There are seasons in life when music feels like a companion. It fills quiet moments, softens long days, and connects us to people we may never meet in person. For a while, P-Pop played that role in my life. Then immigration, unemployment, and the quiet pressure of adulthood shifted my attention elsewhere. This is a reflection on that season—when fandom, music, and survival briefly collided.
The Season When Music Filled Everything
There was a season not too long ago when music quietly filled almost every space in my day. I did not notice it happening at first. It simply became part of the rhythm of things, like breathing between conversations or the soft noise of a city outside the window.
The music was P-Pop.
If someone had told me a year earlier that I would be listening to Filipino pop music almost constantly, I probably would have smiled politely and moved on with my day. My life had always revolved around other things. Medicine. Church. Writing when I could. The long, demanding process of becoming a doctor had trained my mind to focus on textbooks, case presentations, and exam reviewers more than anything else.
But then one afternoon my wife sent me a song.
“Pantropiko.”
The song had already gone viral by that point. People were dancing to it online, clips were circulating everywhere, and it was becoming difficult to ignore. My wife sent it casually, the way couples often send things to each other when they stumble upon something fun.
I remember where I was when I first listened to it. I was inside the small apartment we had rented, surrounded by my notes while studying for the Physician Licensure Examination. My desk was cluttered with reviewers, mnemonics, and half-finished outlines of diseases and drug dosages. In the middle of that academic chaos, I clicked play.
Something about the song stayed with me.
Soon after, I began listening to more songs by BINI. What started as curiosity slowly became a habit. Their performances were energetic, their songs were bright, and the group carried a kind of joy that was difficult not to notice. Before long I found myself watching their performances on YouTube and replaying their songs on Spotify during breaks from studying.
Then ALAMAT entered my orbit.
I think the first bridge between the two groups for me was the music video for “Maharani,” where BINI’s Jhoanna appeared. That connection made me curious enough to explore ALAMAT’s music, and once I did, I was immediately drawn to their sound. Their songs carried a strong Filipino flavor, blending different local languages and cultural elements in ways that felt both rooted and modern. There was something about their identity as a group that felt intentional.
Then I heard “ILY ILY.”
That song stayed with me in a deeper way. Perhaps it was the warmth of the melody, or the quiet sincerity in the lyrics. I cannot explain it completely, but it quickly became one of the songs I returned to again and again.
From that point on, music became part of my routine.
A typical day during that time was simple. I would go to work, commute home, and listen to music along the way. At night I would talk to my wife, eat dinner, scroll through fan conversations online, and then listen to more music before going to sleep.
Sometimes I would replay three or four albums in a single day.
Most of the time I listened through Spotify, though I occasionally switched to Apple Music because the sound quality felt richer to my ears. When I wanted to watch the choreography or performances, I would open YouTube and replay the music videos.
The songs followed me everywhere.
They played during short breaks at work. They accompanied long bus rides. They filled quiet walks downtown when I stepped out to buy small groceries before heading back home.
There were a few songs I always returned to.
“Wag Muna Tayong Umuwi.”
“ILY ILY.”
“KAYA.”
“Boomerang.”
“Don’t Play.”
Sometimes they started my day. Sometimes they closed it.
After long hours speaking with patients, when my throat felt dry and my body carried the exhaustion of the commute home, those songs gave me a few moments of quiet relief. The world slowed down for a while.
Looking back now, I realize that music gave me two things during that season of my life.
Comfort.
And community.
I had not expected either of them.
The Community That Came With the Songs
One of the things I did not expect when I first began listening to P-Pop was how quickly it would lead me to people.
At first it was simply music playing through my earphones while I worked, commuted, or rested. But eventually curiosity led me to the spaces where fans gathered. Social media conversations, fan posts, reaction threads, and shared excitement about new releases slowly became part of my daily routine.
It felt strangely familiar.
For years, most of my social circles had been built around two things: medicine and church. My closest friends were usually fellow healthcare workers, classmates, or people I served with in ministry. Those were communities shaped by shared responsibilities and similar life paths.
Fandom was different.
Here were people from different professions, different places, and different stages of life, all drawn together by something simple: music they loved.
Through BINI, I began encountering the BLOOMS fandom. Through ALAMAT, I found the Magiliw community. Later, through KAIA, I came across the ZAIAs. Each group had its own culture and inside jokes, but what stood out to me most was how welcoming many of them were.
Many of the people I interacted with were artists, writers, students, and fellow professionals who simply found joy in supporting Filipino music. Some were healthcare workers like me. Others were people whose work I admired long before we ever exchanged messages online.
For someone whose wife was living continents away at the time, and whose closest friends were scattered across busy careers, these conversations filled an unexpected space in my life.
They reminded me that community can appear in places we never planned to look.
Eventually, the music did something else for me.
It made me write again in a different way.
On October 14, 2024, I published my first P-Pop blog post. I titled it From Doomer to BLOOMer: My Unexpected Journey into the World of P-Pop. At the time, I thought of it as a simple reflection on how unexpectedly I had fallen into this new musical world.
I did not expect much from it.
But the response came quickly.
Fans began sharing the post across social media. Larger fan accounts reposted it. Conversations started forming around it. Some readers messaged me to say that they felt the same way—that they had also discovered something hopeful through these artists and their music.
For someone who had always wanted to be a writer who could reach readers meaningfully, that moment felt quietly affirming.
I remember feeling proud, not only because people were reading the piece, but because the subject itself mattered to me. Writing about medicine had always been part of my identity, but writing about music allowed a different side of my mind to work.
Medicine trained me to analyze, diagnose, and explain.
Writing about music allowed me to reflect, interpret, and feel.
The two passions existed side by side in my life, though they played very different roles. If I had to stop writing about music someday, I knew I would survive. But medicine had become something deeper than a profession. Even if my abilities failed me one day, I felt certain that I would never truly stop thinking like a doctor.
Still, during that season, writing about P-Pop became a source of genuine excitement.
To my surprise, some of the artists themselves eventually encountered my later posts. Knowing that the people behind the songs had taken time to read my words felt surreal. I never imagined that something written late at night on my small blog would reach the artists whose music had been accompanying my daily routine.
It made the entire experience feel more real.
Looking back now, I realize that the fandom season of my life was about more than simply enjoying music.
It was about connection.
It was about discovering that Filipino artists were creating something vibrant and evolving. It was about seeing communities of fans rally behind them with genuine enthusiasm. And for a while, it gave me a sense that I was participating, in my own small way, in a cultural moment that felt hopeful.
Music had opened a door.
Behind that door were people.
And for a time, that was enough.
When the Songs Followed Me to Canada
When I arrived in Canada in March 2025, the music came with me.
Immigration is often described as a fresh start. People talk about it in hopeful terms: new opportunities, new landscapes, a better future waiting just beyond the horizon. But anyone who has gone through it knows that the beginning rarely feels like that.
The first months are mostly adjustment.
New streets. New weather. New routines that do not yet feel like routines. In Edmonton, even the ordinary act of walking through a neighborhood felt unfamiliar at first. The people I saw every day were strangers. The rhythm of the city was different from anything I had known before.
But music helped soften the transition.
In those early weeks, P-Pop continued to fill my days the same way it had before. When I brought my wife to work in the morning, I would often walk or take the bus home with my earphones on. The songs followed me through the streets, through downtown sidewalks, through small grocery trips before heading back to the apartment.
It felt like bringing a small piece of home into a place that still felt foreign.
Sometimes I would wander through the city a little longer than necessary, letting the songs stretch the walk. Even something as simple as buying groceries and walking back home felt easier when there was music in the background.
Certain songs felt different now that I was living abroad.
“ILY ILY,” for example, carried a heavier emotional weight than before. Listening to it reminded me of the many people I knew whose lives were shaped by distance—families separated by oceans, relationships sustained through video calls, parents and children living in different countries because work demanded it.
I understood that story more deeply now.
For a while, music and faith became two of the quiet anchors of my transition. Rediscovering a faith community in the city helped give my weeks a sense of structure, and P-Pop filled the spaces in between.
But reality eventually has a way of asserting itself.
After about three months, the situation I had hoped would resolve quickly began to weigh more heavily on me.
I was still unemployed.
Every day started to look the same. I would wake up early, cook breakfast, and help prepare my wife’s things before bringing her to work. Then I would return home and open my laptop.
Indeed.
LinkedIn.
Email.
Applications.
Waiting.
Some days I attended free review classes while preparing for the exams required for doctors trained outside Canada. Other days I spent hours searching through job postings, adjusting resumes, and refreshing pages that rarely showed anything new.
By the afternoon my energy was often gone.
Instead of exploring the city the way I had in the beginning, I found myself sitting at home, scrolling through job listings or staring at the same open tabs. The excitement of discovering a new country slowly gave way to something quieter and heavier.
Worry.
One thought returned to me more often than I wanted to admit.
I am failing my wife.
She was working every day while I lived in a strange in-between state. I was studying, applying, waiting, trying to move forward, but the days sometimes felt like they were slipping by without visible progress. It created a kind of pressure that quietly sat in the background of everything I did.
And slowly, almost without me noticing it at first, the music began to fade.
It did not disappear overnight.
The songs were still there in the background sometimes, playing through the speakers while I looked through job listings. But I realized that I was no longer really listening. The melodies passed through the room without leaving much behind.
Eventually I stopped turning them on.
Not because I stopped loving them.
But because it felt strange to play music that I could no longer appreciate the way I used to.
When survival begins to occupy most of your attention, art sometimes becomes difficult to receive.
The songs were still beautiful.
But my mind was somewhere else.
Watching From the Side
It took me a while to realize that something had quietly changed.
For months, music had been woven into almost every part of my daily routine. The songs played during commutes, work breaks, grocery runs, and late evenings when the day finally slowed down. Even writing about P-Pop had become a natural extension of that routine. It felt like I was participating in something larger than myself, a growing movement of Filipino artists and fans celebrating music that was beginning to reach wider audiences.
Then, slowly, the routine shifted.
The playlists stopped updating.
The earphones stayed in my pocket more often.
The blog posts became less frequent.
Nothing dramatic happened. There was no clear moment when I decided to step away from music. Life simply demanded more attention elsewhere.
When most of your energy goes into survival—finding work, studying again, worrying about finances—it becomes harder to receive art the way you once did. Songs that used to feel comforting began to play in the background without fully reaching me. Eventually I stopped pressing play altogether.
Still, the world of P-Pop continued moving forward.
I would catch glimpses of it the way someone sees distant fireworks through a window—beautiful, but slightly removed from where they stood.
One evening I was sitting on the sofa with my wife, the television playing softly in the background. I was scrolling through Facebook when I saw a repost from someone I follow: Jhoanna’s mother.
The post announced that BINI would be performing at Coachella.
For a moment I simply stared at the screen.
Then I smiled.
It felt less like the excitement of a fan screaming at a headline and more like the quiet pride of an older brother watching his younger sisters achieve something extraordinary. I imagined the countless Filipino artists who had dreamed of standing on international stages and the long road it had taken for any of them to arrive there.
Seeing BINI reach that point felt like watching a door open.
Not just for them, but for the future of Filipino music.
I felt proud in a way that surprised me.
Later, when ALAMAT released their new album, I did not listen to it immediately. I wanted to wait until I had a moment when my mind was calm enough to appreciate it properly. By then their single “LuzViMinda” was already circulating everywhere, and the excitement around the release was hard to miss.
When I finally sat down to listen, one thought stayed with me.
They had grown.
The sound felt more confident. The group felt stronger. And as I watched fans celebrating the release online, I realized something else as well.
I was not as present in those conversations anymore.
Part of me felt a small hint of what people now call FOMO—the fear of missing out. There had been a time when I was deeply immersed in those discussions, sharing thoughts about new songs, interacting with fans, and writing about the artists with genuine excitement.
Now I was mostly watching from the sidelines.
But strangely, the feeling was not entirely sad.
There was also a quiet sense of satisfaction. Even if I no longer participated as actively as before, I had still experienced that season of fandom fully. I had listened closely, written about the music, and shared in the enthusiasm of a community that believed deeply in these artists.
In some small way, perhaps my writing had helped others discover them too.
I do not know if that impact was large or small. But the thought itself felt enough.
And when I later saw announcements about G22’s upcoming concert, or when my wife and I found ourselves watching SB19 performances together on television, I realized that the admiration had never truly disappeared.
Sometimes we would watch a video and simply sit there afterward, mouths slightly open, amazed at the level of talent on the screen.
The music was still there.
The difference was that life had changed the way I listened.
The Music Is Still There
For a while I wondered if stepping away from the music meant that I had somehow left that part of my life behind.
When routines change, it is easy to interpret the silence as an ending. The songs that once filled every day are no longer playing. The conversations that used to appear on your screen move on without you. The communities that once felt like daily companions continue their lives at a distance.
It can feel like you have quietly walked away from something you once cared deeply about.
But the longer I reflected on it, the more I realized that this was not really what had happened.
Life had simply rearranged my attention.
There are seasons when art occupies a large part of our lives. During those moments, music feels like oxygen. It helps us process long days, loneliness, distance, or uncertainty. Sometimes it becomes the background to important chapters of our lives without us even noticing.
Then there are seasons when survival takes priority.
Immigration, job hunting, financial worries, and the responsibility of building a life in a new country demand a different kind of focus. In those moments, the mind becomes practical. The days revolve around applications, schedules, plans, and small steps forward.
Art does not disappear in those seasons.
But it sometimes becomes quieter.
Looking back now, I realize that the months when P-Pop filled my days were not wasted time or a distraction from my responsibilities. If anything, they gave me something valuable during a period when many parts of my life felt uncertain.
They gave me comfort during long commutes.
They gave me community during a time when my wife and I lived on different continents.
They reminded me that Filipino artists were building something vibrant and worth celebrating.
And perhaps most importantly, they reminded me that joy can appear in unexpected places.
Today my life looks different.
The routines are more practical now. My days involve studying again, searching for opportunities, and slowly rebuilding my professional path in a new country. The concerns that occupy my mind are often more immediate than the release of a new song or the excitement of a fandom conversation.
But the music has not disappeared.
Sometimes I still listen when I have the chance. When ALAMAT released their new songs, I waited until I had the right moment to sit down and appreciate them. When I heard that BINI would perform at Coachella, I felt proud in a way that surprised me. When my wife and I watch performances by SB19, we still find ourselves amazed by their talent.
Those reactions remind me that the connection is still there.
It is simply quieter now.
And I think that is alright.
Fandom, like many things in life, moves in seasons. There are moments when we are deeply immersed in it, celebrating every release, following every update, and participating in every conversation. Then there are moments when life asks us to step back for a while.
Stepping back does not mean the appreciation disappears.
It simply means the music waits.
Sometimes, when I think about the future, I imagine a small and simple scene.
I am at home here in Canada. My guitar rests on my lap, the way it used to when music was part of my everyday life as a worship leader. I try playing the chords of a P-Pop song I once listened to constantly during my early days as a new doctor.
Maybe I will remember the lyrics. Maybe I will have to look them up again.
After a while my hands will get tired, the way they always do when I have not practiced in a long time. I will set the guitar down, turn on the television, and see the same groups whose songs once accompanied my commutes and quiet evenings.
By then they will probably be even bigger than they are today.
More stages.
More fans.
More stories.
And I will sit there watching, feeling something simple and steady.
Not the frantic excitement of someone chasing every update.
But the quiet happiness of someone who once walked beside that music for a while, during a season when he needed it most.
Sometimes life gets louder than the songs we love.
But the songs remain.
Waiting for us to return when the noise softens again.
