When the Stars Fell Silent: A Year-End Reflection on Horoscopes, Fate, and the Lives We Choose

*Dr. Rodolfo John Ortiz Teope, PhD, EdD, DM

As 2025 quietly loosens its grip and 2026 waits just beyond the edge of the calendar, I find myself doing what many people do at the end of a year—looking back, not only at what happened, but at what we believed would happen. This is the season when certainty is in demand. Social media fills with predictions, timelines overflow with “lucky signs,” and horoscopes confidently declare who will prosper, who will struggle, and who should prepare for love or loss. At the turning of a year, uncertainty feels heavier, and anything that promises reassurance becomes tempting.

I understand the attraction. Life is exhausting when the future is unclear. Hope, even when borrowed from the stars, feels like rest.

Yet I cannot forget how loudly the stars spoke at the beginning of 2020. Horoscopes—both Western and Chinese—were brimming with optimism. It was supposed to be a year of growth, balance, breakthroughs, and prosperity. Libras were promised harmony, Dragons were said to be entering powerful cycles, and almost every sign was told something good was coming. Then the world shut down. Streets emptied. Hospitals filled. Families were separated. Millions died. And the stars said nothing.

That silence stayed with me.

If destiny were truly written in constellations or animal cycles, the pandemic would not have blindsided the entire planet. If horoscopes had even a fraction of the predictive power they claim, history would look very different. No zodiac sign warned of the First World War, where an entire generation vanished into trenches. No horoscope predicted the rise of fascism, the Holocaust, or the devastation of the Second World War. No constellation foresaw the Great Depression. No animal sign announced Hiroshima or Nagasaki. History has always arrived unannounced—indifferent to symbols in the sky. The heavens remained beautiful and silent.

And still, we persist in believing.

We continue to label ourselves as Libras, Aries, Dragons, or Goats, as if symbols could contain the weight of a human life. But there are millions of Libras in this world. Does that mean they will all share the same fate in 2026? Will they all succeed or fail together, love and lose in unison? And what of the millions born in the Year of the Dragon—does that mean their destinies are synchronized, as if humanity were following a single cosmic script?

Reality answers with brutal honesty: no.

Some Libras will bury parents in 2026. Others will welcome children. Some Dragons will rise from poverty. Others will fall despite privilege. Their stories will not match—not because fate treated them differently, but because fate was never writing their stories to begin with. It is us who make our lives. Through choices we stand by, mistakes we repeat, efforts we sustain, and circumstances we endure. Astrology offers an easier explanation, but ease has never been the same as truth.

What unsettles me most about horoscopes is not merely their inaccuracy but their quiet effect on responsibility. When we say, “That’s just my sign,” we stop asking harder questions. Anger becomes inevitable. Indecision becomes excusable. Failure becomes prewritten. Growth ends where fate begins. Instead of reflecting on who we are becoming, we surrender that work to symbols that never answer for the damage they excuse.

Speaking now from my standpoint as an educator, a researcher, and a public safety and law enforcement analyst, this belief becomes even more troubling. I cannot help but ask: how credible are these predictions when, before our very eyes, we see public figures entangled in massive scandals—individuals whose horoscopes boldly declared that 2025 would be their lucky year? These same people are now facing arrest, prosecution, frozen bank accounts, and the very real possibility of imprisonment. Where is the “luck” in that? Where was the warning in their zodiac charts that accountability was coming, that power and money would no longer protect them, that the law would finally catch up?

In public safety and law enforcement, we do not deal in predictions—we deal in evidence, patterns, accountability, and consequences. Crime does not collapse because the stars shift; it collapses because investigations mature, paper trails surface, witnesses speak, and institutions move. No horoscope predicted asset freezes, arrest warrants, or court orders. No zodiac sign warned that years of concealed wrongdoing would finally be exposed. Reality unfolded not because of fate, but because systems worked, laws moved, and truth surfaced.

As a researcher, I look for patterns that can be tested and verified. Astrology offers none. As an educator, I worry about what we teach when we allow people—especially the young—to believe that success or failure is written in the stars rather than earned or lost through choices. And as someone in public safety, I know this much for certain: no one escapes accountability because of a lucky sign. The law does not recognize zodiac charts. Justice does not consult horoscopes.

Life, as we have learned repeatedly, does not consult birth charts. The pandemic did not care whether we were Leo or Libra. War does not ask for animal signs. Poverty, illness, love, and survival arrive without permission. What carried people through the darkest moments was not astrology, but humanity—science, sacrifice, discipline, compassion, and resilience.

And here, faith forces an even deeper question—one that cannot be avoided: will God allow zodiac signs and horoscopes to predict the fate of His believers? From a faith perspective, the answer is clear. No. God does not hand over human destiny to stars, planets, or symbols. To believe that zodiac signs can predict the fate of believers is to quietly transfer authority from the Creator to creation.

Faith assumes free will. Our lives unfold through choices, obedience, mistakes, repentance, mercy, and grace. If fate were fixed and readable through horoscopes, prayer would be meaningless, repentance unnecessary, and moral responsibility irrelevant. Faith is not about knowing what will happen tomorrow. It is about trusting God even when tomorrow is unknown.

Scripture has long warned against divination and fortune-telling—not because God fears competition, but because the moment we trust prediction more than God, we replace faith with control. Astrology promises certainty. Faith asks for surrender. These two paths cannot walk together.

As 2026 approaches, I choose reflection over fortune-telling. I choose responsibility over reassurance and faith over fate. The future is not written in stars or animal cycles. It is written—slowly, imperfectly, sometimes painfully—by how we live when no sign tells us what to do.

So before you share another post about “lucky signs” or “destined years,” pause for a moment. Remember 2020. Remember the scandals unfolding now, where those declared “fortunate” by horoscopes are facing jail cells and frozen accounts. Remember this simple truth: the law does not recognize zodiac signs, history does not follow horoscopes, and God does not surrender human destiny to the stars. Your future is not written in constellations or animal cycles—it is written in your choices, your integrity, and your courage to do what is right even when no sign tells you to. The stars may shine, but they do not decide. You do.

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*About the author:

Dr. Rodolfo “John” Ortiz Teope is a distinguished Filipino academic, public intellectual, and advocate for civic education and public safety, whose work spans local academies and international security circles. With a career rooted in teaching, research, policy, and public engagement, he bridges theory and practice by making meaningful contributions to academic discourse, civic education, and public policy. Dr. Teope is widely respected for his critical scholarship in education, management, economics, doctrine development, and public safety; his grassroots involvement in government and non-government organizations; his influential media presence promoting democratic values and civic consciousness; and his ethical leadership grounded in Filipino nationalism and public service. As a true public intellectual, he exemplifies how research, advocacy, governance, and education can work together in pursuit of the nation’s moral and civic mission.

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Your Destiny Is Created by What You Will Do Today, Not Tomorrow

*Dr. Rodolfo John Ortiz Teope, PhD, EdD, DM

We often dream of a better future—of a life filled with purpose, success, peace, and impact. Yet, many people postpone their progress, hoping that tomorrow will be the perfect day to begin. They wait for the ideal conditions, the right mood, or more time. But the truth is simple and undeniable: your destiny is not built on tomorrow’s intentions; it is created by today’s decisions.

Every day offers us a choice: to act or to delay, to move forward or to stand still. The future we desire will not magically arrive—it is shaped by the things we choose to do now. Whether it’s pursuing our education, starting a project, building our health, restoring relationships, or taking a moral stand—what we do today matters more than what we plan to do later.

Procrastination is the thief of opportunity. It deceives us into believing we have unlimited time, when in fact, time is the one resource we can never get back. What we delay today, we may never get the chance to do tomorrow. The road to regret is often paved with good intentions that were never acted upon.

This principle holds true in every area of life:

• In education, progress is made not on graduation day, but in the daily discipline of studying, reflecting, and striving to improve.

• In leadership, impact is not earned through titles, but through consistent actions—serving, inspiring, and doing what’s right, especially when it’s hard.

• In faith and personal growth, breakthroughs are not found in waiting for signs but in seeking truth, praying, and acting with conviction each day.

I have seen, in my own life and the lives of many I’ve mentored, that greatness is never accidental. It is the result of deliberate choices repeated over time. Even small steps taken with faith and courage can lead to transformation. One act of kindness. One hour of focus. One word of encouragement. These things may seem minor, but they can shift the entire course of your journey.

We must not let fear, doubt, or laziness steal our time. We must remember that today is a gift—a blank page on which we can write the story of our lives. If you want a better tomorrow, build it today. If you seek purpose, act with purpose now. If you desire change, start being the change now.

You do not need to have it all figured out. You just need to begin. The most successful people are not those who waited—they are those who took the first step even when they were unsure. And then they kept walking.

So don’t wait for tomorrow. Start today. Your destiny is not something you find—it’s something you create.

_____

*About the author:

Dr. Rodolfo “John” Ortiz Teope is a distinguished Filipino academic, public intellectual, and advocate for civic education and public safety, whose work spans local academies and international security circles. With a career rooted in teaching, research, policy, and public engagement, he bridges theory and practice by making meaningful contributions to academic discourse, civic education, and public policy. Dr. Teope is widely respected for his critical scholarship in education, management, economics, doctrine development, and public safety; his grassroots involvement in government and non-government organizations; his influential media presence promoting democratic values and civic consciousness; and his ethical leadership grounded in Filipino nationalism and public service. As a true public intellectual, he exemplifies how research, advocacy, governance, and education can work together in pursuit of the nation’s moral and civic mission.

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Benhur Abalos and the One-Year Ban: When the Law Makes the Nation Wait

*Dr. Rodolfo John Ortiz Teope, PhD, EdD, DM

Every election leaves behind more than winners and losers. When the campaign posters are torn down and the noise of politics finally fades, what remains is a quiet but unsettling question: did we truly choose the best people to lead us? I have found myself returning to this question often, especially when I reflect on the one-year election ban and how it affects individuals who may have lost at the polls but never lost their capacity—or willingness—to serve the country.

The one-year ban has a clear legal and moral rationale. It exists to prevent the abuse of public office, to draw a firm line between governance and politics, and to respect the outcome of elections. In theory, it protects democratic institutions. But in reality, it also creates an unintended consequence: it compels the nation to wait, even when the nation can no longer afford the luxury of time.

Not all who lose an election are rejected by the people. Sometimes, the loss is not a verdict on integrity or competence but a reflection of timing. The electorate may not yet be ready for certain ideas, reforms, or ways of thinking. And if we are to be brutally honest, Philippine elections are not always contests of merit. Many voters still choose based on popularity, political machinery, or name recall, while capable and principled candidates are left behind.

This is where the one-year ban on appointments of losing candidates in the recent elections becomes painfully ironic. Those who are most ready to work, to reform, and to confront corruption are forced to step aside—not because they are unfit, but because they dared to run and failed to win.

Secretary Benhur Abalos is one such case.

He did not prevail in the 2025 senatorial election, having not been endorsed by a big influential group. By the strict arithmetic of democracy, that is the end of the electoral story. But governance is not mathematics alone. It is about experience, resolve, and the courage to confront entrenched wrongdoing. Benhur Abalos has already shown, through his previous public service such as being mayor and congressman of Mandaluyong City, chairman of the Metro Manila Development Authority (MMDA), and secretary of the Department of Interior and Local Government (DILG), that he possesses these qualities. His electoral defeat did not erase his competence, nor did it diminish his readiness to serve.

Yet today, because of the one-year ban, he remains a private citizen.

I find this deeply troubling—not because elections should be disregarded, but because the country itself bears the cost of this enforced pause. At a time when corruption remains systemic, when institutions are strained, and when public trust is fragile, we are sidelining people who are willing to stand firm against abuse of power. The law does not distinguish between the unworthy and the capable. It is blunt, impartial, and, at times, indifferent to urgency.

One might argue that this is simply the price of the rule of law. Perhaps it is. But laws are not sacred simply because they exist; they must also be examined in light of their real-world consequences. When a rule designed to protect democracy ends up depriving the nation of effective leadership at a critical moment, then it deserves sober and honest reflection.

Benhur Abalos may not have been chosen by the electorate at that specific moment, but that does not mean the country no longer needs him. History teaches us that many leaders are rejected first—not because they are wrong, but because society is not yet ready for their kind of firmness, discipline, or reformist vision. Sometimes the people are not yet ready for a leader—but the nation already is.

And this is where the one-year ban begins to feel less like protection and more like punishment—not of the candidate, but of the country itself. At a time when corruption remains entrenched, when courage in public office is rare, and when integrity is often louder in defeat than in victory, we find ourselves forced to wait. Waiting not because there is no one willing to serve, but because the law tells us that service must be postponed.

Today, we badly need Benhur Abalos. We need leaders who have already shown the will to confront wrongdoing, to stand their ground, and to act without fear or favor. Yet he remains on the sidelines—not because he is unqualified, not because he is unworthy, but because he ran, lost, and must now wait.

So the question that lingers is not whether Benhur Abalos is ready to serve. The question is whether the country can afford to wait one more year before allowing someone like him to step forward.

And in the middle of corruption, uncertainty, and a nation yearning for real change, the most painful question of all remains unanswered:

We badly need Benhur Abalos now—but can we afford to keep waiting?

_____

*About the author:

Dr. Rodolfo “John” Ortiz Teope is a distinguished Filipino academic, public intellectual, and advocate for civic education and public safety, whose work spans local academies and international security circles. With a career rooted in teaching, research, policy, and public engagement, he bridges theory and practice by making meaningful contributions to academic discourse, civic education, and public policy. Dr. Teope is widely respected for his critical scholarship in education, management, economics, doctrine development, and public safety; his grassroots involvement in government and non-government organizations; his influential media presence promoting democratic values and civic consciousness; and his ethical leadership grounded in Filipino nationalism and public service. As a true public intellectual, he exemplifies how research, advocacy, governance, and education can work together in pursuit of the nation’s moral and civic mission.

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Borrowing Death, Losing Truth: Fake Death, Public Distrust, and the Stories We Tell Ourselves

*Dr. Rodolfo John Ortiz Teope, PhD, EdD, DM

My daughter Juliana and I recently sat together one evening, watching Gone Girl on DVD bought from Segunda Mana. It was not meant to be a lesson, just a quiet moment between a father and a child, the kind where the world pauses for a while. The film, released in 2014 and led by Ben Affleck and Rosamund Pike, unfolded slowly—too slowly, perhaps—until the truth became unbearable. A woman had staged her own death, and the world mourned her with sincerity, with outrage, and with certainty. What stayed with me was not the twist, but the ease with which death silenced doubt. Once people believed she was gone, questions felt almost immoral. To ask was to disturb the dead.

When the movie ended, my daughter was quiet. I was quieter. Because fiction, when it is honest, mirrors something we refuse to see in real life: that death, real or imagined, has the power to end not only life but also inquiry.

In criminology, there is a cold word for this: pseudocide. Fake death. It sounds clinical, almost harmless. But behind it lies a devastating truth. When someone pretends to die, it is not merely an escape from life; it is an escape from consequence. It is the most extreme way of saying, “I will not answer.” In our legal system, death extinguishes criminal liability. The case stops. The files are closed. The questions lose their teeth. And so, for those who fear accountability more than disappearance, death becomes tempting—not as an end, but as a shield.

Real-life fake deaths are rarely dramatic. They are quiet, almost respectful. No blood, no noise, sometimes no body. Just absence. Silence. And the hope that silence will be mistaken for truth. But silence is never empty. It is filled with things we choose not to pursue.

If there is such a thing as a fake death, then we must face a more painful realization: death can be used to free not only the one who disappears, but those who remain behind the curtain. When a key figure is declared dead—rightly or wrongly—cases weaken. Threads go cold. Witnesses hesitate. Beneficiaries breathe easier. The dead can no longer testify, no longer contradict, and no longer confess. In that moment, death becomes the perfect accomplice. It protects not just one person but an entire web of responsibility that suddenly has no center.

We have seen this pattern across borders. In the United Kingdom, John Darwin faked his death in 2002, disappearing into the sea while his family and the state mourned him. Insurance claims were paid. Life moved on. For years, the lie held. Until it didn’t. When the truth surfaced, the punishment was heavier than anything he had tried to escape. His fake death did not free him—it branded him. It taught the world that lies age poorly, and death borrowed too long always demands interest.

In the United States, Nicholas Rossi was believed dead, memorialized online, and erased from pursuit. But he resurfaced, very much alive, still running from serious accusations. His supposed death did not save him. It exposed him. The lie about death became proof of guilt, not innocence. Across continents, the story repeats: fake death delays justice, but it also sharpens it.

Closer to home, the case of Mary Ann Maslog reminds us that the same darkness exists here. Facing trial for the DepEd textbook scam, she vanished. Whispers of death circulated. Had they been true, the case would have died quietly. But she was alive—hiding, assuming names, and evading responsibility. Her borrowed death did not protect her. It condemned her further. The law waited. And when it caught up, it did not forget.

Yet what unsettles me most is not the act of fake death itself, but what grows around real deaths. In our country, conspiracy theories bloom easily after the passing of powerful figures. Not always because there is evidence—but because there is exhaustion. A deep, collective fatigue from scandals that fade, cases that stall, and truths that never fully surface. When people stop believing that justice survives power, even death becomes suspicious.

This was the quiet storm that followed the death of DPWH Undersecretary Maria Catalina Cabral. Some whispered. Some speculated. Some asked questions that had no answers. Let me say this with care and fairness: there is no judicial finding, no verified evidence, and no official determination that her death was faked or manipulated. None. And still, doubt lingered. Not because of her alone—but because of where she worked and what that institution represents in the public imagination.

The Department of Public Works and Highways carries a heavy shadow. Massive budgets. Visible failures. And, more recently, public anger fueled by the flood control scandal—projects meant to protect communities, yet often remembered only when the floods return. In that context, death is no longer just grief. It becomes a question mark. People ask who benefits, not out of malice, but out of learned disappointment.

This is not an accusation against the dead. It is a confession about the living. About how little trust remains. About how easily we slip from demanding accountability to accepting disappearance.

Legally, the truth is simple. Rumors do not matter. Speculation has no weight. Death must be proven. If death is real, the law moves on. If death is false, the law strikes harder. Courts are patient. They wait longer than public outrage ever will.

But society is not a court. Society remembers differently. It grows tired. It learns to live with unanswered questions. And that is the most dangerous outcome of all.

As my daughter and I turned off the DVD player that night, I felt a quiet fear—not of fake deaths, but of forgotten truths. Of a future where we stop asking not because we are satisfied, but because we are weary. Where death, real or imagined, becomes a convenient ending to stories that should never have ended that way.

Movies fade to black. Real life does not. In real life, unanswered questions accumulate like unclaimed bodies of truth. And if we ever reach the point where death—any death—automatically ends our demand for justice, then the greatest loss will not be the person we buried, but the truth we chose not to pursue.

Because when that happens, death no longer marks the end of life.

It marks the end of courage.

___

*About the author:

Dr. Rodolfo “John” Ortiz Teope is a distinguished Filipino academic, public intellectual, and advocate for civic education and public safety, whose work spans local academies and international security circles. With a career rooted in teaching, research, policy, and public engagement, he bridges theory and practice by making meaningful contributions to academic discourse, civic education, and public policy. Dr. Teope is widely respected for his critical scholarship in education, management, economics, doctrine development, and public safety; his grassroots involvement in government and non-government organizations; his influential media presence promoting democratic values and civic consciousness; and his ethical leadership grounded in Filipino nationalism and public service. As a true public intellectual, he exemplifies how research, advocacy, governance, and education can work together in pursuit of the nation’s moral and civic mission.

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