When the government enforced community quarantine restrictions due to COVID-19 in March 2020, I was already working from home. I don’t remember the particular reason why. Perhaps, it’s because I didn’t have any meetings that day or any need to be physically in the office. Rappler, the company I was working for, was allowing this setup even before the pandemic hit.

As we went on lockdown, I continued doing my work as a senior content strategist for the company. I was working with the content innovation and marketing teams to pivot the services and campaigns that we offer. We looked at the data and trends and planned on how to keep our audiences engaged as the pandemic was changing our behaviors. Strategizing, planning, and pivoting. These are the things that I was doing for most of my career. I had been so comfortable with it, so certain, so clear on the craft that I was honing. Until one day, I wanted to do other things. I wasn’t exactly sure what it was that I wanted to do, but there is one thing I was sure of. I wanted to explore.

You see, I’ve always been the type to keep on taking on challenges. And before the pandemic, I had plans of going places, of achieving a lot. But while the pandemic halted all of those plans, my desire to explore lingered. I was in limbo. While I was enjoying my work at Rappler, and the people there, too, I was also afraid that the comfort I was experiencing would make me become complacent and keep me from yearning for growth. I know that I want to keep being in the media, but where else would you go when the government clamps down on the press? How else can you grow in this field within limits imposed by the pandemic?

The answer to my questions came in the form of a job opening for a faculty member. I stumbled upon the call for submission on the day of the deadline itself. And I thought you know what, why not? It’s still about media, and I think what really drew me in is it’s based in Mindanao, my home island. To be honest, I didn’t really see myself going back to the province anytime soon. But the pandemic has a way of stripping us down to our core. It made me realize that maybe it’s time to go home and spend time with my parents who are also growing old.

When I started my work as a faculty member this first semester of Academic Year 2020 – 2021, everything and everyone was adjusting. We were all grappling with how to function under an administration that is obviously ill-prepared for the shift. In my first two weeks, I received messages from students that they plan on taking a Leave of Absence (LOA) instead. Some due to health reasons, others because of family situations.

The entire transition drained me. I was doing everything I could to provide adequate learning materials and adjustments for learning to be possible for students, and somehow, it still wasn’t enough. There were still students who were left behind. In a systemic problem, faculty and students can only do so much. It’s equally frustrating and aggravating. I lost count of asking myself if this is the growth that I wanted. 

But a previous mentor at Rappler gave a piece of advice that stuck with me. She said, “there is no better time to teach, but there is also no more difficult time than now.” 

It became my guiding force, really. The remote learning setup imposed by the government is unjust for both faculty and students. It’s difficult and anxiety-inducing. The only way I can make sense of it is by making sure that I show students what could be done. I found myself linking principles, practices, and theories to the situations today; to use communication and media in critically analyzing the situation that we are in; and prepare students to be effective communicators that will help shape the future. A future that is hopefully so much better than what we have right now. One that is just, true, and empathetic.

I write this piece as I am finishing my modules for the second semester. Is the process easier than the previous semester? Not one bit. Maybe, it got even harder. We’re all drained, frustrated, and anxious. But I am taking a leap of faith and pushing on. Because while this may not be the growth I planned, it is one that is worth it. – Rappler.com

Michelle Nidoy is a faculty member of the University of the Philippines Mindanao, where she teaches communication and media subjects. She was previously a Senior Content Strategist of Rappler.

When I was a little child, I dreamed of studying in a certain prestigious grade school in Cebu City because of its beautiful building. Every afternoon, I would run and play outside the building, but the school guard would reprimand me for crossing over the boundaries that they put in place. 

I was born and raised in the city, but we moved to the province when I was four. In the province, I did not see any schools with beautiful fences. It was time to let go of that dream of mine since it was silly and childish anyways.

I was only a kid who knew nothing about the world. But my father thought otherwise. He saw and knew what I was capable of, even as young as I was at the time. My father was the first person to believe in me and because of that, I felt like I could conquer the world and cross bridges and seas.

When I turned five years old, I already had to enroll in kindergarten. So, one morning, my father and I rode the boat and crossed the sea to go to another island. I used to be so small that I could not balance myself while walking on the wooden plank that served as a bridge connecting the boat to the wharf, so my father had to carry me or else, I would fall into the sea.

Little did I know that it would be the beginning of a 14-year journey of my father and I crossing the Tañon Strait, the body of water separating the islands of Negros and Cebu, everyday. 

Every morning, when I arrive at the seaport located one town away from my home, I am able to witness the first streak of sunlight breaking through the early morning sky. During the boat ride, I would eat the breakfast that my mother packed for me. Oftentimes, when the big waves hit the boat and splashed inside, my food would taste a little salty. This made me look forward to breakfasts even more. I felt like I was having a picnic in the middle of the ocean. 

After school, I would always hurry out the gate to catch the last trip of the pump boat. During the ride back home, I would stare at the sky and bask under the sun setting over the mountains. Instead of selfies, the photo gallery in my phone was filled with pictures of the sea and the sky blending into beautiful shades of blue, pink, and orange. 

Throughout our journey, we have witnessed the unpaved roads and wooden bridges transform into cemented highways and steel ones. We had to make several detours while these were under construction. Along the way, I was able to graduate kindergarten, elementary, junior high, and senior high school with flying colors. 

Perhaps, this was what my father saw in me when he decided to break free from the gender roles that have been deeply ingrained in our patriarchal society. Most especially in the Philippines where the stereotype is that mothers take care of the children while fathers go to work. My father took a different route – a detour. My father devoted his life to accompanying me to school everyday, leaving not only his potential career behind but also throwing gender roles out the window.

Since I was too young, I didn’t realize how distinct our set up was until I noticed that every time someone asked me where I was living and I would say Samboan, Cebu, people were shocked. Most of them would further say, “I meant, what is your address here in Negros Oriental?” It was difficult for me to explain and for them to believe that I was crossing the sea and was going back home to another island every day. 

Sixteen years ago, it was impossible to cross the Tañon Strait everyday to get an education. Nobody has ever done it before, and nobody believed that it was possible. It was only my father who showed me that in everything that we do, when we do it in the service of our Lord, all things are made possible. 

He would always remind me that just like the skies reflecting God’s beautiful creation, the talents that we have should be used to glorify the Source of it. I live by that reminder up to this day. Indeed, I am a combination of my father who gave up his dream to accompany me to school every day so that I can start mine and my mother who sacrificed and worked hard for me to fulfill that dream.

My father may not have followed a career path nor have I studied in that school with a beautiful fence, but the Lord has redirected us into a path far greater than what we have ever dreamed of. I am proud of my father – and myself – for being outliers.

Even if the path to your dreams isn’t in clear sight yet and you may be going through a detour in your life right now, always remember that if you are meant to be there, you will get there.

This Father’s Day, just like how my father believed in the dream of my four-year-old self, there was a strong woman who believed and raised my dad to become the loving and caring father that he is to me today. I would like to wish my grandmother a happy Father’s Day in heaven too. – Rappler.com

Micah Edem is a BS Accountancy student at Silliman University. She’s a Math Olympiad awardee and once guested on the game show, Who Wants To Be A Millionaire.

We grew up in a society where “real men” are not allowed to express their emotions. Many of us believe that fathers are supposed to be strong, the foundation of our household – and that means not showing any “feminine” emotions. We all know this is just a toxic notion. And I’m thankful my Tatay did not care about that at all – even when everyone could see him.

I remember my elementary graduation, my dad and I were just about to march, and I could already see him tearing up. Honestly, I thought it was just a very hot afternoon and his eyes were literally sweating. But as I was delivering my valedictory address, I – no, everyone – saw him sobbing. And that was when my voice started to break as well.

When my Kuya was about to get married, I thought Tatay would not cry. But just as they were starting to walk down the aisle, everyone could see him holding back tears. 

The same thing happened at my high school graduation. One of my classmates recorded my address and I still have the recording where she was gushing, “Uy, umiiyak na yung Tatay ni Zarrel!” (Hey, look, Zarrel’s dad is already crying!) And I knew he really was because I could see him from where I was standing, his polo getting wet with tears.

After high school, I thought I would have to wait for another four years or more to see him cry like that in front of people we do not know. But boy, was I wrong. Just a few months later, they sent me to my college dorm. It was more than an hour away from our hometown, so my mom was telling him that it was time to leave. But he sat on my bed, and looking at the floor, he started crying. Oh yes, in front of my new roommates whose names I didn’t even know yet at the time. In tears, he even told my eldest roommate to take care of me. 

It happened again just a semester after. I chose modern dance for my physical education class during my freshman year and there was a dance recital by the end of the sem. And though I am not really a good dancer, I invited my family (who else could stand seeing me dance?!) and guess what? Despite the darkness of the auditorium, I could see my dad crying. I just hope those tears were out of pride and not disappointment with my dancing skills. 

I have always known he was crying out of love, pride, and joy. I have always known those were happy tears. But I still didn’t like seeing him cry – because I knew I would also end up in tears, and so would my mom. 

Little did I know that those tears during that dance recital was one of the last times I was going to see his happy tears. 

He got sick after a few months. The diabetes he was managing well since I was a baby finally got to him and destroyed his kidney. He was so stressed by that situation that he got a stroke and was bedridden for some time. After that, I cannot remember seeing him cry out of joy anymore. All I can remember were cries of frustration because he could not move half his body. All I can remember were cries to God, asking Him to end his misery.

And in September 2013, a few days after the birthday of my Nanay – his most beloved, it finally ended. Every detail of that night was still vivid for me. How I kissed him goodbye that morning thinking I would still see him after a week, how I rushed home from my dorm the same day, how we thought he was getting better just to receive a phone call before that day ended that he was already gone.

We’ve reached a lot of milestongs since that night – our bunso finished grade school six months later, my Kuya had kids, I graduated from college and had to stay in Manila for some time for my first job. All those events passed, and we no longer have a sobbing Tatay sitting in a corner. It used to bother me when he cried, but now, I would give anything just to see it again. 

Now, tears seem to have been a common part of our celebrations – birthdays, anniversaries, holidays – and it’s no longer because Tatay was the first one to cry but because he is no longer here to start the sobfest. The most we can do is to tearfully smile to ourselves while thinking, “If Tatay were here, there would surely be tears.” – Rappler.com

Zarrel Noza is a communications and knowledge management specialist for an international research and development organization, and a part-time graduate student.

As I walked about three paces behind the funeral parlor staff, my eyes roamed around the somber display room. The staff was showing me different models of coffins. I never knew there were so many designs to choose from. Some were gilded while some had shiny black coating. Some were adorned with intricate carvings. All had soft, silky pleated paddings inside, probably to make the “journey” to the other side as comfortable as possible. Then, finally, he asked me, “Alin ang gusto mo?” (Which one would you like?). I took a deep breath: “Yung pinakamura.” (The cheapest.)

That was mid-morning of January 17, 1997 – when I spoke those two cruel words. “The cheapest.” My father died before dawn in our small home where he battled prostate cancer for about seven years. He was 67. 

When my father died, I and my three siblings were adults with jobs. But we were struggling financially. We already had our own families to support, and lack of money was a perennial issue. I did not want to incur additional debts, so I chose the coffin and funeral service that was within our means. After a few days of vigil, my father was buried in an overcrowded public cemetery where the “sepultoreros” had a hard time putting the coffin inside the tomb because of the narrow, uneven path. 

 “The cheapest.” Those two words still haunt me sometimes, but I know that my father had long forgiven me. 

My father was a tall, dark and handsome Bicolano who eventually settled in Bataan after marrying my mother. He was a long-time security guard at PLDT.  Employees and colleagues called him “Sarge”, the clipped form of “Sergeant”, a rank which he was not really entitled to. It was just a term of respect and endearment.  With his meager pay, he raised the four of us. My mother helped, too, by opening a small carinderia. 

With calm and reticent nature, my father seldom raised his voice and never had violent outbursts of emotions. He was a kind, sensible, and intelligent man. 

He was a voracious reader. Every day, he would buy an issue of the English newspaper, Manila Bulletin, and read about national issues. And every payday, he would buy an edition of Reader’s Digest and read up on international events. Yes, he was earning a pittance but he religiously set aside money for these two publications. 

When I was still a child, I often wished he would bring home dolls and toys. But I was always disappointed. Instead, he would always come home with Manila Bulletin and Reader’s Digest tucked under his arm. In fact, I grew up surrounded by stacks and stacks of these reading materials.

We usually brought meals to my father while he was on duty. A few times, I caught PLDT employees asking him about grammar. Yes, degree holders asking a security guard about English grammar. During his days off, my father would read on a bench outside our carinderia. A neighbor would sometimes join him for a chat. As I eavesdropped, I would hear my father talk about global issues that I never heard from teachers at school. He was a profound thinker— and therein lies his flaw. He was a thinker, not a doer.

Meanwhile, the piles of Manila Bulletin and Reader’s Digest were getting higher by the day. Bereft of luxuries, I grudgingly turned to them. They became my toys. We had no TV or radio. They became my source of information and entertainment. My young, immature self was still unaware of the rich inheritance I was receiving: the gift of language. 

As I grew older, I realized and understood my father’s decision not to buy toys, but to buy newspapers and magazines instead.  He was indeed a smart man. He knew where to invest the little spare money he had. I will be forever grateful to my father for introducing the English language to me – its beauty, chaos, and complexity. It became my stepping stone to a better quality of life. 

That cheap coffin was not a fitting resting place for the mortal body of the man to whom we owe so much. But that choice was the best for everyone at the time. Anyway, a few years ago we were able to purchase a piece of a decent memorial lot and his remains have been moved there. 

Somewhere up there in heaven, there is a tall, dark, and handsome security guard sitting on a bench, reading the latest news. 

Leoncio Naval Sasota. That’s his name. You can call him “Sarge”.

Marily Sasota Gayeta is currently an OFW. She is an English Lecturer at the University of Technology and Applied Sciences-Salalah in the Sultanate of Oman. 

Fresh from going down the hill of Ateneo, I found myself sitting across seasoned central bankers for a job interview. 

Following careful scrutiny of my credentials as an applied mathematics major and science high school graduate, an inquiry regarding a credit risk project for a microfinance company, and a brief discussion on my weight loss journey (I was asked about a personal challenge I have overcome), I was told that my application is promising, but was warned that the entire hiring process would take at least months. My first taste of bureaucracy, I said to myself.

It would actually take 5 long months of waiting before I received an entry-level job offer at the Bangko Sentral ng Pilipinas (BSP). While my classmates quickly got positions in local and international commercial banks, and others started careers in data or advisory services, I was among the few in the batch who chose and dared to join the civil service.

I can say that I am fortunate enough to join an agency that deals with highly technical and specialized work. In more than four years of being part of managing the Philippines’ international reserves (which just hit a record-high $100 billion mark last year), I have learned some lessons that challenged my preconceived notions about government work.        

First, I have been working with professional, hardworking colleagues and bosses. They include people who would burn the midnight oil to finish a policy proposal, who would sacrifice weekends to conceptualize and build crucial risk reports, who would take grueling certification exams. Interestingly, these are the same people whom I can have a chat with about wide-ranging topics, from career growth, family, politics to the latest gadgets and that disappointing ending of Game of Thrones.

Second, the job can be tough and stressful, but it can also be, as my boss would say, exciting and challenging. Like many other fields, the realm of central banking and reserve management is filled with changes and innovations such as negative interest rates, digital currencies, and climate risks, to name a few. Through my work, I was also introduced to and was fascinated by interesting sociopolitical phenomena like Brexit and the 2020 U.S elections. The experience I am slowly building has somehow given me confidence in my skills, but more importantly, it has taught me the humility to admit that I have so much more to learn.     

Third, government work can be fulfilling. During instances of self-reflection and blows of impostor syndrome, I always have a moment fairly similar to that scene in Disney and Pixar’s movie Soul of what appears to be a distressed banker inside a financial trading room, who said, “What have I been doing with my life?” Bombarded with all the macroeconomic and financial analyses, I used to consider my work as “too distant” to the everyday struggles of Filipinos, or in the words of my college philosophy professor, “malayo sa talagang nangyayari.”

But as I gradually learned about the bigger picture: how our work in the central bank affects public and investor confidence, how it contributes to the overall strength of the financial system, and how it supports the BSP’s mission of creating an environment that is “conducive to a sustainable and inclusive growth of the economy,” I was reminded that our work matters. My work matters. 

Price stability and financial stability are not just abstract concepts spewed out by economic managers, policymakers, and investment analysts. They are also about whether a small business can have a chance to survive the COVID-19 pandemic, whether a parent can afford to enroll her kids next school year, or pay next month’s rent, or put food on the table. Our work matters because it ultimately affects people. I take comfort and draw inspiration from the fact that it has a real, tangible impact on lives.

Quite fittingly, in my messy office desk, below the Bloomberg terminal screens my eyes could stare at all day, I display a bookmark I got way back in college, which bears a famous quote attributed to Fr. Pedro Arrupe, SJ: “Fall in love, stay in love, and it will decide everything.” I am grateful to have endured those five months of anxious waiting, as I would not have had the opportunity and privilege to be in the work I have come to appreciate and love. – Rappler.com

Gervin Domingo is a financial market research specialist at the Bangko Sentral ng Pilipinas. He holds a master’s degree in applied mathematics and aims to pursue further studies in economics in the near future. Between review sessions for certification exams, he obsesses on television series such as Grey’s Anatomy, Homeland, Modern Family, and Normal People. The views expressed in the piece are his and do not necessarily reflect those of the BSP.

People wear makeup for different reasons. Some do it to express their creativity, some do it because their job requires it, while others do it as a form of mental therapy. I belong to the third group – the reason I started wearing makeup at 27 years old.

The thing is, I wasn’t really a fan of wearing makeup. Perhaps because I grew up with my father who always told me that wearing lipstick would make your lips darker or because I didn’t really go out often and would rather read books instead. It could also be because I had a distorted way of thinking that putting tons of products on your face will result in rashes or breakouts. 

Perhaps, I was also afraid of how society would look at me. I live in a province where wearing makeup isn’t the norm. People would ask, “Ayanna iti papanam?” [Where will you go?] everytime they see you wearing something on your face. Others would also say that the reason you are wearing makeup is because you want to capture the interest of a man, “Apay sino aya iti pagpapapintasam? [Who is the person whom you are making yourself beautiful for?]

With these assumptions I wrongly carried with me and the fear of society’s perception, I refused to wear makeup. Unless it was necessary like high school promenades and ceremonies, which I had to hire a makeup artist to do the job.

I still remember when I was in high school and some of my classmates were late to our class. The teacher was discussing the result of our quiz. They came inside the classroom with their makeup fixed – complete with well-trimmed eyebrows, blush-on, and lipstick. Our teacher quipped, “Nu kuma inusaryo tay oras yo nga agreview kaysa dayta ag makeup makeup nangatngato kuma naala yo.” [If only you used your time to review rather than do makeup, you would’ve gotten a higher grade.] 

I took note of her suggestion wholeheartedly and focused on learning what we needed to learn in high school, I never took the time to learn putting on makeup even when I reached puberty and my hormones were raging. Powder, tint, and lip gloss would’ve come in handy.

In college, even if our teachers encouraged us to wear makeup, I still didn’t do it. I remember someone called me “suggabba”, an Ilokano term that does not really have a direct English translation, but it refers to a person who is unkempt and is not pleasing to look at. My hair was frizzy and messy, my eyebrows were thick and almost a monobrow, my lips were often dry, I did not even bother to use baby powder even if my friends were fond of it.

It was only when I had my first job at a private school that I felt the need to be more presentable because I faced students every day. To add to my confidence, I started wearing lip tint and using baby powder for my face. But that was all. Then I had my short stint at a public school where I learned how to use cheek tint – just a little add on to what I was already used to.

Then when I started working in a state university, where I am a teacher for future teachers, I came to a turning point. I felt “alarmed” that I looked pale in comparison to my students. So, I decided to up my makeup game and searched for Michelle Dy’s basic no powder, cheek tint, and lipstick combo.

Then the pandemic came and put the whole world on lockdown. Just like everybody else, I found ways to take my mind off the everyday stress even just temporarily. It was during this time that I found myself watching more and more YouTube tutorial videos and checking out makeup products on online shopping platforms whenever there’s a sale.

I came to appreciate makeup more and more. I loved how it made me feel more confident, I loved the excitement I get while I’m doing it, and the satisfaction of looking at the final result. Now I know why my classmates spent so much time doing their makeup.

I acknowledge that I’m still new to this thing. I still need a good amount of concealer to fix my brows, I still can’t put winged eyeliners perfectly. But I try. I would love to learn more about this newfound skill that I grew to love.

Some people do not like wearing makeup and I respect them – I used to be one. But I hope that we could also respect those who choose to wear it and not judge them for doing so. – Rappler.com

Niña Christelle M. Sumintac is a junior faculty at the Mariano Marcos State University College of Teacher Education. She is currently the Gender and Development (GAD) Focal Person and the StratCom News Correspondent of the College.

School is a big part of life. When I finished nursery – mostly forgotten due to my underdeveloped toddler brain – I didn’t care about changing schools. I moved to one I chose solely because of their cushioned swing: Assumption Antipolo.

Assumption Antipolo is an all-girls catholic private school. It was like entering a new world; a large campus in the mountains, breezy, and with trees everywhere. Recreation and character-building were the prime focus.

I quickly made friends, never feeling lost and out of place. The years flew by and I thought this was it. Go through elementary and high school in Assumption with my friends and graduate as alumni.

Not to brag but it was easy – too easy, my parents noticed. 

I was an irresponsible kid. Forgetting assignments, blatantly not studying, and doing homework 5 minutes before class were the norm for me. Still, I managed to achieve stellar grades and a career as a student council. My parents knew that the best course of action was for me to follow my eldest brother’s footsteps – move to Pisay (Philippine Science High School).

Everyone knew Pisay. The prestigious school where the ‘cream of the crop’ goes. I hated the idea. I never wanted to go to Pisay. To me, Pisay looked like a boot camp where studying was the only option and as a person who hated studying, I thought I wouldn’t fit in.

My 11-year-old self was already living the dream. Going to Pisay meant I went from sleeping 24/7 to actually having to study. The open-spaced campus turned into a cramped building in the middle of a city. My 7 years’ worth of friendships down the drain. Not to mention having to go through all these while navigating the uncharted waters of high school.

Tell me, wouldn’t you be terrified too?

LISTEN TO DETOURS FROM HOME PODCAST ON SPOTIFY

But, as an obedient kid, I knew my parents only wanted what was best for me so I cooperated… after I cried. But alas, I didn’t even get in. I didn’t know whether to be happy or sad but I was disappointed in myself. 

So I tried once more. I went through 7th grade silently knowing that this might be one of the last times I would spend time with the people I grew up with; some of whom I may not see for years to come. 

I was utterly scared to take the test, that I might fail myself once again but I wracked up the courage and did.

And then I got in. 

I went to Pisay as one of the 3 transferees for 8th grade but my fear only got amplified. How can you possibly find your niche group of friends when relationships have already been established? 

On the first day of school, I was scared, awkward, and lonely; looking at my phone and bag, acting like I was busy when I just didn’t want to look like a loner.

The bell rang and I immediately dreaded what was going to happen next. 

Lunch period. 

And I had no one to sit with.

But like some miracle, a girl – now my best friend but didn’t know yet at the time – invited me to sit with her friends, sparking lifelong friendships.

My fear of high school and loneliness faded as time passed. I gained new experiences. I discovered my passion for the sciences and more. I met people I could relate to, finding common ground in hating studying (and Pisay). 

I realized what I actually feared was change. I was content with my comfortable life in my sheltered bubble but that was all it was; contentment and comfort.

Pisay was far from comfortable, not in the slightest. I would study until early mornings and still fail. I was exhausted and would randomly cry because of the stress. But with the people I met and the boundaries of myself I had crossed, I am happy. Not comfortable, but still insurmountably happy.

I do miss my old school. But spending years in Pisay made me found the campus endearing. From the field that never turns green because of the frisbee players running on it, the slippery dark tiles of the corridors, the roof that seems to always fall apart, and the unstable wooden desks; I grew to love all of it.

Back then I would’ve thought this sharp swerve to a longer and rougher road was a detour but this is the path I was always meant to take. It gave me the chance to grow and thrive.

A new milestone – college – awaits but unlike the lost 11-year-old girl, I’m not scared. There will always be that underlying fear but this time I am ready.

I admit, these are petty high school problems but if you wish to take my advice as a 16-year old that still has a small spark of childhood innocence: follow my scared 11-year-old self and take that test. Swerve your car into an unknown path, drive, and thrive. – Rappler.com

Arwen Candelaria is a 16-year-old avid watcher of Kdramas, Barbie movie re-runs, and feminist chick-flicks. She loves making new memories with her friends and still dreams of dancing with them at the prom-that-they-didn’t-have wearing beautiful gowns and makeup.

I never really had a chance to figure out what I wanted to do in life before I was thrust into college.  

I always thought I wanted to be a writer, but for some reason or another, I ended up taking a course in consular and diplomatic affairs. Such a specific course always cued a double-take from people. “Sorry, consular… what? What will you do after? Oh, so it could be pre-law? Will you become an ambassador someday?”, I would often get asked. 

I then found myself in a lucrative writing job a few months before I graduated in 2011, and before I knew it, I was a jaded, cranky, and frustrated burnout, having been stuck in a cycle of research, literary commissions, and writing positions for nearly a decade since. I was fairly good since I had a constant stream of projects. Whether it was something that gave me a strong sense of fulfillment was another matter.  

I shuttled and cycled from one writing job to another until the restlessness and longing for self-fulfillment drove me to take a master’s degree in international studies, which was easy and steady at first. It then plunged me into thesis limbo for a very long time. I always found writing and expressing myself easy, but I just had to concede that the rigor and discipline of academic life were not for me. I had the ideas, but I could not articulate them.

It was a serious case of writer’s block, and for someone who has sailed through any type of writing, it was scary and demoralizing. It was all I knew, and it was sobering to realize that I was paralyzed and unable to churn out anything substantial. I was ready to throw in the towel, drop out and live the rest of my life regretting that I bit off more than I could chew. I was unhappy and I felt stuck. What was worse, I had all these classes that stopped me from traveling and I was miserable.

LISTEN TO DETOURS FROM HOME PODCAST ON SPOTIFY

Things took a turn for the bleak and desperate when my plans to migrate to a different country fell through. I already had all the papers, documents, and forms ready, but I was far too scared to take the plunge. I already went through the trouble of procuring the forms, and it was all going to end up in the trash. At that moment, I saw a call for applications for the Foreign Service Officers’ Exam (FSOE), so I decided to Hail Mary a last-minute application with transcripts, certificates, and credentials that I scavenged from my discarded migration documents.

Back in college, the FSOE was considered a logical next step for those embarking on a degree in diplomacy and international affairs. We were all trained to study and prepare for the exam, much like how a law student trains for the bar. They say it is the most difficult exam in the country, with the breadth of knowledge that it covers: history, current events, economics, and foreign languages, among others.

I got called to take the exam and passed, and the rest, as they say, is history. In between the exam’s many rounds, I finished my M.A., bringing closure to a period of my life where I learned to accept my limits and acknowledge my blind spots. In 2019, barely weeks after my 30^th birthday, and a few months shy of the COVID-19 pandemic that changed the world as we know it, I assumed my post as a foreign service officer IV at the Department of Foreign Affairs. 

It has been over a year since I swore into the government service, and I am thrilled to use my skills, training, and competencies to serve the people. It is a job that takes me to places, and if not for the COVID-19-pandemic, I would have racked up serious mileage from official travels outside the country. Finally, a job that was paying me to do something I always wanted to do. Also, had it not been for a secure and stable government job, I would have still been out there, freelancing amid economic collapse brought about by the pandemic. It turns out all those years of working from home (or coffee shop, or just about anywhere, really) was to prepare me for doing my work for DFA from the safety of my home office. At least for now.

Sometimes, all it takes is a moment of self-reflection and a tiny bit of desperation to muster the resolve to pursue an inevitable path. The path to foreign service had always beckoned for me; I was just too busy drifting around rudderless to notice. – Rappler.com

Nonito Cabrera is a Principal Assistant at the Department of Foreign Affairs. He loves to cook and entertain and hopes to introduce people to Filipino cuisine in his future foreign posts as a Foreign Service Officer.

The best detours in life happen when we opt for the longer route. They let you drive with the view of orange sunset hues over the ocean blues and cut through hills that look like pictures in a travel book. These detours may be longer, but they are more scenic and are thus worth adding a few hours to your travel time.

The detours in my life aren’t like that. Mine were the kind where you took the quickest route, but the only highway on your path is blocked by container trucks, so you have to wait for the traffic enforcer to signal that you can now counterflow along the dirt road. You would also end up travelling for a longer time – but without the Instagram stories to show for your trouble.

The first “road closed” sign in my life happened rather early. My birthday cake had not even been taken out of the box yet, its 4 unlit candles symbolic of a celebration that ended before it started. The car accident that took my mom’s life not only forced us to redecorate the room from Happy Birthday streamers to RIP flowers, but it also altered the course of my life. 

Losing a mother, whether you are 4 or 34, just changes a lot in your life. With my grandmother taking over my care, her spoiling ways became the rule. I got everything I wanted, and most of what I needed – surely, a 4-year-old needed better than to be taught that if I needed anything, I could always ask someone to do it for me. This path started with unpaved roads, but it looked like it was going to be a smooth drive from then on for me.

Nope.

She did not ask to be called “mommy,” but that was what my dad told me and my sister to call her. When we finally moved into her house, the days of pampering ended. From living what one could refer to as a lawless childhood life, I had to make a U-turn to a household with rules and strict discipline.

If there had been road signs in our house, we would have run out of real estate. One time, I was scolded when I borrowed some law books from the library, not because I was too young to understand Black’s and SCRA, but because I did not return them in the exact order they were in on the shelf. 

If you knew my lola, you would know that for someone raised by her to even put things back where they came from was an accomplishment in itself. From a 12 midnight TV and playtime curfew, my free time was reduced to an hour, but only after my sister and I did our chores. As a teenager, I had a 6 pm curfew. The first time I was allowed to go to the mall with my friends, I was a sophomore in high school.

It was neither a bad nor a particularly hard life, but it was the south to my prior life’s north. The very first morning I woke up in that house, I was told to make my bed. As early as then, I knew party time was over.

I was not neglected or unloved. I had everything I needed, even if I did not get everything I wanted. But it was this contrast between my stepmom’s rules and my grandmother’s lack of them that threw me in for a loop. Like Goldilocks traveling in the woods, I found myself in a chair that was too large, then I had to learn to sit in one that was too small. What I know now is that life is just like a chair – there’s no one size. It is more like porridge. When you tried one that is too hot and another that is too cold, the best thing to do is to mix them to get a bowl of food at the perfect temperature for you.

LISTEN TO DETOURS FROM HOME PODCAST ON SPOTIFY

As we are about to celebrate Mother’s Day, I am reminded of the three moms in my life: my – for lack of a better word – “biological” mother, my lola, and my stepmom (calling her “stepmom” is weird; she has always just been “mommy”). They mark three important checkpoints in my life.

It makes one think. Maybe the drastic changes in our lives were not meant to be road signs. Maybe they were meant to be necessary stops on our journey, where we can rest, stretch our legs, and stock up on food for the rest of the trip. Or maybe the detours themselves are the adventures. We don’t know it yet, but perhaps the scenic route starts with a “road closed” sign. – Rappler.com

Romeo Alcantara II has been working from home for the better part of ten years now and is currently a virtual admin assistant for a Sydney-based company. He writes as his pastime and is a passionate fan of the San Antonio Spurs from the NBA. He believes that pineapple does not belong on pizza, bacon should be crispy, and chocolates should not contain coconut.

I admire mothers the most. Aside from being the masters of multi-tasking and having the strongest muscles in the body, they have the strongest minds and hearts. They are like phoenixes who would always rise from the scorching challenges of life – from giving birth to their children to riding the life-changing roller coaster of experiences their children would go through.

I see my mom as the “mom for all seasons.” My mom is the youngest among seven siblings. She was raised in the beautiful province of Taysan, Batangas. She did everything in her power to finish her studies like babysitting my cousins.

Why “mom for all seasons?” She is not just my maternal mother; she also became the second mother to her students and my cousins. I do not know how she gets her feet and mind together whenever her ‘adopted’ children call for help. May it be through video calls or home visits (during the pre-COVID 19 period), she would always have time for them. They would even invite my mom to their weddings and birthday parties! I cannot thank them enough for the love they’ve been showing to my mom.

At times, I often think she does not have any weaknesses because she was just always amazing. However, when COVID came, it changed her usual iron exterior to a softer façade. As a seasoned teacher who was used to traditional classroom set-ups, she has not mastered technology; she would often have problems dealing with video conference platforms and become confused about managing an online learning management system. 

I know how much she loves to teach, even if she is a retired teacher already. However, whenever she finishes her classes, her usual smile would turn to frowns. She would always ask for assistance whenever her Zoom account is not working well or when she needs to check her student’s works through Google classroom.

It even came to a point that during my online class (yep, she influenced me this much), she went to my room asking why her Zoom account was acting weird. As her only stand-by technician, I would have to excuse myself from my students and help her out. After fixing her problem, she would always apologize, “sorry anak ha, I have no idea kasi how this works…” I would smile, tell her it’s okay, then I would come back running to my room and resume my class.

LISTEN TO DETOURS FROM HOME PODCAST ON SPOTIFY

I do ask her every day if she still enjoys teaching even through this new normal set-up. She would always respond that it’s okay, that at her age, she can still impart her knowledge to her students. However, a certain incident urged me to tell her, “mom, you need to rest.”

It happened during one of her online classes. She was having technical problems yet again. I wasn’t sure if her laptop was just ready to retire or the internet connection wasn’t just cooperative as usual. She went to my room, asked for help. I immediately excused myself and paused my own online class. 

Before I could check what went wrong, I asked her to put her account on mute and turn off the video cam. She did so and told her students to wait while we fixed the problem. While I was seated and trying to detect what made her Zoom freeze, mom told me that she would go and get something. I thought everything was okay when suddenly one of her students, who seemed to have forgotten his microphone was unmuted, remarked that my mom is too old to fix her device. That made my blood boil immediately! I was about to say something back when my mom came and told me it’s okay.

I was amazed. She let it go and explained that students nowadays are different. I do know that, however, I could see how this is not easy for everyone, especially to those who would still work despite the difficulties of technology.

But that incident was such a humbling experience for me, too. I realized that we should be kind to everyone. Instead of putting people – especially our teachers – down due to their lack of knowledge about technology, wouldn’t it be better to teach them and be patient with them? Life during a pandemic is challenging but we can make it a bit easier just by being kind. 

I hope I can be like my mom. Her well of understanding and patience is as deep as the ocean. However, I want her to rest and do whatever she wants. But if she still insists, then I shall support her – no matter the circumstance is.

I salute all teachers and moms who have been patient and understanding towards us, their students, and their children. I pray that you never lose your courage and understanding towards us. And for us students and children, let us give back the best gift they deserve – our love. – Rappler.com

Angelica Magsino is a teacher at Edustria Incorporated in Lipa City, Batangas. Her dream was to become a writer but was influenced by her mom to become an educator. She also loves Japanese pop culture.