I don’t remember the exact post. Maybe it was a renovated kitchen. A house painted new. A caption that said, finally, after years of hard work. A smile holding keys.

I was on my phone. I think I had just finished washing a few plates. My back ached a little. My hands smelled faintly of dish soap. I was scrolling—scrolling the way most people do when they’re waiting for something that isn’t coming.

That’s when I saw it.

It wasn’t jealousy. I don’t think I’m built like that. It was something quieter. Like a door closing in a house I don’t live in. A reminder that I was still here, doing what felt like nothing.

That was college. Or maybe it was med school. Or maybe it was just last night.

I’ve been through this cycle more than once.

When I shifted from marketing to biology, I knew it would set me back. Transferring schools in third year meant starting over. Everyone else was counting down to graduation. I was figuring out which of my subjects would be credited and which wouldn’t.

They were taking thesis photos. I was recalibrating.

They were stepping out of college. I was stepping back in.

And back then, it didn’t hurt so loudly. I was younger. I thought, there’s time. I thought, as long as I finish, that’s enough.

But the internet doesn’t care what you tell yourself.

Every scroll became a highlight reel. Someone I knew was starting a business. Someone else was engaged. Someone I competed against in a contest was now living abroad. Another was pregnant, and still looked so happy.

Meanwhile, I was in a room with poor lighting, listening to a generated voice lecture, wondering if I was really cut out for this.

There’s a part of me that tries to make sense of it.

That tells myself: you weren’t lazy. You weren’t lost. You were trying. You were surviving. You were still washing dishes, still showing up. Still doing what needed to be done.

But that part of me isn’t very loud.

The louder part says: look at you. No job. No wins. You’re not just behind—you’re stuck.

And worse: you’re dragging someone else with you.

I think that’s the part that stings the most. Not the distance between me and my peers. But the feeling that I’ve pulled my wife into this life that feels like waiting. Like surviving on love and leftovers. Like asking too much.

And she—kind as ever—reminds me I’m doing just fine. That something better will come. That even this kind of life is still a life.

I didn’t post about those nights. I didn’t have photos of milestones. Just memories of dishes stacked beside a sink. The sound of running water. The heat of a lightbulb too close to my head. The hum of my phone overheating on my chest as I scrolled through things that weren’t mine.

Still, I kept showing up.

And sometimes, that’s enough.

Part 2: Small Wins, Unposted

I don’t think I’ve ever posted a milestone just to show I had one.

Not because I’m better than that. Not because I’m above it.

But because I didn’t have much to post.

No new job. No new car. No bought-my-first-condo-with-hard-earned-money type of reel.

What I had were half-read notes and alarms that I kept snoozing. I had saved PDF meal plans that I barely followed. I had one pair of jeans that fit a little too tight, but I wore them anyway because they were the only ones that didn’t look tired.

Sometimes, I did something small and finished it.

A laundry load. A grocery run. A one-sitting YouTube video that didn’t ask much from my brain.

I cleaned the sink. I folded the same shirts again and again.

No one clapped. No one reacted.

But those days mattered.

They still do.

When you’re not winning in ways people expect, you start to lower your idea of success.

At first, I thought that was a bad thing. Like I was settling.

But now I wonder if maybe we were always wrong about what success is.

What if success isn’t big at all? What if it’s not loud?

What if it’s making a budget and sticking to it—even if there’s only enough for the week?

What if it’s choosing to smile at your wife while you both eat reheated leftovers?

What if it’s staying soft when everything in you wants to shut down?

What if it’s not quitting—even if you can’t name what you’re doing?

I’ve seen people make it. That’s not bitterness. It’s just true.

And I want them to win. I do. I cheer when I can. I tap heart emojis. I mean them.

But some nights, I wish my own life made more sense.

I wish I had something to tell my younger self—that version of me who kept scrolling and scrolling, waiting for a sign that he wasn’t too late.

I wish I could tell him that finishing the dishes mattered.

That it proved he could complete something. That it showed up in his muscle memory, in his rhythm, in his discipline.

That it counted.

There are no photos of those dishes.

No applause for brushing your teeth after crying.

No badges for trying not to disappear.

But I lived those days.

I live them still.

And every time I wash another plate, I whisper to myself:

You’re still here. You’re still trying. And that’s something.

Part 3: What I Didn’t Post

I didn’t post my transcript when I shifted courses.
Didn’t post the rejections.
Didn’t post the day I found out I had to repeat subjects.

Didn’t post when I stayed in bed the whole afternoon after convincing myself I deserved to rest—when really, I just couldn’t move.

Didn’t post the time I googled: “What happens if I give up?”

Didn’t post the days I felt like a burden.
Didn’t post the guilt that came from needing help.
Didn’t post the long nights when I stared at the ceiling while my wife slept soundly beside me, unaware that I was praying to something I wasn’t even sure was listening.

Didn’t post the fear that maybe all I’ve done amounts to nothing.

People say, if it’s not online, did it even happen?

Yes.

Yes, it did.

Even if no one liked it.
Even if no one saw.
Even if it didn’t trend or get shared.

It happened.

My heartbreak happened. My struggle happened. My washing-the-dishes life happened.

And it still does.

I remember walking home once after a long day of nothing. I didn’t fail any tests. Didn’t get into a fight. Nothing dramatic. Just a whole day of silence—of not knowing what I was doing, or if it would ever be enough.

The sky was dim. A little pink. A little gray. The kind of evening no one writes about.

But I noticed the breeze. I noticed the weight of my bag. I noticed I was still breathing.

That night, I washed dishes again. Still unsure. Still not enough.

But I finished the chore.

And something about that felt like living.

Sometimes I think about how different my feed would look if I posted those moments.

If there was a highlight reel for staying kind to yourself.

If there was a reaction button for “still here, still holding on.”

If people could “like” the sound of a cup returning to its place in the dish cabinet.

If silence could be seen.

I didn’t post, not because I was hiding.

But because I didn’t know how to share something that looked like nothing but felt like everything.

And because sometimes, even in a noisy world, silence is the only thing that feels honest.

Part 4: Learning to Stay Soft

I could’ve turned hard. I really could’ve.

It’s not hard to become bitter. You just stop saying congratulations. You stop replying. You mute a few stories. You stop hoping.

I almost went there.

My wife tells me I’m doing fine. Not in the way people say it to brush things off. But in the way she really means it.

“You’re doing fine,” she says, while I stare at the sink full of dishes again. While I replay job interviews in my head and wonder if I said too much or too little. While I lay down on bed while waiting for her to arrive after another long day of nothing working.

She says it like she knows something I don’t.

And maybe she does.

Because somehow, she still looks at me with warmth. Still shares the bed with me even when I lie there feeling like I haven’t earned her love today. Still saves the last bite of food for me even when I say I’m not hungry.

Sometimes I think she’s the only reason I haven’t collapsed.

It takes effort to stay soft.

To not let the lack of progress turn you mean.
To not let silence become shame.
To not let being “behind” define everything about you.

It’s easier to get cold.
To scroll past people.
To fake a laugh.
To stop dreaming altogether.

But I haven’t stopped. Not fully.

And that has to count for something.

The most radical thing I’ve done lately?

I let myself rest.

I ate in bed with my wife after ordering burgers, sweet potato fries, and onion rings. No fancy dinner. No Instagram post.

Just us. A small room. A quiet evening.

And that, somehow, felt like the bravest thing.

Part 5: The Dishes Still Wait

They’re still there, honestly.

The dishes.

In our shared sink. With the sponge we should’ve replaced. No more hot light above me but the windows blow a cold breeze every time I’m here.

I still wash them.

Sometimes after breakfast. Sometimes right before bed. Sometimes hours after I said I would.

And when I do, I still think of everything I haven’t achieved.

I still scroll. Still see the job offers. The weddings. The 5AM workouts and new apartment keys and soft launch of lives that seem so clean, so curated.

I still catch myself wondering:

Am I doing enough?

I guess I’m not waiting for a big revelation anymore.

This isn’t a story where I suddenly got hired. Or went viral. Or proved all my inner doubts wrong with one breakthrough.

This is just a slow season.

The kind no one claps for.

The kind you survive in small ways.

With clean plates. With whispered prayers. With a warm meal and the choice to get up again tomorrow.

I look at my hands sometimes. They’ve washed so much.

Not just dishes. But days.

Days where I thought I was useless. Days I didn’t want to wake up. Days where all I did was survive the hour.

And yet—here I am.

Still here.

Still trying.

Still loving.

Still soft.

Maybe that’s the real milestone. Not the big wins, not the photos with captions ready.

But the quiet fact that I’ve stayed.

That I didn’t disappear.

That I’ve built something real, not online, but right here—in the silence, in the mundane, in the small decisions to keep going.

And when everyone else was posting milestones, I was just doing dishes.

But maybe that was the point.

Maybe that was enough.

You’re no longer where you are.
You’re in Grade 4, on a Good Friday, standing in front of your church.
You’re singing “Tell the World of His Love” under dim lights during a tenebrae service, the shadows creeping in, the room almost completely still.

You don’t understand everything.
But you feel it.
You feel the weight of silence.
You feel something holy—and it cracks something open.

That’s the first time I remember crying over a song.

I wasn’t sad. I wasn’t even sure why I cried. But the moment stayed.
And years later, I would understand: that music had done something permanent.

Childhood Sounds, Volume One

I didn’t grow up in a household that banned music. But it was shaped by church.

Worship music was the default.
Songs for Sunday, songs for ministry, songs for devotion.
That was the standard background.

But outside of those hours? The world was loud.

Grade 1 came with The Moffats, Hanson, and Aaron Carter. I remember singing with classmates on school breaks. My voice wasn’t good, but I didn’t care. Everyone was singing. That’s what mattered.

In Grade 3, a friend handed me an Aqua cassette like it was a secret gift. I played it over and over until the tape warped. That same year, Britney Spears came into my life via a neighbor’s radio. I didn’t choose her. I just heard her every single morning while preparing for school.

Sometimes, I’d sing with her too. Under my breath.

Westlife. Backstreet Boys. Boyzone. The Corrs. A-Teens. M2M.
Even Salbakuta’s “Stupid Love”—which, at one point, I memorized from start to finish. (Don’t ask me how.)

I didn’t know what kind of music I loved. I just knew I was listening.
To everything.

The Pinoy Rock Years

High school came, and music changed again.

It wasn’t just background noise anymore—it started shaping my identity.

Parokya ni Edgar, Rivermaya, Eraserheads—these weren’t just bands. They were moods. Entire weekends. Tambay energy. School projects and crushes and petty fights and hallway laughter.

Chinese pop made a brief appearance too, thanks to our Chinese Music class. I remember stumbling through Mandarin lyrics, half-proud, half-confused.

But there was one song that mattered more than the rest.

Gary Valenciano’s “I Will Be Here.”

Not even a rock song. But it played over and over in my head because of her—my high school girlfriend.
She said it was her favorite. I held onto that like a keepsake.

That song stayed with me.
It was the soundtrack of one of the most decisive days of my life: the day she said yes.

She’s my wife now.
And that song? It still sends me back.

Sound and Place: A Strange Familiarity

There’s a weird thing that happens sometimes. I’ll hear the first few notes of a song—and suddenly, I’m somewhere else.

Not just emotionally, but physically.
Like I can smell the room.
Feel the old floor under my feet.
Even see the sunlight as it looked that day.

It creeps me out sometimes. The specificity of it.
Music doesn’t just store memory. It replays it with details I thought I forgot.

A dusty classroom. A humid afternoon. The rustling of a worn-out songbook. A basketball game in the distance. A slow, dragging summer.

All because of a song I haven’t heard in years.

The Soundtrack of Belief—and Losing It

I’ve lived long enough to say that not all memories are welcome.

There are songs I can’t listen to anymore.
Some I purposely avoid.
Not because they’re bad—but because they’re heavy. They remind me of versions of myself I’m no longer proud of. Or versions that hurt too much to revisit.

There were songs tied to my church life. Worship songs I used to lead with a full heart, a steady voice, and belief that didn’t waver.

When my faith cracked—when depression came, and silence replaced prayer—those songs felt like salt.

I would hear them and flinch.

Even Christmas songs, which I used to love with absurd enthusiasm, felt off-limits.
“The Christmas Song” used to make me smile in June.
After everything, I couldn’t even listen in December.

It felt like betrayal.
Like I lost a part of me that I wasn’t sure I’d ever recover.

The Unexpected Shelter of Other Faiths

In my search for quiet, I stumbled upon “Hashkiveinu.”
It’s a Jewish prayer for shelter and peace.

I don’t know why I clicked on it.
Maybe the name intrigued me. Maybe the melody felt like a lullaby I hadn’t heard before.

But the first time I listened, I exhaled.
Really exhaled. Like I hadn’t in months.

During exams. During breakdowns. During moments when I didn’t want to think—this was the song I played.

It wasn’t from my tradition. But it felt like refuge.

Later, “Shehecheyanu” would also join that secret playlist. A song of gratitude for having reached a moment.

Both of them reminded me that maybe I wasn’t alone.
Maybe I was just looking in the wrong direction for comfort.

P-Pop and the Return of Joy

After I became a doctor, I didn’t have a plan to find joy.
But it found me.

Through music. Again.

BINI entered my life first—thanks to my wife. Then ALAMAT, KAIA, and a flood of P-Pop tracks that gave language to something I’d forgotten: that being Filipino could be joyful, too.

It wasn’t just “representation.”
It was resonance.

ALAMAT’s multilingual tracks, BINI’s empowered femininity, KAIA’s raw charm—they reminded me of how music could carry meaning without explanation.

They pulled me into a deeper love for OPM classics.
I started listening to Rey Valera, VST & Co., and even novelty songs my uncles used to laugh over.

In a strange twist, fandom helped me reconnect with old parts of myself. I met fellow health workers who were BLOOMs. Made new friends who were Magiliws. Reconnected with music as something communal again.

Music became home.
Again.

Private Playlists. Public Silence. And the 60-40 Split.

I keep playlists that no one knows about.

They’re not special, really. Just collections of songs for certain days. Songs I reach for when I can’t talk. Or when I need to remember who I used to be.

I haven’t kept a music diary, but maybe I should.
Because when I look at my current playlist—it doesn’t just show taste.
It shows growth.

It shows grief.

It shows the wide, awkward arc of someone trying to believe again.

Lyrics matter more to me than melodies. Maybe a 60-40 split.
But I’m learning to appreciate instrumentals more. Especially when I’m tired of words.

Sometimes silence wrapped in sound says what language cannot.

The Archive That Wasn’t Meant to Be

I never set out to create an archive.
But when I trace back the songs that stayed, the ones I saved, the ones I still skip—I see the whole thing.

It’s not organized.
It doesn’t follow the rules of a journal.
But it’s real.

There are worship songs from a boy who believed deeply.
Boyband pop from someone trying to belong.
P-Pop tracks from a doctor finding joy again.
Lullabies from another faith that gave me calm when my own could not.

And there are the quiet ones—the ones that still sting.
The ones I skip without skipping, by instinct.

If You Listen Closely

If I played you my playlist, you wouldn’t hear structure.
You’d hear longing.

You’d hear someone trying to make sense of belief, burnout, first love, failure, faith, fandom, and home.

You’d hear someone who doesn’t always sing out loud anymore, but still listens.

And maybe that’s what matters.
That we’re still listening.

That we’re still archiving.
Whether we mean to or not.

That we’re building something—a record of us.
Made not of dates or journals.
But of melodies.

Because the truth is…
Our memory keeps music.

But music?
It keeps us too.