That sounds ridiculous, I know.

But I do.

I check the plate number first. Then the driver’s name. Then I prepare one or two topics in my head, just in case the ride becomes one of those rides where silence feels heavier than usual.

Weather is always safe.

Construction is safe too, because this is Edmonton and there is always a road being fixed somewhere.

The Oilers are usually safe, unless the loss is too fresh and everybody is still grieving in their own way.

If everything fails, I say, “How’s it going?”

That sentence lives in my mouth now.

Old me would probably laugh.

New me says it with almost no shame.

Almost.

This is one of the small things I noticed after moving to Canada. You begin to collect phrases. You collect habits. You collect tiny survival scripts for moments nobody warned you about.

Nobody tells you that immigrant life can include rehearsing casual conversation in the back of your mind.

Nobody tells you that your English, the one that sounds so clean inside your head, will sometimes betray you once it reaches your tongue.

In my brain, I am fluent.

Very fluent.

Maybe too fluent.

Then I speak, and suddenly my Filipino-ness walks out first.

Just an hour ago, I caught myself mid-sentence and heard my own accent. Nobody laughed. Nobody even reacted. Still, I felt it. That small internal slap. That quick reminder that confidence does not always survive sound.

I used to think I was an English wiz.

Canada corrected me.

Kindly, most days.

But still.

At home, I do not need to think about this as much.

My wife and I speak Hiligaynon most of the time. The words come out without needing to dress properly. No rehearsal. No self-monitoring. No sudden panic over vowels.

Just language.

Just us.

Maybe that is one thing I did not expect to learn here.

Home is not always a place.

Sometimes it is the language where your mouth can rest.

Most mornings, my day starts at 7:30.

My alarm used to be Radar. I changed it to Storytime because Radar felt like war. Storytime feels softer. I do not know if that says something about my current emotional state, but let us not diagnose everything.

The alarm rings.

I wake up.

Then I see my wife sleeping beside me, tired from her night shift.

I try not to move too much.

I try not to turn on the bright light.

Some people describe immigration through airports, documents, job applications, and snow. They are not wrong. Those things matter.

But on many mornings, immigration looks like this:

One person wakes up for work while the other finally gets to sleep.

No speech.

No dramatic moment.

Just two people trying to build a life in a place that still feels new on some days and strangely familiar on others.

I put on the Hoka shoes my wife bought for me before I left the Philippines.

They were the first shoes I wore when I stepped on Canadian soil.

Most days, they are just shoes.

I wear them because I need to go somewhere.

But sometimes I look down and remember that they carried me from one life into another. That sounds too poetic, maybe. But I mean it in the most practical way.

They were there.

Airport floor.
Canadian air.
First steps.
First confusion.
First cold.

My wallet and IDs go into my pocket.

That has become another small ritual.

Here, cards matter. Proof matters. Names on plastic matter. Sometimes I feel like I carry my new life in my pocket and hope I brought the right version of myself for the day.

Then I go to work.

Or I stay home and work from there.

Either way, the day begins.

Work That Feels Close to Medicine, But Not Quite

My work now is close to healthcare.

Close enough to feel familiar.

Not close enough to feel the same.

That is a strange place to stand.

There are days when I repair appliances. There are days when I print forms. There are days when I do laundry for my clients, cook food for them, order Uber, answer calls, attend meetings, or go to the hospital simply to accompany someone.

Simply.

That word does a lot of work there.

Because going to the hospital used to mean something else for me.

Back home, I entered hospitals as someone training to diagnose, treat, examine, present cases, write orders, and explain things to patients and families. Even when I was tired, even when I was unsure, even when I felt like I knew nothing, I still entered with a certain role.

Now, I enter beside someone.

I wait.

I listen.

I help explain if I can.

I carry information.

I advocate when needed.

I do not stand there as the physician.

Not here.

Not yet.

I try not to turn that into a tragedy because it is not always one. There is dignity in this work too. A lot of it, actually. Sometimes more than people realize.

There is dignity in making sure someone’s food is ready.

There is dignity in checking if the laundry is done.

There is dignity in knowing which form needs to be printed before someone even asks.

There is dignity in accompanying a person who might otherwise face the hospital alone.

Still, I would be lying if I said the shift never bothers me.

Some days, the old version of me taps my shoulder.

You used to do something else.

I know.

I remember.

My clinical eye did not disappear when I moved to Canada. It still shows up, sometimes without permission.

I still read about my clients’ conditions.

I still think about safety.

I still write progress notes with the seriousness of someone who believes documentation can protect people.

I still try to organize the team in a way that feels more healthcare-conscious, because I cannot help it. Maybe that is useful. Maybe that is pride. Maybe it is both, and I am just trying to make peace with that.

There are also days when I work from home.

People say that like it is always a gift.

It can be.

No commute. No rushing out into the cold. No slipping on ice while trying to pretend I am confident in winter.

But working from home also brings me back to the pandemic.

I remember clerkship through screens.

I remember studying while the world felt closed.

I remember the strange pressure of becoming a doctor during a time when even doctors looked tired in ways I had never seen before.

So when I sit in front of my laptop here in Edmonton, working from our apartment, I sometimes feel two timelines touching.

The present one, where I answer messages and help manage operations.

And the old one, where I was studying, worrying, trying to survive medical training through unstable days.

Maybe this is another mundane immigrant thing.

A room is not just a room.

A laptop is not just a laptop.

A workday is not just a workday.

Everything carries echoes.

And still, I do the work.

Because rent exists.

Because bills exist.

Because dreams do not excuse you from laundry.

Because becoming a doctor again in Canada is not a straight road, and while I am walking it, I still need to live.

That part is not poetic.

That part is just true.

Tim Hortons as a Soft Landing Place

Before work, if I have time, I go to Tim Hortons.

My order is usually a large Triple Triple.

I know. Very healthy. Very doctor-like.

Please do not report me to my future licensing body.

I do not know if the people at Tim’s recognize me already, but I hope they do. There is something comforting about becoming familiar in a place, even in a small, almost embarrassing way.

Maybe they do not know my name.

Maybe they just know the order.

That is fine.

Sometimes being known by your coffee is enough for the morning.

When I am going to work, I take it to go.

When I am with my wife, we stay.

That difference matters to me.

A coffee shop changes depending on who sits beside you.

Alone, it is a stop.

With her, it becomes a pause.

A small bench in the middle of a life that keeps asking us to move.

We sit there, sometimes tired, sometimes quiet, sometimes talking about groceries or work or what we will eat later. Nothing grand. No dramatic conversation. Just two people sharing coffee in a country where both of us are still learning how to pace ourselves.

I also notice the workers at Tim’s.

Many of them look like me.

Brown skin. Different accents. Names from places I can only guess. People who move fast behind the counter while half-awake customers wait for caffeine like it is a human right.

That quiet diversity does something to me.

Not in a cheesy way.

Nobody stands there saying, “Welcome to multicultural Canada.”

Nobody needs to.

You just see it.

A Filipino-looking worker handing coffee to a white construction worker.

A South Asian worker calling an order for a Black customer.

A newcomer trying to understand what someone meant by “double double” while everyone else pretends that term was born with them.

It is ordinary.

That is why it matters.

I think that is what I keep noticing here.

Belonging does not always arrive with ceremony.

Sometimes it is just someone handing you a paper cup and saying, “Have a good one.”

And you say, “You too,” even if the first few times you said it, you felt like you were acting in a Canadian training video.

Now it comes out more naturally.

That scares me a little.

It also comforts me.

West Edmonton Mall, or My Very Large Sari-Sari Store

Then there is West Edmonton Mall.

WEM.

The place is too big to be treated casually, which is exactly why I now treat it casually.

This is probably disrespectful to geography.

But in my head, WEM has somehow become our sari-sari store.

Not literally, of course.

No sari-sari store has an indoor amusement park, a waterpark, a skating rink, and a parking area that looks like it was designed by someone who did not believe in walking.

But emotionally?

Sometimes, yes.

My wife asks me to buy something, and my brain goes, “Okay, I’ll go to WEM.”

As if I am just stepping outside to buy vinegar, soy sauce, and a sachet of shampoo.

Then I arrive and remember that this “quick errand” may involve several entrances, long walks, two wrong turns, and the quiet possibility of forgetting where I parked, except I do not drive yet, so at least that problem has not found me.

There is comfort in WEM because it feels close to the malls back home.

Not the same.

But close enough.

Filipinos understand malls differently, I think. We do not only shop there. We cool down there. We walk there. We meet friends there. We waste time there with intention. We look at things we do not plan to buy and somehow call that leisure.

So when I walk around WEM, something in me relaxes.

The scale is Canadian.

The instinct is Filipino.

My usual route is simple.

Dollarama.

T&T.

Maybe Indigo.

Maybe London Drugs.

If there is time, Hallmark.

T&T is dangerous in a very specific way.

You enter thinking you will buy one or two things, then suddenly you see Chippy or Oishi and your inner child starts making financial decisions.

The first time I saw those snacks there, I paused.

Not because chips are rare.

But because recognition can ambush you.

You are in Edmonton.

You are wearing winter clothes.

You are thinking in dollars.

Then there it is.

Chippy.

A small bright object from home, sitting on a shelf like it did not cross an ocean to find you.

During my first months here, I kept comparing prices in my head.

This much for this?

Back home, this would be cheaper.

Then I would convert.

Then I would stop converting because the math hurt.

Now I do it less.

Not because things became cheap.

I just got tired.

That is another sign that you are settling, I think.

You stop converting every price into the life you left.

Not fully.

But enough to function.

After church, I enjoy doing groceries with my wife.

That has become one of our small married-life rituals here.

We walk.

We choose things.

We talk about what we need.

Sometimes we buy practical food.

Sometimes we buy food because being practical all the time is bad for the soul.

I like seeing her walk with me anywhere in the city.

That sounds simple, but it means a lot.

Back home, we had our own rhythms. Here, we are building new ones from scratch. A grocery trip becomes a date. A mall walk becomes exercise. A Tim’s coffee becomes a small celebration that we are both awake at the same time.

Immigration turns ordinary errands into proof.

Proof that you are adjusting.

Proof that you are tired but still moving.

Proof that you can buy Chippy in Canada and still miss the sari-sari store.

Both can be true.

That is the confusing part.

That is also the beautiful part.

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.

Catch-Up, Part 1

(On stopping without meaning to)

I wrote my last post on October 21.

I remember that day more clearly than I expected to. We were still in our previous home, surrounded by boxes that didn’t yet know where they were going. Some were sealed neatly, labeled with care. Others were half-open, their contents exposed, as if I couldn’t quite decide what deserved certainty and what needed one more moment of hesitation. I kept folding clothes and unfolding them again, not because I was reorganizing, but because my hands needed something to do while my mind tried to stay steady.

I was shaking then.
Not visibly.
Not in a way anyone else would have noticed.

It was the kind of shaking that happens inside, when disappointment hasn’t found words yet and failure feels too raw to say out loud. I had some reminders that the future I was working toward would not arrive on the timeline I had hoped for.

That post I wrote talked about waiting. About presence. About staying still long enough to notice that the lights were still on. At the time, it felt like reassurance. Like something gentle I needed to tell myself so I wouldn’t panic.

Now, when I look back at it, it feels more like a pause before a longer silence. A breath held without realizing it would take months to release.

I didn’t plan to disappear after that. I didn’t decide to take a break. I didn’t make a quiet promise to return when things felt better. I simply stopped opening the editor.

At first, it felt temporary. One morning missed. Then another. Early mornings were always my time. The hours before work, when the world was still quiet enough for thoughts to line up properly. I would wake up, make my way to the laptop, open the editor, and stare at the blank screen. Sometimes for a few seconds. Sometimes for several minutes.

Nothing came.

Not because there was nothing inside me, but because everything inside me felt unfinished. Too close. Too exposed. Writing didn’t feel blocked. It felt impossible. Like asking a wound to explain itself before it had even stopped bleeding.

So I closed the editor.

I told myself I would come back later.

Later kept moving.

Life didn’t slow down because I stopped writing. It didn’t wait for me to catch up emotionally. It continued at its own pace, piling days into weeks, weeks into obligations, obligations into routines that didn’t leave much room for reflection.

Somewhere in that stretch, depression slipped in quietly. Not in a way that announces itself. Not in a way that asks for help. It arrived as heaviness that followed me into the morning. As fatigue that didn’t lift after rest. As a dullness that made things I loved feel distant.

I couldn’t enjoy writing.
I couldn’t even enjoy watching videos mindlessly.

I would sit on the bed or the sofa, scrolling through my phone, opening apps and closing them again. Nothing held my attention long enough to matter. Rest felt undeserved. Distraction felt empty. Everything required effort, including things that used to feel automatic.

There were things I didn’t want to say out loud. Not because they were shameful, but because saying them would make them solid. Real. Permanent. I didn’t want this space to become a place where I explained why things didn’t work out. I didn’t want to sound like I was justifying my existence.

So I stayed quiet.

I kept telling myself that writing would be my refuge. I still believe that. But refuges aren’t always accessible when you need them most. Sometimes you know exactly where they are and still can’t step inside.

November arrived without warning.

Not softly.
Not gently.

I needed a job. Not as a personal goal or a milestone, but as a necessity. Survival has a way of narrowing your options. I found one quickly, faster than I expected, and I remember the moment I received my first paycheck. It seems like a small thing when written down, but it wasn’t.

That paycheck told me I was really here now.
Not visiting.
Not preparing.
Not waiting.

Here.

It grounded me in a way nothing else had. It also scared me. Because grounding yourself in one reality means letting go of the comfort of imagined ones.

This was my first real experience in the Canadian workforce. Everything felt new and familiar at the same time. The systems made sense, but the rhythms were different. Conversations moved differently. Expectations were shaped by politeness, restraint, and unspoken rules I was still learning how to read.

I learned quickly how much listening mattered. How silence could mean respect, or uncertainty, or simply space being offered. I learned that not every pause needed to be filled, and that sometimes saying less carried more weight.

Leadership came earlier than I expected. I didn’t ask for it. It arrived quietly, almost casually, as if it were the most natural thing in the world. I accepted it without much hesitation, not because I felt ready, but because saying no felt riskier. Because being new and visible at the same time creates its own pressure. You don’t fully understand the rules yet, but people are already watching how you move within them.

At work, I care for people with health needs. That part feels familiar. My mind still works that way. I notice small changes without trying to. When someone looks pale. When their movements feel different. When they say they feel unwell in a way that sounds heavier than usual.

My medical instincts respond before I can stop them.

And then I stop them.

Because I’m not treating patients here. I’m supporting individuals. That distinction matters. It exists for good reasons. But it is also draining in ways I didn’t anticipate. You see something. You know what question to ask. You feel the reflex to intervene, to help in the way you were trained to help.

And you hold back.

Again and again.

That restraint takes something from you. Quietly. Slowly. Not enough to notice right away, but enough to accumulate over time.

The most surprising part of this stretch wasn’t the stress. It was the boredom. Not the lazy kind. The hollow kind. The kind where your body is tired but your mind refuses to rest. The kind where evenings blur together, marked only by hunger and sleepiness arriving at the same time.

Some nights, an ambulance siren would cut through the quiet. We live close to the headquarters, so the sound is sharp and sudden, impossible to ignore. It shocks you awake even when you aren’t asleep yet. It reminds you where you are. What kind of urgency exists beyond your own head.

It always made me pause.

Canada still feels like an adjustment. That word fits better than anything else. Not loss. Not arrival. Adjustment. The structure feels logical. The texture is still unfamiliar. I’m away from medical practice. Away from an identity I carried for years. And without writing, another part of me felt suspended.

I started asking myself questions I didn’t have answers for yet. Who am I if I’m not practicing medicine right now? Who am I if I can’t write the way I used to?

I didn’t post much on social media either. Sometimes I didn’t even check. Silence felt easier than explanation. I felt guilt about that. I also felt relief. Both were true, and I didn’t know how to reconcile them.

There were anchors. Church. My wife. Ordinary moments that held me together more than grand plans ever could. She hugs me when I look too tired. She reminds me to eat supper when I forget. These small gestures mattered more than anything else I could list.

I worried, quietly, that people might think I was fading. That thought hurt more than I expected. Writing has always been how I stay visible to myself. Feedback matters, not because of attention, but because being read tells you that your voice still reaches somewhere. When no one asked why I stopped writing, it stung. Not because I wanted to be noticed, but because absence going unnoticed feels like confirmation of a fear you don’t want to admit. That you’re easy to forget.

Still, I know I would have written this even if no one read it.

Because writing is how I stay alive inside.

I’m losing ground, but I’m still trying to expand. That sentence scares me. So I’m keeping it.

This isn’t a return announcement. It isn’t an explanation. It isn’t a promise. It’s just where I am right now.

Still here.
Still adjusting.
Still trying.

Catch-Up, Part 2

(On returning without pretending)

There was a moment, somewhere between exhaustion and routine, when I realized the silence had stopped protecting me.

It had done its job for a while.
It let me function.
Let me work.
Let me adjust without narrating every step.

But silence, if you stay in it too long, starts to feel less like rest and more like erasure.

I noticed it in small ways. In how days passed without leaving a trace. In how I struggled to remember what made one week different from the next. In how conversations ended and I couldn’t recall what I had contributed, only that I had shown up.

Functioning is useful.
It is not the same as being present.

Writing used to feel like translation. Experience in, clarity out. Now it feels more like excavation. You dig without knowing what you’ll hit. You don’t know if what you uncover will be usable, or even survivable.

That clarity never arrived.

What arrived instead was a quieter truth.

I don’t return to writing because things are resolved.
I return because they aren’t.

There is a strange pressure to come back only when you’re better. When you can frame the struggle neatly. When you can say, this is what I learned, this is how it helped, this is how it ends.

But that isn’t how most things end.

Most things stretch.
They blur.
They refuse to become lessons on command.

I am still not practicing medicine. I am still learning how to be useful in ways that don’t align perfectly with how I was trained. I am still adjusting to being competent and uncertain at the same time. I am still trying to understand what kind of professional I am becoming here, and what parts of myself I am allowed to keep intact.

Some days, that question feels urgent.
Other days, it feels distant.

Both are acceptable. I think.

Writing now feels different. Slower. Less certain. Less interested in performing coherence. I don’t sit down with a point to prove. I sit down because something inside me needs room to speak, even if it speaks badly at first.

Life is happening whether you narrate it or not.

And still, narration matters.

Not because it changes outcomes.
But because it keeps you tethered to yourself.

I am still trying to be normal, in the most practical sense of the word. I study. I work. I show up. I learn how to move through systems that don’t bend just because you’re tired. I learn how to lead without overexplaining. I learn how to listen when silence is the safer choice.

At the same time, I’m trying not to lose my wide-eyed self. The one who pauses too long at small details. The one who asks questions that don’t have immediate value. The one who believes that curiosity is not a luxury, but a way to stay human.

This space will probably change.
So will I.

I don’t know how often I’ll write. I don’t know what shape the next pieces will take. I don’t know if they’ll sound like this, or nothing like this at all.

I’m no longer trying to promise consistency.

I’m choosing presence instead.

If you’re reading this and you’ve gone quiet too, I don’t have advice. I only have recognition. Silence can mean many things. Sometimes it means rest. Sometimes it means grief. Sometimes it means you’re still here, just conserving energy.

Coming back doesn’t have to be loud.
It doesn’t have to explain everything.

Sometimes it’s enough to say: this is where I am.

This is not a restart.
It’s not a pivot.
It’s not a clean slate.

It’s a continuation.

Imperfect.
Unresolved.
Alive.

And for now, that’s enough.

You look at the city from a window again.
The skyline doesn’t change much, yet somehow it looks different every time. The buildings stand still, the air carries a faint hum of traffic, and from where you are, everything feels like it’s waiting for something that never comes.

It’s not sadness that holds you there, not exactly. More like a stillness that asks to be understood.

You have been here long enough to know that waiting becomes a habit. Morning light cuts through the same curtains. Nights last the same number of hours. In between, there are dishes to wash, meals to cook, and tiny rituals that keep you from falling apart. You wouldn’t call it progress, but it’s a kind of survival.

Some days, when the city hum deepens and the lights turn orange, you catch yourself tracing the glow across the buildings. The skyline looks like a heartbeat in slow motion — steady, patient, alive even when no one is looking. You think of how many people out there are doing the same: waiting, breathing, enduring.

You imagine one of them standing by another window, eyes tired, maybe holding a mug that’s gone cold. You imagine that they, too, are wondering when life will start to feel like something more again. And maybe, in some small way, knowing that others are waiting makes it easier to keep going.

You used to think perseverance looked dramatic — like running marathons or climbing mountains. Now, it looks like doing the dishes. It sounds like traffic noise behind a half-closed window. It feels like silence shared with someone who understands.

Your wife sits on the couch sometimes while you finish washing up. You can hear the vlogger voice of a TikToker, or her scrolling through her phone. There’s nothing grand about it. But when the plate clinks against the sink, when the water runs warm against your hands, you feel something close to clarity.

You remember your therapist saying presence can be found in the ordinary. You didn’t believe it at first. But lately, you think he might be right.

Silence used to scare you. Now it feels like a room you can enter without apologizing. You move slower these days. You breathe deeper. You stop chasing after the big answers and let the small truths speak instead.

That maybe surviving isn’t about understanding why things happen.
Maybe it’s about waiting without bitterness.

You tell yourself this when the skyline starts to blur in the evening haze. When you feel the weight of another day that looks too much like the last. You tell yourself, wait.

There’s power in that word. It doesn’t promise relief or reward. It just asks you to stay.

The city hums, cars move below, someone laughs faintly in the distance. The air carries fragments of other people’s lives, and you listen, almost unconsciously. Somewhere, a bus door shuts; somewhere, a siren fades. You don’t know their stories, but you feel their pulse.

You are part of it. Quietly, stubbornly.

You stay at the window for a few more minutes. The lights flicker on one by one — buildings, houses, the street below. Each light feels like a reminder: something still works.

Even in the stillness, the city breathes.

You whisper it to yourself before walking away —
Still, the lights stay on.

In another hour, you’ll wash the dishes again.
It’s not a special act, but it’s one that happens every day, like punctuation between waking and sleeping. The water hits the metal sink, forming tiny echoes that fill the silence. You used to dislike the chore. Now you treat it as a kind of therapy — not the kind that heals everything, but the kind that reminds you you’re still here.

You hold the plate gently, as if it knows your tiredness. You rinse, you scrub, you rinse again. Sometimes your wife joins in, doing her own chores beside you. You talk about nothing in particular — the weather, the groceries, what to cook tomorrow.

And though the talk is small, it’s real. It feels like building a bridge, one small plank at a time.

There’s comfort in routines that don’t demand explanations. You start to see how life rebuilds itself in these tiny ways — by surviving one morning, one errand, one meal, one conversation that doesn’t spiral into worry.

You think back to what the therapist said last week.
That perseverance isn’t about fighting the storm. It’s about learning to stand still inside it.

You didn’t know standing still could be so tiring.
You didn’t know silence could be so loud.

But you also didn’t know it could save you.

The first few months here, silence was heavy. You filled it with scrolling, music, anything to distract the thoughts that made the air too thick. But over time, you learned that quiet isn’t empty — it’s where things settle.

Sometimes, when you stop resisting it, silence tells you the truth gently.
That it’s okay not to know where you’re going.
That healing doesn’t always mean happiness.
That surviving is not failure.

You’ve been learning to live beside that truth.
You don’t chase after joy the way you used to. You let it come when it wants to, like light through the curtains — not bright, but enough to see the room.

And when it comes, you notice it in the simplest things.

The warmth of dishwater.
The sound of your wife humming.
The flicker of the store sign through the window curtain.

There’s something honest about these small things — they don’t ask for gratitude, but they give it anyway. They don’t promise better days. They just exist. And somehow, that’s enough.

You used to write about big moments — exams, journeys, endings, victories. But lately, you find that life’s weight lives elsewhere. Not in achievement, but in the quiet practice of staying.

Staying when your mind says you should run.
Staying when there’s no applause.
Staying when the day offers nothing new.

You don’t have to like it. You just have to last.

Outside, the sound of traffic never stops. Even at night, cars hum through the city’s veins like blood. It’s strange how comforting that can be — knowing that life continues, with or without you.

The city doesn’t wait for your permission to move.
But it also doesn’t leave you behind.

When you can’t sleep, you sometimes sit by the window again. The skyline looks different at night — colder, more distant. But the lights are there. Some windows are bright, others dim. You wonder what stories unfold behind them — arguments, laughter, meals, small reconciliations.

Maybe everyone’s waiting for something. Maybe waiting is the common language of being human.

You think of the word again: wait.
It’s strange how such a simple word can hold so much ache. It doesn’t ask for action. It doesn’t even ask for hope. It just tells you to remain where you are — until something shifts.

But maybe the shift doesn’t come from outside.
Maybe it happens inside, quietly, like the slow unfreezing of a river.

You feel it sometimes — not joy exactly, but a soft loosening.
Like the breath you didn’t realize you were holding finally leaving your chest.

It’s in those moments that you remember: this is life, too. The long middle. The in-between. The still water before the next current.

You used to think you had to keep proving something — your worth, your direction, your reason for still being here. But lately, you wonder if there’s more courage in simply being.

You whisper it to yourself sometimes, when the night feels longer than usual.
Stay. Just stay.

Your therapist once told you that healing rarely looks like recovery. It often looks like endurance, like living alongside the ache without letting it consume you.

You think he’s right.
Because every time you wake up again, every time you wash another dish, every time you tell your wife goodnight, you’re still choosing to stay.

And though the choice is quiet, it’s not small.

You catch a glimpse of your reflection in the window. The city lights blur against the glass, mixing with your own faint outline. You stare at it for a while, thinking about how long it took to reach this version of yourself — the one who doesn’t run from silence anymore.

You still hurt, yes. But now, the hurt doesn’t define you. It just sits beside you, like an old companion you’ve learned to live with.

And maybe that’s what perseverance really means. Not triumph, not strength, not unshaken faith — but the willingness to wake up again, to face another ordinary day, to let the lights stay on even when you don’t know what they’re lighting for.

You go back to the sink, rinse one last cup, and let the water run for a few seconds longer.
There’s no rush to turn it off.

Morning comes softly, almost unnoticed.
You open your eyes before the alarm, not because you’re rested but because the body has learned the rhythm of waking. There’s a faint blue light spilling through the temporary blinds you bought from the home improvement store. Somewhere outside, a bus sighs at the corner, doors sliding open, closing again.

You lie still for a moment. You listen. You think about how every sound means something is still moving — people going to work, engines starting, the world rebuilding itself one commute at a time.

You remind yourself that you, too, are part of that rhythm. Even when your life feels paused, it still belongs to a larger pulse.

You stand, stretch, walk to the window again. The skyline is quieter in the early hours. The glass towers reflect the sky like mirrors, and for a moment, you can almost see the outline of yourself framed by light. You think about the person you were when you first stood here — restless, searching, certain that life would only start once the waiting ended.

You were wrong about that.
Life doesn’t wait for you to be ready. It keeps going, with or without your permission.

You get a coffee pod, place it in the machine, turn it on while its noise fills the room, and realize how much this small act means. There was a time you couldn’t imagine mornings like this — not calm, not bright, but steady. Maybe this is the reward for staying. You learn to find peace in what used to feel like emptiness.

You sit down, sip slowly. The bitterness grounds you. It’s not joy, but it’s something close.

Sometimes, you still think about the word perseverance. It used to sound heroic, the kind of word reserved for people who win, or overcome, or finish. Now it feels quieter, heavier, more human. It lives in the pauses, not the headlines. It exists in the person who wakes up to the same skyline, breathes, and does it all again tomorrow.

You once thought perseverance was about never breaking.
Now you think it’s about learning to live with the cracks.

You look at your hands — a little older, a little worn from soap and water. They’ve carried so much routine lately. But routine, you’ve learned, is not emptiness. It’s structure. It’s the scaffolding that holds the rest of you together while you figure out what’s next.

The traffic hums again. You can almost map your day through its rhythm. Morning rush, then quiet. Evening rush, then calm. Somewhere between those hours, you’ll laugh with your wife, maybe watch something together, maybe sit on the couch without words.

You’ll look at her and remember that life is rarely grand but often kind in small ways.

There was a time you feared stillness — mistaking it for failure. But now, stillness feels earned. It means you’ve survived long enough to stop running.

Maybe this is what it means to rebuild a life — not by chasing movement, but by letting stillness teach you how to begin again.

You think of the people you’ve met who carry their own silences. The ones who smile through exhaustion, who keep going because there’s no other option. You wish you could tell them what you’ve learned: that there’s no shame in slow healing, no weakness in simply existing.

You don’t have to turn your pain into purpose every day.
Sometimes, breathing is already purpose enough.

Outside, the city brightens. You watch as sunlight crawls down the buildings, washing over the glass and steel. The view never changes much, but you do. That realization settles quietly in your chest.

You remember the phrase you’ve been whispering to yourself. Wait.

It used to sound like a punishment. Now it feels like a promise. A soft command from the universe: Don’t rush what still needs time.

You’ve waited through grief, through loneliness, through the strange hollow months that felt like they’d never end. But even in waiting, you were becoming. You just didn’t see it yet.

Sometimes growth is invisible — like roots expanding under frozen soil, unseen until spring.

You don’t know what your spring will look like. You don’t know when it will arrive. But you’ve learned to stop asking “when.”

Now, you simply live beside the waiting.

The skyline shifts again as evening approaches. The traffic grows louder, a steady stream of motion and sound. You open the window slightly, just enough to let in the chill. The air smells like rain and exhaust, and somehow, that combination feels honest.

You think about how life keeps finding ways to continue. Not perfectly, not beautifully — but truthfully.

Your wife calls from the other room, asking where you stored that thing. You answer without thinking. The words come easy, like breath.

You don’t realize it yet, but this is what healing looks like: speaking, responding, existing, without forcing meaning onto every act.

You glance at the window one last time. The skyline is alive again, glowing under the weight of night. Each light holds a story, a pulse, a life. You don’t know any of them, but you feel connected all the same.

You think:
Maybe that’s what keeps the lights on.
Not certainty. Not success. Just connection.

People going about their evenings, doing dishes, calling loved ones, folding laundry, dreaming of somewhere else but still staying here. Still choosing to keep the lights on.

You smile faintly at that thought — that survival, in its quiet form, might just be love disguised as endurance.

You turn off the faucet. You dry your hands. The room falls into an easy hush.

You walk toward your wife, the sound of traffic still faint through the walls. You don’t need to say much. You’ve both learned the language of silence well enough to call it peace.

And as the city hums outside — bright, loud, unending — you let that thought rest in you:

Even when everything else slows down,
even when nothing seems to move,
even when all you can do is wait—

Still, the lights stay on.

I didn’t even start in that world.

When I first entered university, I was a Bachelor of Science in Business Administration major in Marketing student. A “safe” course. The kind that sounded good when relatives asked, “So, what are you taking?” I could answer confidently without having to explain too much.

But there was this nagging thought. A quiet pull toward something else.
I kept wondering—what if I became a doctor?

The more I sat in business classes, the more that question grew louder. It wasn’t a lightning bolt moment, more like a slow drip. And when I finally considered shifting, Biology seemed like the natural step. Partly because it’s a common pre-med choice, and partly because it was my mother’s pre-dentistry course. A sentimental echo.

I didn’t do a deep analysis of career outcomes or weigh pros and cons like a good business major should. I just thought: If I’m going for medicine, this is the way in.

So I shifted.

Early Fascination

My relationship with Biology actually started long before college.
I remember being in elementary and doing my first dissection—a live toad. That might sound cruel now, but at the time, I was fascinated. While some of my classmates were grimacing or holding their breath, I was leaning closer, eyes wide, watching the way life was arranged inside a body.

It was one of the few times I felt like I was doing something real in school. Not just reading about processes in a book, but actually seeing them.

That early fascination carried over into high school, where Biology was one of my favorite subjects. I liked the balance of memorization and understanding, of facts and patterns. You could study a system, learn its parts, and understand how they interacted. There was a logic to it.

I thought that logic would make Biology as a degree manageable.

I was wrong.

The Reality of the Course

Biology in college was a different beast entirely.
Sure, some subjects felt familiar at first—basic botany, introductory zoology—but they quickly evolved into something much more technical. Comparative Anatomy demanded hours of memorization. Cell Biology felt like diving into a microscopic ocean where every molecule had a story. Genetics challenged me in ways I didn’t expect. Histology made me doubt my own eyes.

Then there were the rotating exams, where you had seconds to identify a specimen, a structure, or a process before moving to the next station. It was a kind of academic pressure that felt like a trap—either you knew it in an instant or you didn’t.

Some days, I’d walk out of a lab feeling confident. Other days, I’d feel embarrassed, especially when I blanked on something I’d studied the night before. In those moments, you start questioning why you’re even there.

And yet, the professors kept me anchored.

Professors Who Loved the Subject

I was lucky to have teachers who treated Biology not just as a pre-medicine stepping stone but as a field worth dedicating a life to. They spoke about ecosystems, evolutionary processes, and research like these were treasures to be preserved, not just topics to be passed in an exam.

That passion rubbed off on me, even if I was more focused on medicine. I could see in them what it meant to truly belong to the discipline.

Still, passion alone doesn’t make you immune to doubt.

The Trap Feeling

There were times I felt like Biology was a trap. That if I didn’t get into medical school, I wouldn’t be satisfied with anything else. It was a narrow kind of ambition—doctor or nothing. And that made the stakes feel higher than they needed to be.

I had classmates who were natural achievers. Many of them treated grades like currency and research projects like personal milestones. I wasn’t competing with them. In my circle, we built community instead—helping each other, sharing notes, laughing off the stress when we could. It made the long semesters feel bearable.

I did join our official Biology organization, Microbia, but my real extracurricular commitment was outside strict science. I became active in our university student paper, Forum-Dimensions, eventually becoming its chief editor. Writing gave me a break from lab reports and practical exams. It was another way of studying life, but through people and stories rather than specimens.

Surviving the Coursework

People assume that because Biology isn’t as specialized as Nursing or as clinically focused as Medical Technology, it must be easier.

That’s not true.

All our Biology and Chemistry courses were demanding in their own way. They didn’t require the same kind of hospital exposure, but they drained you with sheer volume and precision. Hours in the lab. Mountains of readings. Plates that had to be labeled perfectly. Experiments that could fail simply because the weather wasn’t cooperating or because the equipment was older than some of us.

And then there were the “minor” subjects.

Teachers liked to say we took minors in other fields because we were expected to do well in them, too. As if our schedule wasn’t already stacked. History, literature, physical education—they were meant to balance us out, but sometimes they just added more pressure. I don’t even know how I survived them while juggling all the major courses.

There were nights I thought about quitting.

Not because I didn’t like Biology anymore, but because I was worried it was all or nothing. If I didn’t become a doctor, what was I going to do? Teach? Go into research? Neither felt like my dream at the time.

The NMAT and the Leap to Medicine

When NMAT season came, I didn’t prepare as hard as others. Some of my classmates enrolled in review centers, armed with thick binders of practice tests. I had… a reviewer. Just one.

I didn’t feel prepared, but strangely, I wasn’t too nervous either. Maybe because I had this quiet hope that all the years of studying life sciences would at least give me a fighting chance.

And in a way, it did.

Biology didn’t make me a perfect NMAT taker, but it taught me to face the unexpected. To look at a question, find a clue, and work my way toward an answer.

When I finally stepped into medical school, I thought some subjects—like Parasitology—would carry over seamlessly. I quickly learned that medicine was a completely different domain. The transition was less about applying what I knew and more about starting from scratch with a different set of expectations.

The Weight of Comparison

In med school, the comparisons began. Not official ones, but the quiet, internal kind.

I’d see classmates who were Nursing or Medical Technology graduates confidently navigate clinical terms I was only learning for the first time. They had hospital stories, practical skills, and a way of moving through patient cases that seemed instinctive.

It was hard not to feel insecure. I questioned whether I should have taken another course instead. Nursing was my wife’s (then-girlfriend’s) suggestion, but we couldn’t afford it at the time. MedTech was another option I’d considered in passing, but Biology had felt like the right choice back then.

Over time, I brushed those thoughts away. I realized that no pre-med course could fully prepare you for medical school. The playing field levels out eventually—what matters is how you adapt.

The Misconceptions

One thing I learned is that a lot of people underestimate Biology majors.

There’s the idea that it’s “just” one of the best pre-med choices and nothing more. That we’re not as busy as other science students. That the only fallback is teaching in high school.

Those assumptions erase the skills we actually develop: investigative thinking, deep appreciation of local flora and fauna, an understanding of conservation and preservation. We learn how to observe, record, analyze, and connect details.

And yes, it’s true—some of us go into research, some into medicine, some into education. But the field itself is richer than people give it credit for.

Lessons Beyond Medicine

Even now, I find subtle ways Biology has stayed with me. The way I think about systems. The respect I have for how complex yet fragile life is.

I still remember dissecting an oyster in class and, strangely, coming out of that experience appreciating it more as food. Biology is like that—it makes you notice things you wouldn’t have thought twice about before. It can even create a kind of reverence for life that parallels spiritual beliefs, even if the course itself is rooted in Darwinian principles.

It taught me that understanding life scientifically doesn’t have to cancel out the sense of wonder. In fact, it can deepen it.

The Emotional Baggage

When I think back to my Biology degree, the memories aren’t just about labs and lectures.
There’s a layer of emotional weight to it—delays, failures, and the constant shadow of “what if I don’t make it to medicine?”

I carried those questions everywhere. They weren’t loud, but they were persistent, like a low hum you can’t turn off. It didn’t help that I also felt the pressure of living up to my mother’s legacy. She had taken Biology as her pre-dentistry course, and here I was, walking the same path. It felt symbolic. But it also felt like a responsibility I couldn’t fail.

Another layer was trying to convince others that Biology was useful outside of medicine—even though I was headed for medicine myself. I knew its worth, but I also knew the perception. People wanted clear, linear career stories. Biology didn’t always give you that. You had to carve your own.

Why I’m Still Proud

Despite the struggles, I can say without hesitation that I’m proud of taking Biology.

It’s more than just a degree. It’s a way of seeing the world—rooted in observation, analysis, and curiosity. Even the Latin root of the word species, specere, meaning “to look” or “to observe,” speaks to the heart of it. That’s what we do. We look closely at life. We try to understand it, in all its forms and scales.

The course connected me to people, ideas, and experiences I wouldn’t trade for anything. It trained me to think about details, to see patterns, to respect the complexity of the smallest organism and the largest ecosystem.

If I had to choose again, I’d still say yes.

Advice to Future Biology Majors

If you’re thinking about taking Biology—whether for pre-med or not—know this: it’s one of the most remarkable and useful courses you can take.

But usefulness isn’t always obvious right away. It’s not like Nursing or Engineering, where the job title is in the degree. Biology’s gifts are in the skills it hones and the perspectives it gives you.

Whether you end up in medicine, research, conservation, or education, the field is rich. And I hope more people choose to explore it beyond the usual medical path—especially in research and environmental preservation. We need more voices there.

You’ll face people who think you’re taking an “easier” route. You’ll hear the fallback-teacher comments. But you’ll also discover moments that make you realize how much life there is to study, protect, and appreciate.

Closing the Circle

Looking back, the “woes” of being a Biology major weren’t just about the workload or the doubts—they were about growing into someone who could live with uncertainty and still move forward.

I entered the program with the idea that medicine was the only finish line. Somewhere along the way, I learned that the degree itself had value beyond that path.

Biology didn’t just prepare me for medical school—it prepared me for the unexpected turns in life. And maybe that’s what education is supposed to do.

The Briefing

There were 72 hours left.

From the upper deck of the Ark Horizon, you could still see Earth. Not a blue marble anymore—less shimmer, more bruise. The haze spread like decay, a kind of rusted atmosphere that made the planet look distant even when it wasn’t. People liked to call it ‘sepia Earth’ now. It sounded prettier than it should have.

Ezra wiped his palms on his coat. The calluses were still there, hidden under the fine threads stitched by orbital tailors. He never stopped feeling like an intruder on this ship.

“Ezra Santiago, music coordinator, live conductor, legacy archivist.” The title was too long. He only cared about one thing: making sure the final concert played until the very last second—until silence wasn’t symbolic anymore but literal.

“Maestro,” the AI’s voice chimed, British for no good reason. “You are due at the Hall in twenty-two minutes.”

He stood in front of the viewing bay a moment longer. On Earth, people were already setting up their own death rituals. Bonfires. Community dinners. Some simply lay in bed and listened.

“You think they’ll hear it?” he asked aloud.

The AI didn’t respond. It was set to minimum empathy mode. On this ship, too much emotion was considered a design flaw.

He adjusted his earpiece. It wasn’t just about hearing the music. It was about managing what would be heard next.

The briefing room was filled with silence when he entered. That kind of silence that came from power, not absence.

The Council sat on curved seats made of cold-pressed materials from Mars. Fashioned to look like a Roman amphitheater. Very tasteful. Very final.

“You’re late,” said Chancellor Roe. Her face hadn’t aged. None of them did. Not since the orbital enhancement programs.

Ezra didn’t bow. “Traffic was light.”

Someone snorted. A joke. Amazing.

They handed him the slate—final performer list, revised due to “recent decay acceleration.” Land bridges collapsed in Asia. Flooding consumed Italy. The Amazon was burning again, but this time nobody even thought of water.

“Three days,” Roe said. “Then everything collapses. The planetary shield fails. We need the concert to end exactly at the threshold point.”

“Understood.”

“Include fusion. Old world and new. Enough to be memorable. Not too nationalist. Avoid direct political pieces, but you’re allowed nuance. People need something to… feel clever about.”

He looked at the list. “There’s only one live violinist left. She’s 104.”

“Bring her.”

He nodded. Then hesitated. “I have one request.”

Eyes turned.

“I want to close with REO Speedwagon. In My Dreams.”

Someone coughed. The AI logged a chuckle.

“That’s not even classical,” said a man with too-straight teeth. “Not even—”

“It was the song my mother used to play during brownouts. We had nothing but a cassette and a candle. She’d hum the lyrics to distract us from the heat.”

“Fine,” said Roe. “But only if the transition works. Endings matter.”

It was the closest thing to approval he’d get.

As he walked out, the slate still in hand, he began mentally stitching the concert. Mahler. Björk. Shostakovich. Kendrick. Hisaishi. Daft Punk. And now REO Speedwagon.

He wasn’t saving the world. That wasn’t his job. But he could give it a final soundtrack.

The Auditions

The Hall wasn’t really a hall. It was an acoustic dome floated in orbit. Designed for zero gravity, though they’d re-enabled floor magnetics to simulate stage footing—musicians hated spinning.

Ezra arrived to the sight of the last harpist floating mid-aria. She was Latvian, wore gloves with cutouts for her calluses, and refused to speak until her piece was done. When she finally landed and faced him, she said in a near-whisper, “I will only play if my brother can hear me.”

“Where is he?”

“Bangladesh.”

Ezra tapped his wristpad. Bangladesh’s connection grid was intermittent—most towers powered down or swallowed by saltwater. Still, some people used patched-together mesh satellites from old comms companies. One was active in the vicinity.

“Tell him to keep his radio open. We’ll make sure it reaches.”

She bowed and floated away.

He spent the next hours watching the scattered remains of the world’s talent audition. Many were older. Some played through muscle memory, others through emotion that defied skill. A Korean jazz pianist who’d lost two fingers played with such recklessness that it felt like prayer. A gospel trio from Chicago sang acapella through trembling breath, one of them on oxygen. A Syrian oud player with no country left. A Filipino ballet company, down to four dancers, adapting their pieces for magnetic boots.

Each came with a small request: “Can my niece hear this?” “Is there time to include an original piece?” “Will you remember my name in the credits?”

Ezra approved nearly all of them.

He told his assistant—who was really just a glorified AI drone with a human voice modulator—to prioritize real-time inclusion rather than perfection. “I want it to feel… messy,” he said. “Alive.”

“That will lower our fidelity output,” the assistant replied.

“I know.”

He paused before the last audition of the day. The violinist.

She entered on a hoverwalker, her spine supported by nano-harnesses. The instrument she brought was not just old—it was historical. “Amati,” she said. “Pre-Stradivarius. Gifted to my great-grandfather by a collector in the before-times.”

Ezra took a seat and nodded. “Whenever you’re ready.”

She played something he didn’t recognize. Not because it was obscure, but because it was new. Something born of extinction. It had no time signature, no formal melody, and yet it wept. The strings cracked halfway through, and she cursed—then kept going, humming the rest.

When she was done, Ezra stood.

“You’re our opening note.”

She laughed. “I thought I’d be the ending.”

“That’s already taken.”

He didn’t say more. Some griefs were better left unsaid.

Later, he would rewatch the recording. Not to judge her performance, but to remember how quiet the room had been when she played. Not empty. Just… listening.

Earth, Listening

1. Iloilo, Philippines – 3:07 AM Local Time
The house smelled of burnt rice and sea salt. No more electricity for weeks. Josefina sat with a transistor radio on her lap, patched from an old karaoke machine. Her grandson slept near the window, shirtless, dreaming of rain.

When the violin started, Josefina didn’t move. Just whispered, “Sounds like home, doesn’t it?”

Nobody answered. But the gecko near the ceiling stilled.

2. Dakar, Senegal – 6:11 PM Local Time
A beach gathering. Someone rigged solar lights into a circle. Children danced barefoot, sand sticking to their ankles. Mame Diarra had traded a can of beans for two hours of satellite signal, enough to stream audio from the Ark.

When the second act began—a reworked fusion of West African drumming and synthesized cello—she held her mother’s hand and whispered, “They remembered.”

3. Toronto, Canada – 1:13 PM Local Time
It was too hot for jackets, but Elvin still wore his. He was 22, autistic, and hadn’t spoken much since the grid failed. But when the Daft Punk medley began, he stood, took off his shoes, and danced on the cracked apartment tiles.

His older sister wept. Not because of the music. But because he hadn’t moved in days.

4. Mendoza, Argentina – 2:55 PM Local Time
Under a dying grapevine, Mateo poured the last bottle of Malbec. He was alone. His family gone inland weeks ago, chasing promises that never returned. He hadn’t played the guitar since his partner died.

But when the gospel trio came on, he reached for the strings. Only four were intact.

He played anyway.

5. Somewhere in Siberia – Time Unknown
A group of engineers had refused to evacuate. They manned the last weather station still sending data—mostly ignored now. They shared one speaker, wrapped in thermal tape, pressed close to a battery bank.

When Kendrick’s track dropped, they all screamed-laughed. One shouted, “Imagine explaining this to Lenin!”

Nobody replied. But for the first time in months, they danced like idiots.

6. Cairo, Egypt – 8:41 PM Local Time
Fatima scrolled through her journal. A lifetime of poems never shared. She was 17. The music floated through a neighbor’s hacked signal. She couldn’t tell which composer it was, only that the strings felt like questions.

So she wrote one more line: “If you remember nothing else, remember that I loved well.”

Ezra’s Final Set

There was no sunrise in orbit. Just a dimming algorithm on the ship’s walls. It adjusted to the supposed day cycle of whatever timezone the Council needed to feel superior.

Ezra stood alone in the conductor’s bay. The baton was optional—he didn’t need it to cue the orchestra, not with AI-linked sensors and neuro-haptic gloves—but he brought it anyway. It belonged to his grandfather. Real wood. Tiny cracks. Still smelled faintly of varnish and ash.

A whisper from the dome: “Three hours left.”

The system showed a rising graph of active listeners. Over four hundred million—more than expected, given the blackouts, the floods, the despair.

He stared into the data feed and wondered what those 400 million were doing.

Eating their last decent meal. Fighting sleep to hear one more song. Holding a child. Holding a regret. Just… holding on.

The set list now hinged on instinct. Gone were the Council’s polite suggestions. They’d retreated to their private quarters hours ago. Ezra suspected most of them were drunk, sedated, or crying into the velvet of their lineage.

He leaned into the mic.
“All frequencies, all bandwidths. This is Ezra Santiago, conductor of the Final Broadcast. You’re not hearing an emergency tone. You’re hearing what we’ve chosen to give. Not a warning. Not a lie. Just music. Until it’s over.”

He tapped the first cue.
Debussy. Quiet. Fluid. Liquid sound, for the flooding coasts.

Then Björk’s Unravel, layered with drone harmonics from Tibetan monks who recorded it weeks before their monastery fell to ash.

Then… silence. A full thirty seconds.

He broke it with Nina Simone.

From there, he began building a rhythm. Not optimism—too late for that. But texture. Emotion that didn’t resolve. A string of contradictions that made you forget you were dying for just a little longer.

When the oud player returned, live from another orbital wing, Ezra didn’t cue him with sound. He just mouthed Now.

The music that followed was raw, meandering, a cry without a nation. The audio cracked. Not from interference—just from too much feeling.

Two hours left.

He spliced Daft Punk’s Touch with Mahler’s Fifth. The fusion should have failed. But it didn’t.

One hour.
Outside, Earth’s upper crust was fracturing. A red bloom was visible near the Atlantic—a final storm, unmappable.

He looked at the last cue card.

REO Speedwagon.

His hands shook.

Flashback, Then the Note

Ezra didn’t mean to cry. Not here. Not now.

But it came, just as he hovered his glove above the REO Speedwagon cue. His fingers trembled—not from fear, but from remembering something too ordinary to belong in the final minutes of the world.

He had been nine. It was blackout season in Manila, the kind of sweltering evening when people moved like ghosts in their own homes. No power. No school the next day. Just the restless buzz of heat and tired silence.

His mother had lit a single candle in the center of the room. Not because they needed it—they already knew the layout by heart—but because music, she said, deserved a little light.

She brought out the old cassette player. It had been a wedding gift. The buttons stuck sometimes. She’d hit it just right, like tapping a stubborn memory awake.

That night, she played In My Dreams.

He hadn’t understood the lyrics then, just the way she hummed along. Not quite in tune. Not trying to be. Just… present. There was something holy about it, like her humming kept the darkness away. Not banishing it, just holding it gently.

She passed away years later. Not dramatically. Not from the apocalypse. Just… the usual. A quiet hospital. No music playing.

But he carried that cassette. Even now, tucked inside his jacket pocket aboard a ship that orbited a dying planet.

When she sang it, she wasn’t thinking about death. She was thinking about love. Absence. Longing. That tender grief of things that still lived in dreams but not in waking life.

Ezra looked up from the console. “You ready?” he whispered.

No one answered. There was no one else in the dome now.

He hovered his hand over the cue.

Outside the window, Earth flickered—one last lightning crackled across the Pacific.

He pressed play.

The Ending – Broadcast Silence

The first synth chords drifted out like breath in cold air. Ezra’s fingers hovered, trembling. He didn’t need to conduct anymore. The orchestra knew. The Earth knew.

“There was a time some time ago when every sunrise meant a sunny day…”

It was soft, not grand. No crescendo, no fireworks. Just the sound of someone holding on, even when there’s nothing left to hold.

Ezra closed his eyes.

“We climb and climb, and at the top we fly…”

Below, Earth tilted in its death spiral. The feed from the surface blinked in and out. But the song played on.

In Quezon City, a teenage boy with cracked headphones clutched his dog like a talisman.

In Florence, an elderly man threw open his shutters and let the wind carry the chorus into empty streets.

In a burned-out school gym in Jakarta, twenty people—strangers a week ago—sang together like they had grown up with the same song.

No one interrupted.

“Let the world go on below us… we are lost in time…”

Ezra opened his eyes. The stars were still there. Silent. Unchanged. Watching.

He whispered to the empty room, “She played this when the world was already too much. She said it made her feel like flying.”

And now, at the edge of silence, it still did.

“All I know is that you love me… in my dreams.”

The line held. Long. Not a fade. Not a stutter.

A single, last chord.

And then—

No light. No vibration. No echo.

Only the kind of quiet that doesn’t ask for attention.

Just… ending.

A last concert. A last song.

A final note, suspended—

—and gone.

Author’s Note

This story was written as a speculative requiem for our world. I imagined a final concert not to save humanity, but to remember it. Inspired by Doctor Who, REO Speedwagon, and the question: what would we choose to hear if we couldn’t say anything else?

Music Credit

“In My Dreams” by REO Speedwagon (1984), from the album Wheels Are Turnin’. All rights belong to the original artists. Used here for artistic homage.

Not exactly. Maybe that’s a defense mechanism. Maybe it’s easier to admit I was hurt than to recite the actual passage.

But I remember how it felt.

The sermon was on Matthew 6—Jesus telling his followers, “Do not worry.”
And then the pastor said something like, “Worry is a sin.”
He said it with confidence. Like it was obvious.

So if you worry, you lack faith.
If you’re anxious, maybe you’re too focused on yourself.
If you’re depressed, maybe you’re not trusting God enough.

I didn’t react. I stayed in my seat, like I always did.
Smiled when it was time. Bowed my head. Took notes. Pretended it was hitting other people harder than it hit me.

But deep inside, I think I scowled at Jesus.

Not because I stopped believing. Not because I hated him.
But because I felt betrayed.
I thought he was my comfort.
Why did his words feel like judgment?

Years Before Deconstruction, There Was Confusion

I didn’t allow myself to feel that way for long.
Back then, I believed that any feeling of defiance—even internal—was something to be shut down.

So I brushed it off.
I convinced myself it was just me being overly sensitive.
Maybe I misheard. Maybe I misunderstood. Maybe I needed to read more.

But confusion stayed.
I was trying to be faithful, but the verses were starting to sound like rules I couldn’t follow.

Obey your parents?
Even when they hurt you?

Forgive seventy times seven?
Even when the person never apologizes?

Submit to authorities?
Even when they silence the oppressed?

I stayed quiet. I kept showing up.
But something inside me was starting to fray.

Then Life Got Real—and the Bible Felt Small

When my depression worsened and things at home began to collapse, the anger came in stronger waves.

And not just anger at the world. Not even at myself.

It was anger at how small the Bible felt in those moments.
Like the stories I used to cling to weren’t big enough to hold my pain.

I remember singing “Song of Freedom” at church and asking myself,
What freedom?

What’s the point of lifting my hands and declaring breakthrough
if I still go home and cry quietly into a pillow I can’t explain to anyone?

I Never Talked About It—Until Now

I didn’t say any of this to anyone.
Not even to my wife.

How could I?

People don’t usually talk about being mad at the Bible.
It’s easier to say you’re doubting, or that you’re confused, or that you’re “wrestling.”

But angry? That sounds dangerous.

Even now, writing this, I wonder who will misunderstand what I mean.
So let me say it clearly:

Yes, there were times the Bible made me angry.
But that doesn’t mean I walked away from faith.
It means I started being honest with it.

I stopped reading it like a rulebook.
And started reading it like a conversation.

A Commandment I Was Scared to Hear

Our church recently started a sermon series on the Ten Commandments.

The moment I heard the announcement, my stomach tensed.
I already knew what was coming.

I’ve heard these sermons before. As a child. As a teenager. As someone who memorized them but didn’t know how to carry them when life got messy.

I feared what it might trigger in me.
I wasn’t sure I could sit through it without spiraling into the old guilt.

So when the topic for the week was Sabbath, I braced myself.
I thought it would be about rule-keeping. About Sundays. About church attendance. About avoiding shopping, movies, or laughter.

But it wasn’t.

The Sabbath Wasn’t About Control—It Was About Admiration

The sermon caught me off guard.

Instead of going into strict regulations, the message focused on how Sabbath is an invitation.
To stop.
To remember.
To breathe.

The preacher explained that the Sabbath command wasn’t just about ritual or regulation.
It was a pause. A holy interruption.

God stopped on the seventh day—not because he was tired, but because he admired what had been made.

And he wanted his people to do the same.

Not just once a week, not just to keep score.
But as a rhythm of life.
As a habit of seeing beauty even when the world demands busyness.

The Heidelberg Catechism framed it differently too.
Sabbath, it said, was a time for learning, resting, and delighting in God.
Not performance. Not checking boxes. Not earning anything.

It was a reminder that I could stop—even when the world didn’t.

That I could rest, even when I felt I didn’t deserve it.

Then Came the Harder One: Honor Your Parents

The following Sunday made me even more anxious.

“Honor your father and mother.”

That verse has always made me uncomfortable.
Not because I don’t understand it.
But because I’ve lived enough to feel its weight.

What does honoring mean when the relationship is broken?
What does it mean when your parents don’t believe in your pain?
When your cries are called exaggerations?
When your faith is measured by how obedient you are, even when you’re silently breaking?

I waited for the sermon to shame me.
But again—it didn’t.

A Surprising Reframe

The preacher didn’t make it about blind obedience.
He explained the commandment’s context.

For the Israelites, honoring parents wasn’t about compliance.
It was about legacy.

It was about remembering the faith of those who came before them—those who held onto the promise, even when they didn’t live to see it fulfilled.

It wasn’t a demand to repeat dysfunction.
It was a call to uphold the good, the hopeful, the faithful.

The example wasn’t submission. It was emulation.
Not because our parents were always right.
But because, like the Israelites looking back at the stories of their ancestors, we can draw from what endured: the hope, the grit, the longing for something more.

That hit me hard.
Not because it erased my scars.
But because it made space for healing that wasn’t performative.

It gave me permission to redefine what honor could mean.

Reading Scripture with Context, Not Fear

I don’t get angry at Scripture the way I used to.

Maybe because I stopped reading it with fear.
Or maybe because I finally allowed myself to ask,
“Is this really what it means? Or is it just what I’ve been told it means?”

That shift changed everything.

I started focusing on context.
Not as a way of escaping the weight of a verse, but as a way of understanding it better.

I began to realize that not every command was about me.
Not every punishment was directed at me.
Not every passage could—or should—be lifted out and turned into a universal law.

Some words were for a nation in the wilderness.
Some were for a scattered people longing for identity.
Some were for specific churches dealing with specific issues.

That didn’t make them less sacred.
It made them human.
It made them reachable.

The Bible Wasn’t Written in English—and That Matters

I’ve found that understanding how the Bible was written—when, why, to whom—brings so much peace.

Like how Paul’s letters, especially Philippians, are often misquoted.

“I can do all things through Christ who strengthens me.”

We print that on shirts, mugs, and motivational posters.
But Paul wasn’t talking about success or achievement.
He was talking about suffering.
About hunger.
About hardship.

He was saying, “Even in this—I can endure, because Christ is with me.”

That context doesn’t weaken the verse.
It makes it more powerful.
It makes it more real.

The same goes for David and Goliath.

We are not David.
We don’t have Goliaths.
But we do face battles. And we do need courage.

It’s not about inserting ourselves into the story—it’s about letting the story remind us what courage and trust can look like, even in unfamiliar forms.

When Scripture Was Used Against Me

I’ll be honest. One of the most painful moments of my faith life was when the Bible was used to silence me.

It happened during the elections.
I spoke up, carefully, prayerfully.
I expressed concern about leadership, about truth, about justice.

And then a pastor mocked me.
Quoted Romans 13 at me like it was a sword.

Said I was being rebellious.
Said I didn’t understand God’s order.
He red-tagged me.

Publicly.

That hurt.
Not because I didn’t know the verse. But because I did.

And I also knew its context.
That Paul was speaking to early Christians under Roman rule.
That submission wasn’t blind allegiance, but a call to peace and witness in the face of real oppression.

But that nuance didn’t matter to him.
And I had to go quiet.

I made my accounts private.
I questioned if my voice had any place in the church.

But I Never Stopped Believing

Here’s what’s strange.

Even after all of that, I never stopped trusting the Bible.

If anything, I trusted it more.

Because I realized it wasn’t the Bible that failed me.
It was the way people used it.
The way they cherry-picked.
The way they silenced instead of listened.

I began to see that questioning the Bible was not a sign of weakness.
It was a sign of engagement.
It was a kind of trust.

You don’t argue with a book you don’t care about.

You don’t get mad at someone you don’t love.

It’s Okay to Get Hurt

The Bible is ancient.
It wasn’t written by people who had Twitter or antidepressants or LGBTQ+ siblings or postcolonial grief.
It was written by farmers, prophets, tentmakers, exiles, wanderers, and teachers.

Yes, it was inspired by God.
Yes, it speaks truth.
But it also carries the marks of the time it was born from.

That doesn’t make it irrelevant.
It makes it honest.
And honesty can sting.

So if a verse hurts you, you’re not broken.
You’re human.
With wounds. With memory. With longing.

You don’t have to hide that pain.
You can say, “This verse hurt me,” and still believe.
You can say, “I’m angry,” and still come to the table.

Anger Is Not Rebellion

People told me that questioning was dangerous.
That expressing hurt was rebellion.
That doubt was sin.

I believed them for a while.
Until I realized: if God gave me a heart and a mind, then maybe he also expects me to use both.

Anger isn’t the end of the story.
Sometimes, it’s the beginning of deeper understanding.

Even Jesus questioned.
Even the psalmists raged.
Even the prophets lamented.

So why should we pretend?

How I Return

These days, when I feel distant, I try new ways of engaging Scripture.

I listen to it instead of reading.
I try different translations.
I sit with a single verse for days, not rushing.
I let context breathe.
I ask better questions.

Sometimes, I just read the Psalms.
Especially the ones that feel like sighs.

“Your faithfulness continues through all generations; you established the earth, and it endures.” (Psalm 119:90)

“The Lord is my shepherd, I lack nothing.” (Psalm 23:1)

“He heals the brokenhearted and binds up their wounds.” (Psalm 147:3)

Verses like those still bring me peace.
Not because they solve everything.
But because they sit beside me quietly.

And sometimes, that’s enough.

If You’ve Ever Felt Like This Too

Maybe you’re reading this and you’ve been angry at the Bible.
Or scared of it.
Or confused.
Or numb.

You’re not alone.

I hope you know that it’s okay.
That your questions don’t disqualify you.
That your hurt is valid.
That the conversation between you and God is still open.

And that even in your anger, Jesus is not walking away from you.

Maybe he’s just sitting beside you, waiting for you to exhale.
Not with a lecture, but with presence.

Maybe he’s saying,
“I know. That part hurt me too.”

I didn’t expect it to hit me like that.

You know how Spotify gives you those curated playlists? Most of the time I just scroll through, try a track or two, then move on. But sometime last year, while doing my usual fandom rotation—BINI, ALAMAT, KAIA, G22—I found myself pausing on something different.

A solo name.
All caps.
GL4DDYY.

The song was Watch Me. I clicked play. A few seconds in and I remember sitting up straight.

It wasn’t polished in the same way the big groups were.
It wasn’t chasing trends either.
It was something else entirely—gritty, fierce, unapologetic.

And it was in Bisaya.

I used to think local music, especially in regional languages, was either meant for comedy or nostalgia. Hiligaynon ballads. Bisaya novelty tracks. I laughed at them, to be honest. Or worse, I dismissed them.

But Gl4ddyy made me sit with that discomfort.

His verses weren’t joking. They were fueled by something urgent. Not just anger—but ambition.

“Oras nang mobangon, ipakita nila kaya nakong abton
Ang akoang mga pangandoy
Bisag unsa pa na kakapoy”

(It’s time to rise up and show them that I can reach my dreams even if it could tire me out.)

I wasn’t just listening. I was hearing myself.

I’ve always said that P-Pop saved me from early doctor fatigue.
I meant it figuratively.
But Gl4ddyy made it literal.

His voice, his rhymes, his cadence—they pushed something awake in me. For weeks, his song became my opening track every time I leave my house for work. Even when I didn’t feel like it. Especially then.

There was no huge fanbase behind him.
No marketing campaign.
Just Bisaya-speaking comments under each video, most of them cheering him on like he was a hometown hero.
And maybe that’s what he is.

To me, he became proof that Filipino music is evolving—and not always where the spotlight is pointed.

When people talk about P-Pop, they usually mean polished groups, big stages, uniformed dance numbers, and high-budget music videos. Don’t get me wrong—I love all that. I breathe all that. But Gl4ddyy complicated things for me.

What does it mean to be P-Pop anyway?

If he’s in the playlist, does he count?
If he’s not always singing in Tagalog or English, is he in the club?

Some might say no. I say—who cares?
He’s there. He’s working. He’s reaching people like me.
That’s enough.

We talk so much about diversity in P-Pop—gender, genre, language, concepts. But Gl4ddyy lives that variety without needing to explain himself. He just does the work. He raps. He sings. He posts. He performs. He shows up.

Even if nobody’s screaming his name in an arena just yet, the music doesn’t wait. And neither does he.

The Sound, the Struggle, and the Space Between

If I had to describe Gl4ddyy’s sound in a sentence, I’d say this:
Upbeat rap with a challenger’s mindset.
Always moving, never apologizing.

There’s a pulse to his music—like it’s already one step ahead of you, daring you to catch up. Even when the topics touch on dreams, doubt, or exhaustion, there’s still energy pushing everything forward. And it’s not just energy for the sake of noise. It’s energy for the sake of belief.

A kind of self-hype, if that makes sense.
As if you have to believe it yourself first, before anyone else will.

It’s the kind of rap-pop that mixes bravado with vulnerability. He’ll spit lines about reaching goals and silencing doubters, but in between are quiet clues about tiredness. Rejection. Wanting more. Hoping your effort pays off.

“Bisag unsa pa na kakapoy”
(No matter how tiring this all gets.)

That line stuck.
Because it’s not just a flex. It’s a confession.

He switches between Bisaya, English, and sometimes Tagalog. And maybe not everyone will catch that right away, but I do. I notice how the rhyme schemes shift. I hear the sudden softness before a drop. I follow the cadence that only a Bisaya tongue can pull off.

And I love that he doesn’t translate for anyone.

He doesn’t dilute the accent. He doesn’t tweak the delivery. He doesn’t try to make himself more “acceptable” for the algorithm. It’s raw. Not unrefined—raw like real food is raw. It hasn’t been processed for mass taste.

And maybe that’s what’s kept him at the margins of the mainstream.

Let’s be honest—solo acts in P-Pop are rare.
Even Maki, who’s more in the ballad space, doesn’t always get playlisted as “P-Pop.” And Gl4ddyy? He’s often the only solo name when he does show up in P-Pop curation.

That alone says a lot.

It tells you what “P-Pop” still means to most people:
A visual-heavy group. Coordinated. Manila-based. Maybe even company-backed.

But Gl4ddyy breaks all that.
He’s not just out of the mold—he’s outside the room.

No lightstick army.
No merch drops.
No group choreography to react to.
Just him, and the mic, and the beat.

And yet, he performs.

His music videos, if he performs, you’ll see him bouncing, every verse delivered like it’s the first and last time.

He looks like his music sounds.
Nothing extra. Nothing polished to fit someone else’s concept.
He wears his hunger. And it suits him.

His style—grungy, loose, sometimes experimental—won’t make it into aesthetic boards.
But it makes sense if you’re listening.
It matches the message.

He once interacted with me on Twitter. Nothing big. Just one of those quick moments that tell you—“Hey, this guy’s paying attention.” I don’t idolize him for that. But I respect it. You can tell he wants to be heard. Not for ego. But because he knows what he brings.

That hunger again.
That drive.

And it made me wonder—what does support mean for someone like him?

When you’re a fan of a big group, support is easy. You buy the albums, stream the comeback, vote in awards, wear the shirts. There’s a structure. A fanbase. A system.

But cheering for someone like Gl4ddyy?
There’s no roadmap.
No cheering guide.
Just you and your belief that this deserves more ears.

Sometimes I wish I could do more.

I wish there were subtitles for his Bisaya verses so more people could see how good the wordplay is.
I wish local producers would bet on him more.
I wish P-Pop playlists weren’t afraid to stretch the definition further—to include the artists already pushing its borders.

Because if there’s anything Gl4ddyy proves, it’s this:

You don’t need a label to belong.
You just need to make noise loud enough that someone stops and says,
“Wait. Who’s that?”

That’s what happened to me.
And I stayed.

On Being Bisaya, Building Dreams, and Hoping He Gets the Stage He Deserves

When I first heard Bisaya in a pop or rap song, I didn’t know how to react.

Not because it sounded off—but because it sounded too close. Too familiar. Too much like home. And for a long time, I didn’t know if that was something to be proud of, or to keep to myself.

Growing up, I associated Bisaya music with comedy. Parodies. Double meanings. Radio-friendly laughs that we’d joke about during lunch breaks. That’s what played on the buses. On the sidewalks. On the videoke machines in sari-sari stores.

But music that made you feel something? That made you sit still for a moment?

That wasn’t how I was taught to think of regional music.
Until I heard Gl4ddyy.

He changed the equation.

I’m not saying he’s the only one doing it. But he was the first to land on my algorithm. And somehow, that was enough to interrupt the years of quiet disconnection I had from my own region’s sound.

He rapped in Bisaya like it was the default.
Not like he was trying to be clever.
Not like he was trying to explain anything.
Just… using it. Owning it.

And suddenly, I was proud to hear the words.
Proud to hear the tone.
Proud to recognize the rhythm that’s always been there but never front and center.

It’s strange, isn’t it?

How you can be proud of something after someone else gives it weight.

You know what else is different? Me, brought up in a conservative environment, feeling the angst and the power of using curse words in lyrics. These are not dirty words; they expel negativity, at least in this context.

I think that’s what Gl4ddyy does best—he gives weight to something most people overlook. The effort. The struggle.

He sings about pagkakapoy. About how tiring it all is.
And still, he keeps going.

Not every song is deep, of course. Some are hype. Some are love songs. Some are straight-up bars. But even in the lighter tracks, there’s a grit. A persistence. A refusal to be erased just because he doesn’t fit into a neat category.

Is he P-Pop? Is he OPM? Is he regional?

Honestly, I stopped asking.
I just let the music play.

And maybe that’s the freedom he’s fighting for—to be heard for what he sounds like, not for what genre he has to belong to.

There aren’t many fans like me. Not yet.

There’s no official fan name. No strong fanbase churning out edits or threads. Most comments under his videos are fellow Bisaya listeners giving encouragement. Just a few words. A “padayon.” A “nindota oy.” A fire emoji.

But it’s there. That slow warmth. That careful loyalty.

It’s what makes supporting solo artists different.
Especially ones without a system behind them.

You get no rewards.
You just listen.
You share links.
You comment when you can.
You tell one friend. Maybe two.

And that’s enough—for now.

If I ever met him, I’d ask a lot of things.

Not the usual artist questions. Not “What’s your process?” or “Who’s your inspiration?”
I’d ask:
Do you think P-Pop is still a space worth entering?
Do you think we, the fans, are doing enough for you?

And if not—what can we do better?

Because I want to help.
And I don’t always know how.

There’s a loneliness in watching someone talented stay on the edge of the radar. You want to push them forward, but you don’t have the tools. You want to scream their name, but there’s no crowd to echo you.

Still, we do it.
Because we believe.

I imagine him in a lineup with ALAMAT or KAIA or BINI—not just for clout, but because I want people to see that the sound can blend. That there are so many flavors in Filipino music. That hearing a Bisaya verse from a male soloist isn’t just refreshing—it’s necessary.

Let him rap with Felip.
Let him go bar for bar with the best of them.
Let him do a track with a female P-Pop artist. Let KAIA join him on a hook.
Let BINI try a Vispop ballad and invite him in.

Let him take his place—not because he’s trending, but because he’s ready.

One year from now, I want to hear Gl4ddyy on more playlists.
Five years from now, I want to see an album. A concert.
A full-blown crowd chanting lyrics in Bisaya, without even needing translations.

And I don’t know where I’ll be in that timeline.
But I hope I’ll still be here—listening, sharing, supporting.

Because if music like his could break through my own disbelief—
Disbelief in Bisaya music, in rap, in genres I used to avoid—
Then maybe it can break through for others too.

And I’ll be here when it does.

Why We Need More Gl4ddyys

We don’t need more copies.
We need more contrasts.
And Gl4ddyy reminds me what it means to make space for that.

Not everyone will listen right away.
Some will skip the song when they don’t understand the words.
Some won’t think rap belongs on a P-Pop playlist.
Some will say, “He doesn’t look like an idol.”
And maybe that’s exactly why he matters.

Because he disrupts.

Because he confuses the algorithm.
Because he forces listeners to ask: “Is this P-Pop? Is this OPM?”
Because he doesn’t answer that question. He just keeps releasing.

I think about how long I hated rap.
Or said I hated it.
I loved Christian rap, but I never called it rap.
I heard hip-hop on the radio and tuned out.

Then I heard Watch Me.
And somehow, my rules didn’t apply.

Maybe it was the language.
Maybe it was the delivery.
Maybe it was the fatigue from being a person who also wanted to prove something.

Whatever it was, I didn’t skip that track.
I listened. I kept listening. I followed him.

It takes a lot to convert a skeptic.
But Gl4ddyy did.

And I think that’s a bigger milestone than any viral trend.
To change minds. To crack open genres.
To make someone believe in something they used to ignore.

I’m not saying he’s flawless.
Or that he needs to be everyone’s favorite.
I’m saying: he deserves to be heard.

Not just because of talent.
But because of what he represents.

A solo Bisaya artist.
No major label.
No built-in fanbase.
Just music. And persistence. And dreams.

And I think we need more of that.
Not just in P-Pop.
But in every part of Filipino music.

More sounds that come from places people ignore.
More artists who don’t fit.
More accents. More languages.
More stories that don’t rely on Manila to be valid.

Because sometimes it takes a Gl4ddyy to wake you up.
To remind you that music doesn’t need permission.
That a beat, a rhyme, and a Bisaya verse can be more powerful than a full dance break.

That sometimes, the most P-Pop thing to do—
Is to be yourself even when no one claps for it.

And if he ever feels like no one’s clapping?
He can look this way.
I’m still here.

Gl4ddyy: Selected Discography

Dahil Sayo

His follow up release to Watch Me, it is an honest retelling about how a person can make one fall in love again. Fully released in Tagalog, I wish this gets more listeners.

It talks about losing hope about finding love and bearing the scars of heartbreak. But that one person has been able to change all that.

LDR (Missing You Karong Pasko)

A fun song from his discography and a collaboration with the awesome vocals and beats I now associate with Christmas. Had this on repeat last Christmas because I was away from my wife. While I love the verses, the chorus stuck to my mind that I kept humming it while on duty.

Don’t Play Me

While the last song gives love and comfort to a significant other, this one complains about being treated badly. I haven’t had this experience but oh how the pain was palpable, a magic of OPM and P-Pop I kept on coming back since last year.

Last Time

Would you believe that I tried singing this when I had small arguments with my wife? haha. The melody and the haunting chorus, “Kay narealize na nako kung unsa ko ka buang,” hits your heart. But no, I don’t have the “last time” sentiments but this is a fun listen as much as a sad song to follow through.

Damn

Another song for the haters. I actually appreciate the consistency. It just means that you need Gl4ddyy to back you up when you’re feeling oppressed. The raw emotions and the fire beats together with the lyrics makes you stand up with him against detractors and those who look down on your efforts.

At first, I was just writing to cope — putting my thoughts into blog entries, hoping someone out there might feel a little less alone. I called the series Overcoming the Odds, and it followed the story of how I tried, failed, froze, tried again, and eventually passed the Philippine Physician Licensure Exam.

But along the way, I realized I was holding back. There were more moments I wanted to include, more reflections that wouldn’t fit in a blog post. So I gave myself permission to open the story wider — and this eBook was born.

What the Book Is About

When You Think You Can’t is not a story of perfect study hacks or overnight success. It’s a story of:

• Delays that felt like defeat
• Burnout that nearly ended everything
• Superstitions that held me together when logic couldn’t
• Rituals like red boxers and semicolon necklaces
• A wife who believed in me even when I didn’t

This is a survival story — not just for exams, but for the self.

I’m sharing it not because I passed,
but because I almost didn’t.
And I think that matters.

Where to Read or Download

You can read or download the ebook for free or with a minimal fee at any of the following:

• Ko-fi (PDF, free or pay-what-you-want):
  Download via Ko-fi
• Amazon Kindle (KDP):
• Kobo (ePub + available to libraries via OverDrive):
• Other ebook platforms (Apple Books, B&N, etc.):

How to Support or Give Feedback

If this story helped you — even just a line, a sigh, or a tear — I’d love to hear from you. You can:

• Leave a message or comment on my Ko-fi page
• Share the book with a friend or med student who might need it
• Tag me on Twitter/X or Instagram (@ianleoj)
• Send a quiet email or DM — I read them all
• Or just keep going with your own story. That’s more than enough.

If you want to help me continue writing and sharing more stories like this, tips or donations on Ko-fi are deeply appreciated. But honestly, your presence here already means so much.

Why I’m Sharing This

Because someone out there needs it — the way I once needed a story like this and couldn’t find one.

Because not everyone who struggles is lazy or weak.

Because behind every success photo is a quiet, shaky, unseen climb.

And because maybe… maybe you’re in that place now. The one where you’re not sure if you can keep going.

This book is for you.

You’re not behind.
You’re becoming.
And you don’t have to do it alone.

Thank you for reading.
Thank you for staying.

— Ian
Download the free eBook

He scrolled past it the first time. Or maybe he didn’t. Maybe he saw it, paused for a second, then kept scrolling, not realizing his body had flinched.

It took a second post to stop him. Not from Lance. From a news outlet.

“Teen’s Viral Tweet Sparks Theories on Premonitions, Grief, and Coincidence”

He clicked it. Watched the video with the volume low. Saw the screenshot. The timestamp. The dream.

Simon closed the tab.

He got up, rinsed his face. Looked in the mirror. His cheekbones still had a bit of color. That meant he was holding up okay, right?

He’d deleted his own post weeks ago. Just before it could become anything. A single line:
“Something’s coming.”
No likes. Not even a comment. Except his best friend who just replied, “Stop being dramatic lmao.”

That was before the train.

His parents had taken the late one. Coming back from visiting his aunt. Simon had offered to pick them up from the station. They told him to rest. He didn’t argue.

At 9:43 PM, he was watching something dumb on YouTube. At 9:47, his screen froze. Then the power flickered. A second later, his phone vibrated.

A train derailment. Breaking news. Unconfirmed injuries.

By 10:12, he knew.

He didn’t want to believe in premonitions. That was the thing. He hated the idea of signs and symbols and all that mystic crap. He believed in physics. Concrete things.

But what do you call it, then? The sudden, nameless anxiety that hovered over his neck all week before it happened? The urge to go to the station for no reason? The weird static feeling in his fingertips?

And now this boy—Lance, was it?—had written it out like a diary entry. With the exact time.

Simon didn’t like it. He didn’t like being reminded that he wasn’t special. Or worse, that maybe he was part of something he couldn’t explain.

He searched his old posts. Just in case. He had cleared most of them.

But in the archive, one survived. A close-up photo of a puddle reflecting the moon. The caption read:

“Would you know before it happens?”

Dated: two days before the accident.

He stared at it for a long time. Not sure if it meant anything. Not sure if he wanted it to.

He tapped out a message to his cousin. Deleted it.

Then, almost without thinking, he typed into the search bar:

“Lance dream tweet.”

He clicked on the original thread. Scanned the replies. Scanned again. Found the comment that said, “You’re not alone.”

He tapped the profile that posted it.

No photo. One post. A blurry sky. A shooting star.

It hit him like a cough he’d been holding in.

He’d seen that exact sky before.

He didn’t know when. But he had.