Random Thoughts

Almost eleven years ago, I was a little anxious for several days waiting to see the results of the entrance examination, but because I saw my brother, Edris—who was also going to study at the Polytechnic University of the Philippines, Sta. Mesa for a Bachelor of Arts in English—calm the entire time, simply playing computer games and doing graphic design on his computer; I felt a sense of relief at the time too.

I browsed through condominiums on free classified listings websites even though, looking back now, the neighborhood—even the entire Sta. Mesa—has always been uncharted territory or waters for me and my family. After word got out through local newspapers that my brother and I had passed the entrance exam, my mother eventually took me with her to visit the condominium she decided to rent for P15,000.00 per month, including utilities and other expenses, for me and my siblings so that my brother and I wouldn’t be inconvenienced by the commute from our home in Commonwealth in Quezon City to the university in Sta. Mesa. It was also so that my now late sister, Tintin, could spend a lot of time with us, her younger siblings, and guide us in life too—because the academics part already came naturally for me and my brother.

Eventually, the school year started. My mother would always remind me that the only reason she agreed to let me study in a government university was so that I could eventually transfer to the University of the Philippines Diliman. And eventually, after a year, I was accepted to the University of the Philippines Diliman with a GWA of 1.25 for their Communication Research program. However, my mother encouraged me to continue Broadcast Communication instead in a private university. There were no more slots for the same program at UP Diliman at that time.

After getting out of school, I kept on studying informally, traveling, and sometimes, working. I was 15 when I graduated from the old curriculum for high school in the country—or, in simple language, before the K-12 was applied in the entire country. I was 17 when I entered the university. I’m 28 a few months from now, and from the young 4th year high school student who spent a lot of time in the library browsing the catalogues there to borrow and return books, to the first-year university student who hung out at secondhand bookstores to buy books, to the self-studying young professional in her early twenties who often sought refuge in books to cope and thrive in life, I am now a book author of My Journey.

I even once passed by an old church in Sta. Mesa and saw a man sitting outside, lost in the quiet stillness of his own world. It was around the time I was trying to be kinder—trying, in some small way, to become a better version of myself. I wanted to do something meaningful, something that felt sincere. And in my youthful logic, I thought, the more expensive, the more sincere. The thought makes me smile now.

So I gave him a brand-new Casio watch, one that I had bought for myself. It felt like a proper gift, something that had value, something he could use. Looking back, I don’t know if it was the watch that mattered or the simple fact that, in that moment, he was seen.

Not long after, I met a driver and his children, their hands outstretched, asking for alms on the streets of that same neighborhood. I had an expensive bomber jacket from Zalora, a jacket my late sister once asked for but never got the chance to wear. She had recently passed, and I couldn’t bear the thought of keeping it anymore. So I gave it away in her name, in her memory. In Islam, acts of kindness done on behalf of a loved one who has passed become an ongoing charity for them. And if a simple jacket could carry love beyond this life, then I wanted it to.

I brought the children into Jollibee and asked them what they wanted. They hesitated, uncertain, so I chose for them—making sure they left with full stomachs and warm food. I bought them lechon manok, too, because I wanted them to have something more, something extra, something that maybe, just maybe, would make them feel special, even if only for one meal.

There was an old woman I often saw in that neighborhood, a woman who always wanted to talk, always eager to share pieces of her life with anyone who would listen. She once told me her story—how she had been left alone in Manila, with no one to turn to, her children far away in Cebu. She had no one left, nothing certain to hold on to. So I gave her what I could—a liter of water and my attention. Because sometimes, the only thing a person truly needs is for someone to listen.

I have given coins to children, food to strangers, and carbonara to those sleeping on the streets. Not because I think I have much to give but because I never want anyone to believe the world has forgotten them.

I wish I could say that for all my dedication, I have become a billionaire or even a millionaire. But what I have is far greater: I have a loving family, I have Allah, and I have many cats who love me unconditionally. And I’ve been told I have a great sense of humor, though I’m trying to be modest about it.

In the end, kindness is never about wealth or status. It is about the quiet moments, the unseen gestures, the choice to give when no one is watching. It is about reminding someone—even if just for a moment—that they are still worthy of love.