.

How am I feeling now, twenty years after that first post? Twenty-four years after the death of my son?

I still miss my beloved Luijoe. When I recall those memories—the wildflowers with a note “I love you so very much, mama,” his little lectures on parenting, his impish smile—I feel the tears rise. They always will. But the sadness no longer steals the joy away. That is the difference twenty years makes. Not that the pain disappears. It doesn’t. But it stops running the show.

I once wrote that love never dies, and the light always shines in our hearts and home. I still believe that. I believe it more now than when I first typed it.. because I have lived it. Through every Christmas angel I hung on our tree, every sugar cookie I baked, every blog post I published at two in the morning, every rally I showed up for, every cup of coffee I served from our farm. All of it, a living tribute to my son.

Someone once asked me what blogging gave me. I had to think about it.

It gave me a voice when I had none. It connected me to people who understood the weight I was carrying. It turned my grief into something useful. And slowly, over twenty years, it gave me back myself. And slowly, over twenty years, it gave me back myself. A different self. One I didn’t plan for, but one I am proud of.

I look back at that first post and I see a woman barely breathing, choosing joy as an act of defiance. I look at who I am today and I see what that defiance built.

Twenty years. It is not perfect, but it is so very different now. And Luijoe is never entirely gone.

The post Twenty years of choosing joy appeared first on Touched by An Angel.

Back then, we weren’t thinking about awards, licenses, or selling to cafés. We were thinking about land and what it could become if we treated it with patience instead of pressure. In Sitio Bay-O in Mankayan, Benguet, what we had was idle forestland, pine, kalasan, and the feeling that we were standing at the edge of something bigger than a project.

My daughters named the farm Agnep, after their great-great-grandmother who planted coffee in the backyard of her ancestral land in the early 1900s. At that time, we didn’t know the heritage and history. Anyway, that lineage mattered. It told us we weren’t inventing a story. We were continuing one.

Eight years later, I understand why coffee changes you. It forces you to think in seasons and decades. Coffee is a long-term crop, often taking around five years to reach full production. You can’t rush a tree into becoming what it’s meant to be.

And in our case, place adds another layer to that timeline. Our farm sits at around 1,620 meters above sea level. It’s cooler up here, so growth is slower, and cherries ripen more gradually. That’s part of why high-altitude Arabica can develop the sweetness and brightness specialty roasters look for.

We chose to manage the farm more like a forest than a plantation. We keep roughly 40% shade under Benguet pine, kalasan, and alnos. That canopy doesn’t just make the farm feel alive. It shapes the microclimate, protects the soil on slopes, and helps the ground hold moisture during dry months.

We avoid chemical pesticides. We rely on biodiversity, birds, bees, and the steady work of a healthy environment. We also use indigenous microorganisms and inputs like JADAM microbial solution or JADAM liquid fertilizer because the goal has always been soil health first, harvest second.

Starting late shows up in my body sometimes. I notice it when the work is heavy, when the days run long, when I think about how much easier this would’ve been with a younger back and fewer responsibilities.

But the other truth is this: starting earlier wouldn’t have guaranteed we’d start right. It takes maturity to commit to slow work, to invest without immediate reward, to accept learning curves that don’t care about your deadlines.

Over the years, we planted varietals that fit Benguet’s conditions: Typica, Red Bourbon, Orange Bourbon (Granica), and Catimor (Mondonovo). And we learned that quality isn’t one decision. It’s a chain of decisions, especially after harvest.

In early 2022, we worked with post-harvest consultant Michael Harris Conlin, refining fermentation and also learning when to keep processing minimalist so the terroir speaks. That same year, our coffee earned international recognition in Korea, winning a Bronze Award in a blind-judged Global Coffee Championship.

Today, when I catch myself wishing we started earlier, I try to reframe it. We began when we were ready to do it with care, for the land, for the people working it, and for the long timeline coffee demands.

Now I’m also thinking further ahead, about who will take over the farm one day. We won’t be forever young. I can’t rewind the start date, but I can keep planting, keep learning, and keep building a farm that’s strong enough to outlast us.

The post Eight years of coffee, and the question of legacy appeared first on Touched by An Angel.

Fresh calendar. Fresh energy. A “new me” speech.

But today, the house is just… quiet.

I made coffee. I sat at the table. I turned my phone face down. I picked up a pen that still writes smoothly. Small blessings.

And I asked myself a question I trust more than motivation.

What do I actually want my days to feel like in 2026?

Not the big moments. The days.

This is not a reinvention

I am not trying to become a new person.

I am trying to be more consistent at being the person I already am. Someone who writes to make sense of life. Someone who carries grief without turning it into performance. Someone who still believes citizenship matters. Someone who wants work that is sustainable.

Not perfect. Sustainable.

I whispered it out loud, like I needed to hear it.

“Make a plan you can live.”

Coffee stays, but I am not doing it alone

I will continue being a coffee producer. That part is not changing. What is changing is how I will do it.

In 2026, I will collaborate with a partner. Shared load. Clearer decisions. Better pacing. I still want to stay close to the craft and the people behind it. The farmers. The land. The careful work that affects quality. But I do not want to keep carrying everything alone and calling it strength. It is not strength. It is often just exhaustion with good branding.

I want the work to last. Partnership is one way to make that possible.

I am returning to good governance, and I want to stay in it

I have missed writing about good governance and accountability in a serious way. Not the kind of anger that burns hot for two days and disappears. The slower kind. Paying attention. Asking better questions. Tracking what happens after the headlines.

Lately, it feels like the public conversation gets dragged around by noise. Edited clips. Screenshots without context. Confident claims with no source. People arguing about a version of the story that was designed to confuse them. And corruption loves that. Confusion buys time.

So yes, I want to be more active this year. Not just aware. Not just reactive. More consistent.

Fighting disinformation is part of that plan

Disinformation does not only mislead. It exhausts.

It makes people cynical. It makes decent people give up. It makes the truth feel like a moving target.

So in 2026, I want to fight disinformation in a way that is practical. Habit-based. Repeatable. That starts with how I behave online and share awareness on fact-checking.

I want to show my audience on how to slow down before sharing something that triggers fear or rage. I want them to check sources even when a post agrees with what they  already think. I want them to rely less on screenshots and more on primary documents and credible reporting.  Speed is the advantage disinformation has. I do not want to reward it.

I want to try video, even if I am new at it

I have also been thinking about format. Some people will never read a long post. They will scroll past it. But they might watch a short video while waiting in line or riding home.

So in 2026, I want to try YouTube Shorts or TikTok. Nothing fancy. Just clear, direct videos that fact-check claims, summarize what is known, and convert some of my blog posts into short, shareable video versions. I want to show sources on screen when I can. I want to point people to links. I want to model what “check first” looks like in real life.

If I can take one blog post and turn it into a one-minute explanation that helps someone pause before believing or sharing, that feels worth doing.

What I am keeping

1) Writing, even when it is not tidy
I want to keep writing from the middle of real life. Not only when I have the perfect structure and the perfect ending. Some posts will be clean. Some will be messy. Some will be short because that is all I have.

But I want to keep the light on in this blog, which is turning 20 years old this year and on blogwatch.tv.

2) Grief as part of the room, not the whole room
Grief does not disappear because a calendar flips. So I am not making a plan to move on. I am making a plan to keep living with what I carry, without apologizing for it, and without letting it take over every corner.

3) Staying visible as I get older
I have been thinking about invisibility, the real kind. The kind where you stop offering your voice because you do not want to be “too much,” “too opinionated,” or “too old to still care”. This year, I want to choose visibility. Not for attention. For presence.

What I am changing

1) Less doom-scrolling, more deliberate attention
I want to stay informed without turning my mind into a crowded room. So I am practicing limits. Better reading habits. Fewer clicks driven by outrage.

2) Systems, not moods
Inspiration is unreliable. Energy comes and goes. Life interrupts. So instead of dramatic goals, I want defaults. Small systems I can repeat.

• a writing rhythm I can maintain

• a weekly reset so life does not pile up

• simpler routines that do not require motivation

• be gentle with myself

3) Fewer explanations
I am practicing plain language.

• I cannot commit to that.

• Not this month.

• I need more time.

• I am protecting my energy right now

This does not mean I will become cold. It means I will become clearer.

What “being active” looks like for me in 2026

I am not promising to become a full-time activist. I am promising to become a more consistent citizen.

That looks like this:

• writing about governance beyond the scandal cycle

• tracking outcomes, not just hearings and headlines

• supporting credible journalism and civic work in practical ways

• correcting misinformation when I see it, calmly, with sources

• refusing to share maybe true content that only adds noise

• staying engaged even when the work is boring

Because boring is often where the real story is.

The practical list

Here are my realistic intentions for 2026:

• write consistently, even if some posts are short

• continue producing coffee, but through a partnership so the work is shared and sustainable

• try YouTube Shorts or TikTok and turn some blog posts into fact-checked video versions

• protect my attention with better reading habits and fewer reactive shares

• do fewer things better

• say no earlier, before resentment shows up

• stay connected to people who feel like home

• stay visible as I age, in my work, my voice, my choices

• stay in the governance conversation with follow-through, not just feelings

What I hope 2026 becomes

I hope it becomes a year where I do not abandon myself. Where I choose sustainability over proving something. Where I keep writing because this is how I stay awake to my own life, and to the country I live in.

It is not perfect, but it can be different.

Tomorrow, I will do the next small thing.

The post What I’m keeping, What I’m changing in 2026 appeared first on Touched by An Angel.

January: Being seen, quietly

The year opened with something that felt both public and personal: being recognized as one of the “2024 Artists of the Year” by 34 Gallery. Recognition is odd. It can feel good, and it can also make you pause. It asks you to look at what you have been making, and why. I found myself writing about art and mental health, about rest, about the quieter kinds of discipline that keep a person steady. Not a dramatic reset. More like a small light turning on.

February to April: The old pain still speaks

By February, I was back in the territory that never really leaves me: grief. One line framed it plainly: “Tears are the words the heart cannot express.” April came with the kind of writing I think of as inner housekeeping. Posts about patterns. The knots we keep retightening in relationships, “karmic knots,” and the exhausting loop of what goes unsaid. There was also the kind of question that does not age out, a child’s question that still hits like a wave: “If I die, Mama, will I be alive again?” I was not trying to turn any of this into a lesson. I was doing what I’ve learned to do over the years: tell the truth, then sit with it long enough to understand what it is asking from me.

April to June: Walking as a way to carry what I can’t fix

Midyear brought a decision my husband and I made: walking the Camino Portuguese as an anniversary gift to ourselves, marking 40 years of marriage, while also holding the fact that it has been 25 years since our son died. Then the plan became physical, the Camino Portugués, days where your body has no choice but to keep going, one step, then another, then another. We were not doing it for a travel story. We were walking because sometimes grief needs motion, and sometimes prayer looks like sore feet and steady breathing. Arriving on the exact day we lost him did not feel like a performance. It felt like something gently placed in our hands.

September: Grief, in more than one form

September reminded me that grief isn’t a single event. It’s a whole landscape. Some of it was direct, naming the loss and refusing to make it prettier than it is. Some of it was quieter, the ache of what changes as you grow older, the parts of yourself that dim if you do not protect them. I quoted Norman Cousins: “Death is not the greatest loss in life. The greatest loss is what dies inside of us while we live.” And some of it was the kind of grief people underestimate until they’ve lived it: pet grief, the emptiness after routines disappear, the way a house can feel unfamiliar when a presence is gone. September did not ask me to move on. It asked me to notice what love looks like when it suddenly has nowhere to land.

October: Talking to myself across time

October turned into a month of letters, like I was reaching backward and forward, trying to speak to myself in different seasons of life. I wrote to my 16-year-old self about shame, about cruelty disguised as teasing, about the small moments that quietly shape a person. And I wrote to my 85-year-old self too, part love, part warning, the kind of promise you make when you’ve seen enough life to know pride can become a trap. There was something grounding about that month. Not grand. Not sentimental. Just honest.

December: Memory, technology, and visibility

December always carries a mismatch. Lights outside, heaviness inside. I wrote about the pressure to perform happiness, and what it’s like when the season does not match the state of your heart. I also wrote about technology in a very personal way, uploading a graduation photo into an AI image generator, then feeling unsettled by the result. Familiar, but not quite, like meeting someone you recognize but cannot fully name. I also had an unexpected moment when my name showed up in a Grok-generated Top 10 list of influential political bloggers in the Philippines, and it reminded me how much I miss writing about good governance.  And close to the end of the year, I returned to something I care about deeply: being older, and refusing to disappear. “Older, not invisible” was not just a line. It read like a decision.

What 2025 left me with

This year did not give me one big conclusion. It gave me smaller truths that kept repeating. Grief does not vanish. It changes shape. Healing is not always dramatic. Sometimes it is a long walk. Sometimes it is a sentence you finally say out loud. Sometimes it is a story you stop telling yourself. And getting older should not mean becoming invisible, not in families, not at work, not in public life.

If you’ve been reading along, thank you.

And if you’re ending 2025 feeling tender, missing someone, carrying something, or simply tired, it does not mean you’re doing life wrong. It might just mean you loved deeply. It’s not perfect. But it can be different.

Old New Year photos.

The post 2025: The year I kept following the light appeared first on Touched by An Angel.

It expects us to shrink. To be grateful for being allowed to speak. To accept the role of frail, dependent, and quiet.

My daughter recently wrote a piece on ageism. She pointed to research that labels Southeast Asia as highly ageist, then connected it to something many of us grew up with: the way we’re trained to see older people as people who “can’t.” Can’t work. Can’t walk. Can’t keep up.

And our media reinforces it, either through the “cranky lola” stereotype or the senior as a tragedy waiting to happen.

But that script doesn’t fit everyone. It definitely doesn’t fit me.

The trolls

I see the ugliest version of this mindset online. It is so toxic.

Whenever I post an opinion on then twitter (now x), especially one people don’t like, the comments come fast. And they often go straight for the same jab:

“Shut up, matanda.”
“Gurang.”

It’s meant to shame. To suggest that age cancels credibility. That the minute you’re older, your mind is expired and your voice should be packed away.

What they’re really doing is trying to use age as a muzzle.

And I refuse.

Not because I’m trying to prove anything to strangers, but because I’ve earned my voice. I’ve lived enough to know what I’m talking about, and I’ve worked too hard to let a lazy insult decide my place in public conversation.

From 160 to 117: A long, quiet decision

The “frail” label doesn’t stick to me for one simple reason: I’ve been choosing health on purpose for a long time.

Since 2005, I’ve been on a holistic wellness path. Not a quick fix. Not a one-season glow-up. A real lifestyle shift that took patience, discipline, and consistency. Over time, I moved from 160 lbs to my current 117 lbs.

Borderline obese in 2003

I’ve walked 10,000 steps since 2015, yes. But my wellness isn’t just a step count.

It’s the energy to manage my farm.
It’s the discipline to protect my health.
It’s the confidence to show up as myself.

And yes, that includes how I present myself. I dress fashionably. I still put on makeup, not for anyone else, but for me. Because when I look good, I feel good. It’s not vanity. It’s agency. It’s my way of saying I’m still here, and I still get to decide what “being older” looks like.

When society tries to push me into the “invisible matanda” corner, I choose to stay visible. Sometimes that means sneakers and sweat. Sometimes that means lipstick and a good outfit. Often it’s both in one day.

In the home office, on the farm, still here

I am not “waiting to die,” as people sometimes assume of my generation.

I’m busy living.

– In the home office: I keep writing. I keep thinking. I keep posting. The work of good governance continues, and experience is not baggage. It’s an advantage.

– At Agnep Coffee Farm: I stay active and involved. Physical work doesn’t scare me. It steadies me. The land demands attention, and I like meeting that demand.

– In my own standards:I take care of myself, health, appearance, the whole thing, because I refuse to disappear just to make other people comfortable with my age.

The “Parents Welfare Act”

This mindset isn’t just online. It’s showing up in policy.

There’s a proposed “Parents Welfare Act” that would penalize children who fail to provide for their aging parents.

I disagree with that direction.

Do not put this burden on our children.

Yes, family support matters. But turning care into a legal threat is not caring. It’s pressure. It assumes that every family shares the same capacity, income, history, relationships, and level of emotional safety. That’s not real life.

And as parents, we also have a responsibility here. We should not plan our later years around guilt and obligation. As much as possible, we should have prepared for our own golden years, allowing our children to build their lives without carrying fear, shame, or legal risk.

If the goal is dignity for older people, then build dignity into the system:

• stronger pensions and income support
• accessible healthcare and medication
• community-based services and long-term care support
• better coordination across agencies so seniors aren’t left to “figure it out” alone

Penalizing families becomes a shortcut. It looks decisive on paper, but it’s a poor substitute for a government that won’t build a real safety net.

So here I am

To the trolls: my age is not a cage. I am 117 pounds of health, resilience, and lived experience. I will not “shut up.” I will not stop writing. And I will certainly not stop walking.

To my fellow seniors: don’t accept the labels they throw at you. Don’t play the role they assigned. If you want a quiet life, take it proudly. If you want a loud one, take that too.

Our later years are not a waiting room. They’re still ours.

The post Older, not invisible appeared first on Touched by An Angel.

Inside some homes, it’s heavier than that.

For some of us, this season doesn’t feel wonderful. It feels tiring. Or lonely. Or unexpectedly sharp. And when you’re not okay at a time when happiness seems mandatory, that mismatch can be its own quiet burden.

When grief shares the same space

Grief doesn’t move in a straight line. Even people living under the same roof can carry the same loss very differently.

I saw this in my own home.

After we lost our son in May 2000, the holidays changed. My husband, still raw in his grief, dreaded Christmas. The lights felt loud. The noise felt like too much. Every celebration pointed to the absence we were learning to live with.

I was different. I didn’t expect that.

Despite the ache, I found comfort in the season. The glow of the tree. The familiar rituals. Small, ordinary moments that reminded me warmth hadn’t disappeared entirely.

Neither of us was wrong.

What we had to learn—slowly—was that one person’s need for quiet doesn’t cancel out another person’s need for light. Grief can look like withdrawal. It can also look like holding on. Living together meant making space for both, without explanation.

What the season leaves out

The version of the holidays we see most often is tidy. Full tables. Easy laughter. Everything in place.

Real life is less polished.

There’s the empty chair no one names but everyone notices.

There’s the quiet anxiety over money, time, or energy already stretched thin.

There’s the fatigue that comes from a long year, followed by a season that asks for more.

For some, December isn’t joyful. It’s something to endure.

A different kind of measure

There’s an assumption that we should be “on” during the holidays. Present. Cheerful. Grateful.

I’ve learned that sometimes doing enough simply means getting through the day. Sometimes it means stepping back. Sometimes it means choosing rest over tradition.

That doesn’t make the season smaller. It just makes it real.

Not everything needs to be bright

If this season feels heavy, I hope you’re gentle with yourself. You don’t owe anyone a performance. And you don’t need to feel guilty if moments of light still appear. Grief has room for both.

And if you’re doing okay, it helps to notice the people who aren’t saying much. The quiet often carries weight.

Sometimes kindness is patience. Sometimes it’s noticing. Sometimes it’s letting someone be where they are.

That, too, is enough.

The post Living with grief during Christmas appeared first on Touched by An Angel.

I blinked. Twice.

Not because I think I don’t belong in political conversations, but because I haven’t been writing about good governance on blogwatch.tv as much as I used to. These days, my brain is often parked elsewhere. Family logistics, deadlines, the Agnep Heritage coffee farm. And still, there it was. My name. In a category I thought I am behind.

So of course I did what any mildly amused, slightly suspicious writer would do.

I asked Grok: Why am I on that list?

The short answer it gave me was this: ”due to longevity, historical significance, quality/depth, and spectrum balance—criteria that prioritize enduring contributions to civic engagement over raw 2025 viral metrics. She edges out purely emerging vloggers by representing the foundational independent voice in Philippine political blogging. In a landscape shifted toward high-engagement partisan content, her influence is more institutional and educational than mass-mobilizing, justifying inclusion among pioneers like Tordesillas and Robles while acknowledging lower current reach compared to top-ranked viral commentators.“

I laughed at “institutional and educational.” Not because it’s wrong, but because it sounded like the polite version of this. You’re not loud, but you left receipts.

And yes, I felt seen. A little.

But I also felt something else. An old itch I haven’t scratched in a while.

That itch is good governance.

The kind of writing I miss and why I stopped doing it as often

There’s a specific kind of tired that comes from writing about governance. Reading long documents, tracking timelines, comparing what was promised versus what was funded, and then trying to explain it without sounding like a lecture.And also the trolls that invaded my then twitter account and also my Facebook page.

It’s not glamorous writing. It doesn’t trend easily. It doesn’t come with instant applause.

But it matters.

Because when governance fails, it doesn’t fail in abstract. It shows up in delayed salaries, missing medicines, broken roads, flooded homes, shady procurement, and the slow, familiar shrug that says: Ganito talaga.

I used to write into that space more often, where the work is not just reacting to personalities, but paying attention to systems. Where you write about process, accountability, and how power moves when nobody’s watching.

Somewhere along the way, the internet changed. The incentives changed. And if I’m being honest, I changed, too.

It became easier to focus on what was immediately shareable instead of what was deeply explainable.

So, is “political blogger” still a thing?

I asked Grok that too, because I genuinely wasn’t sure what the label even means now.

Its reply was: Yes, the term “political blogger” is still used in the Philippines as of December 2025, but it’s increasingly niche, legacy-oriented, or transitional rather than the dominant descriptor for current influential voices.

That tracks.

“Political blogger” feels like a word from a time when your platform was your website. You owned the space. You controlled the layout. Your work didn’t disappear because an algorithm decided your post wasn’t engaging enough in the first three seconds.

Now, the center of gravity is video. Short clips. Faces. Voices. Reaction in real time. And for many people, influence is measured in views and shares, today’s numbers, not years of work. I hate facing the camera. I tried short videos on YouTube. I even had an active TikTok acccount.

Grok also pointed out that the ecosystem has shifted toward “political vlogger,” “commentator,” or “content creator,” and that written blogging often gets treated as a legacy format unless it’s paired with something more modern, like video, live streams, or multi-platform republishing.

Which leads to the uncomfortable but true thought.

Maybe I should do more video content though.

Influence isn’t just virality. Sometimes it’s memory.

Here’s what surprised me about Grok’s explanation. It wasn’t flattering in the shallow way. It wasn’t “you’re trending.” It was more like: you built something that lasted.

That’s the part I needed to hear.

Because political blogging, at least the kind I grew up doing, was never meant to be a popularity contest. It was closer to civic note-taking. A personal archive of what happened, what was said, what was promised, and what didn’t add up.

And when you do that long enough, something funny happens. Even if you go quiet for a while, the work stays searchable. People still link to it. Students still cite it. Readers still remember that you were paying attention when it wasn’t fashionable.

That’s not mass influence. It’s durable influence.

And in a landscape where high-engagement partisan content dominates, durability starts to look rare.

What good governance content can look like now

If I’m going to return to good governance writing, and I think I am, I can’t pretend it’s 2009.

The format has to meet people where they are, without giving up the depth.

So here’s what I’m thinking, out loud.

• Keep the longform writing for the heavy lifting: context, timelines, sourcing, and the “so what?”
• Add short video explainers that point back to the written piece. Not hot takes. Not performance. Just clear, calm walkthroughs.
• Use simple visuals, screenshots of public documents, budget tables turned into plain-language summaries, and before-and-after comparisons.
• Stay allergic to hero-villain storytelling. Governance is rarely that simple, and oversimplifying is how we get manipulated.

And maybe the best part: video doesn’t have to replace writing. Video can be the doorway. Writing can be the room you invite people into.

A small decision I’m making

Seeing my name on that list wasn’t an award. It was a nudge.

A reminder that I didn’t start writing about politics because it was trendy. I started because I wanted to understand how decisions were being made, and who was paying the price when those decisions were sloppy, self-serving, or hidden.

So yes, I miss writing about good governance issues. I miss the discipline of it. I miss the clarity it forces on you. I miss the feeling of connecting dots and putting them somewhere public.

And maybe it’s time to do it again, just in a way that fits 2025.

Not perfect. Not constant. But present.

Because the country doesn’t just need louder voices. It needs people who are willing to look at the paperwork, ask the boring questions, and keep asking until the answers get specific.

And if I need to show my face on camera sometimes to get people to read the boring parts, fine. I can work with that.

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Some time ago, almost on a whim, I uploaded my high school graduation photo to Nano-Banana, an AI image generator. There was no big goal behind it. I was curious, that’s all. I wondered if a machine could somehow connect the sixty-eight-year-old woman I am now with the sixteen-year-old girl I used to be, or at least the version of her I still remember.

The result stopped me for a moment. I didn’t expect it to. It felt quietly unsettling. Familiar, yet not quite. Like running into someone you recognize but can’t immediately name. In the image, my past and present selves seemed locked in an awkward digital hug.

I kept staring at it, and one question wouldn’t let go: was that girl really me? Or was I looking at someone I once knew very well, but no longer quite recognize?

Joshua Rothman writes about this in his essay “Are You the Same Person You Used to Be?” He describes two kinds of people. There are “Continuers,” who feel a steady connection to who they were as kids. Then there are “Dividers,” who see their lives as broken into chapters, each one starring a different version of themselves.

For years, I was sure I belonged in the Divider camp.

When I look back at that sixteen-year-old, mocked by uncles who called her negra, weighed down by average grades, quietly sliding into the back of the classroom so she wouldn’t be seen….it’s tempting to believe she disappeared somewhere along the way. My life doesn’t look like hers anymore. I don’t move through the world the way she did. Today, I write columns. I work with technology. I grow coffee. I walk into rooms without apologizing for being there. I’ve learned how to forgive a strict mother. I’ve learned how to stay married. I changed. I shed an old skin.

So surely, that girl no longer exists.

But then I wrote her a letter. A letter from the future. And that changed things.

When I wrote, “You are not ugly,” I realized I wasn’t just talking to a memory. I was calming something that still lives in me, even now. When I told her, “You are not shy, you are just low on confidence,” I wasn’t describing a different person. I was naming the starting point of who I became.

That quiet girl, afraid of being judged, was already doing the work of a writer. She watched people closely. She listened. She tried to understand how others thought before she ever spoke.

Psychologists talk about something called the “reminiscence bump.” It’s why many older people remember their teen and young adult years so clearly. That’s when we start forming the story we tell ourselves about who we are. After that, we spend decades revising it.

Writing that letter felt like revising one small but important part of my story.

At sixteen, I looked at my report card and saw proof that I wasn’t smart. At sixty-eight, I see something else. “The system measures only one kind of intelligence,” I wrote. Back then, I loved science, society, and politics. I could think deeply. I just hadn’t found the right place to use those skills yet.

This is what I like about the Continuer idea. If we stop treating our younger selves like strangers or worse, like fools, our regrets start to look different. They become lessons. Even the hard parts shift. My mother’s temper left marks, there’s no denying that. It showed me, very clearly, the kind of parent I would rather not become. I still fall short, and sometimes I hear her in my own voice. In its own way, that history shaped me into what I once described as an “imperfectly perfect mom.”

These days, though, it’s easy to smooth over stories like that, especially online. We present ourselves as if we were confident from the start, certain at every turn, always getting it right. But that version of continuity isn’t real. Real continuity means admitting the mess. It means saying out loud that the woman who now understands coffee science is built on top of a girl who once believed she wasn’t smart enough.

Martin Heidegger taught that to live ‘authentically’ is to take responsibility for who we are becoming. In his view, humans are never fixed or finished products; we are beings of pure possibility, always in the process of creating ourselves. That’s what I was trying to tell my younger self when I wrote, “The woman I am today exists because of the strong, if unsure, girl you are now.”

Maybe that’s the best answer to the question of identity. We’re not exactly the same person we used to be. But we’re not strangers, either. We’re partners. That sixteen-year-old carried the shame, the doubt, the weight of being “average,” so that I could one day make sense of it all—and write about it.

I ended my letter with one simple line: “Be kind to her. She deserves it.”

It felt like the only advice that mattered.

We’re not exactly gentle with our younger selves. We wince at the haircuts, laugh at the awkward crushes, brush off the fears as if they were silly. But if that girl is still part of me—if I’m still carrying her along—then treating her with a bit more care is really just another way of treating myself better too.

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That soft glow. That’s it.

I’ve always loved Christmas lights. It sounds ordinary, but it isn’t. Not for me.

They’re not just there to look nice. They carry memories. They settle me. They pull me back to a time when things felt simpler and more secure. When I think of Christmas, this is what I see first.

Boxes, wires, and the feeling of home

Anytime I pass a house covered in lights or see a tree glowing through a window, I’m right back in my childhood.

My Christmas memories live at night. Colored lights blinking in the dark. Old boxes dragged out from storage, covered in dust. Wires tangled beyond reason. And that familiar pause before plugging them in, hoping they still worked.

When they finally lit up, the room felt different. Softer. Calmer. Like we could all breathe a little easier.

My dad had a lot to do with that.

He was strict. There were rules, and we knew them well. But love didn’t always come in words in our house.  He wasn’t demonstrative in affection. It came in consistency. In presence. In staying.

When my mother died, he didn’t retreat. He stepped forward. He took on everything that needed to be done. The caring. The worrying. The everyday things people usually expect from a mother. He didn’t announce it. He just did it.

Christmas was no exception. He made sure it felt steady. Safe. Ours.

Christmas, even when life shifted

Later on, my dad had a stroke. He suffered aphasia and lost his ability to be eloquent though he understood written words. The oral comprehension was gone, but his actions never were.

Every Christmas, he still showed up with gifts for my two girls and my son. He went out. He picked them himself. One time, he even bought a piano fir my girls to make sure they carry on the musical genes of their grandmother Sally. He made sure Christmas arrived, even when it took more effort, even when communication was slow and difficult.

He didn’t need words to explain anything. We understood.

To my kids, he was Santa Claus. To me, he still is.

Our forever Santa Claus.

Faith, music, and quiet moments

Christmas in our home was always deeply spiritual. That mattered to my dad. It wasn’t about decorations or noise. It was about faith. About gratitude. About remembering why the season mattered in the first place. We attended Simbang Gabi in the early mornings. Even when it meant waking up before sunrise, my dad made sure we went.

The lights were usually on while carols played in the background. Sometimes we sang along. Sometimes we didn’t. Some nights were lively. Others were quiet.

I remember sitting near the tree, watching the lights blink, doing absolutely nothing, and feeling completely at peace.

Only now do I realize how much thought my dad put into those moments. He wasn’t into big displays. He gave us routine. He gave us time. He gave us himself.

That was how he loved, even when life made it harder.

Why the lights still matter

Christmas feels different now. Life is louder. Busier. More complicated.

But the lights still work the same way on me. They slow everything down.

They remind me where I came from. Who raised me. They remind me that love can be firm and gentle at the same time. That showing up counts more than saying the right thing.

When I sit by the lights these days, I feel that same calm I felt as a child. That quiet reassurance that things will be okay.

So much has changed. This hasn’t.

As long as I remember what Christmas felt like, steady, grounded, full of love, then Christmas is still Christmas.

I miss you daddy old boy.

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“Ephemeral Serenity” visualizes inner peace through a carefully chosen palette of soft blues, purples, gentle pinks, and creamy whites. These hues blend seamlessly, fostering a tranquil and harmonious atmosphere that resonates with tranquility. The absence of harsh contrasts and the prevalence of muted tones contribute to a feeling of serenity and emotional stillness, inviting contemplation. The artwork suggests that inner peace is not a singular shade but rather a delicate symphony of colors working together to evoke a sense of calm and equilibrium within the viewer.

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