It all began with hesitation—an almost laughable reluctance
to step out of my comfort zone. Looking back, it wasn’t because I lacked the
passion or the purpose, but because I knew how heavy the responsibility would
be once I truly committed myself to something bigger than my dreams.
Commitment, after all, comes with sacrifice. And to a young man still
discovering what he could offer the world, sacrifice was a concept I admired
from a distance but feared up close.
I came from humble beginnings, in a place where success
wasn’t promised, only imagined. Persistence, not privilege, paved the roads I walked on. While others may have been born with wealth, I was born with the resilience to survive and the dreams my parents cherished. Education became my escape, then my mission, and later,
my calling.
And so, I worked harder than most. I took up multiple
degrees not to chase prestige, but because every course taught me how to think,
how to feel, how to empathize, and most importantly, how to serve. I didn’t
study to become intelligent—I studied to become useful. Each diploma became not
a badge of honor but a tool in my belt, a resource I could one day use to make
sense of systems, to help people who feel forgotten, and to break barriers for
those who had no voice.
I remember being asked once, “Why do you need so many
degrees? Isn’t one enough?” That question made me smile—not out of pride, but
out of pain. Because it was never about how many titles I could collect. It was
about how many lives I could change. Each course I took allowed me to better
understand the complexities of this world—from leadership and organizational
development to educational management, and from law enforcement strategies to
environmental studies. The more I learned, the more I realized how much I
didn’t know—and that kept me grounded.
But it wasn’t all academic. The street taught me just as
much as the university. Public service introduced me to realities that no
textbook could ever teach. Poverty with a name. Injustice with a face.
Corruption doesn’t just steal money—it steals hope. I served in government
not for the power, but because I believed leadership is about stewardship. And
if I could help make policies that would outlast my own tenure, then I knew I
was doing something right.
Hosting public affairs shows, sitting as a consultant,
participating in youth councils, and writing essays that sparked
conversation—these were not merely tasks but extensions of my advocacy. I’ve
always believed that media, when used with integrity, can be a mirror for
society and a lamp for the future. We do not just speak into microphones—we
speak into the conscience of the nation.
Yet for all the positions, awards, and recognitions, it is
the quiet moments that define me most. Those late nights writing modules for
young scholars. Those heart-to-heart talks with my students who needed more
than a professor—they needed a mentor. Those outreach programs where a small
sack of rice meant a whole week of relief for a family. That is where real
fulfillment resides. Not in the applause, but in the impact.
My advocacy for education reform, environmental stewardship,
and youth empowerment didn’t come from a place of theory—it came from lived
experience. I have seen how a scholarship can change a life. I have seen how
clean water can transform a barangay. I have seen how mentoring a young leader
can eventually change a city. These things take time, but they are worth every
ounce of effort.
Faith has also been a guiding force. I believe in divine
timing, in the wisdom of trials, and in the mysterious way God uses brokenness
to build beauty. There were moments in my life when I was crushed—not publicly,
but internally. When the weight of expectations felt unbearable. But each
breaking point became a breakthrough. Each failure, a formation.
Even now, as I continue to wear many hats—as a professor, a
media personality, a political analyst, and a civic leader—I do so not to impress,
but to serve. I still get tired. I still question if I’m doing enough. But I am
no longer afraid of the burden. Because I have seen how responsibility, when
embraced with grace, becomes a gift.
What I hope people see in my journey is not a life of
perfection, but a life of purpose. Not a man who had all the answers, but a man
who never stopped asking the right questions. And most of all, not someone who
wanted to be known, but someone who wanted to make a difference.
To the youth reading this: Your story is still unfolding.
You do not have to start strong—just start with sincerity. You don’t have to be
fearless—just be faithful. Life will surprise you. It will give you platforms
you never imagined, responsibilities you never thought you could carry, and
miracles in the midst of your most uncertain days.
To my colleagues and fellow Filipinos: We are all stewards
of this country’s future. Whether we serve in the halls of academia, the
corridors of power, or the trenches of social work—we must lead with truth,
think with clarity, and act with compassion. Our titles may vary, but our
calling is one: to build a nation worthy of our children’s dreams.
I have made significant progress since I was a reluctant boy, uncertain of my own worth. And while I still stumble and learn, I now walk with resolve. This is because I understand that every struggle carries a lesson, every victory carries a cost, and every life, no matter how ordinary, can transform into something extraordinary when it is lived with grit, grace, and gratitude.