Wesley Dela Cruz

I'm sitting here about to hit publish and I'm getting that cringe feeling again. You know that feeling where you want to close your laptop and pretend you never tried this whole writing thing? Like, what if what I'm writing is nonsensical? What if I'm wasting people's time?

But I'm trying to push through it because I think this is the only way I'll get better.

I've always been really bad at writing. Like, really bad. I don't know if I was lazy in high school or didn't really have the chance to learn it properly, but when I got to college I felt the struggle so much more. I was surrounded by all these people who were really good at writing, especially my Xavier School friends. These guys would pump out essays and I'm thinking how do they make this look so easy?

I remember this one time we had to write this literary essay about a movie we watched. Some kind of reaction thing. I'm sitting there trying to write the first paragraph and I'm having such a hard time. Like, I can't even get started.

Then my classmate who's from Xavier sees me struggling. He walks up to my laptop and starts typing. I'm watching him pump out words like ChatGPT before ChatGPT even existed. Making all these connections and writing stuff that actually makes sense. I'm thinking, this is crazy. How does he know how to do this?

That's when I really knew I was behind.

So anyway, when I took my college entrance exam, I wrote maybe two paragraphs of complete nonsense for the essay part. I knew it was bad while I was writing it. Like, I knew. So when I passed the exam but got assigned to Basic English, I wasn't really surprised. I mean, where everyone goes is regular English, and there's a Merit English. This is where you go if the university thinks you need a little bit more help.

But here's the thing - on the first day of Basic English, they gave us another exam to make sure we were really meant for that class. The exam was to write an essay. If you wrote something good and passed, it would be your ticket back to regular English class.

I wrote about my dad being my favorite superhero.

I picked that topic because it was really personal to me and I had a lot of emotions around it. I guess I figured if I was going to fail, at least I'd write about something I actually cared about. Something I enjoyed writing about.

A week later, I found out I passed and got moved back to regular English. That essay was my ticket out.

But I think I've been insecure about writing ever since then. Like, throughout college, I would always pair myself with people who were good at writing for group projects. I'd handle other stuff while they did the writing parts. It worked, but I always felt like I was hiding from it.

So now here I am trying to do this blog thing and I'm getting that cringe feeling all over again. I don't know what it is, but I feel like what I'm trying to do is really document thoughts that I would say to a friend if we were catching up. I'm not trying to write these things to impress anyone. I want it to be public practice of me trying to get better at putting my thoughts together.

What I'm trying to overcome is this cringe phase where I think if I do it more often and don't overthink it and keep publishing, I'll get through it eventually.

But here's what's been surprising - I've gotten some really encouraging feedback from my first few posts. The ones that meant the most to me were friends I haven't talked to in years reaching out or people I've worked with in the past just connecting again. It's like this scalable way to catch up with friends without having to actually schedule dates with everyone.

I think what makes me cringe is questioning whether my thoughts mean anything or are helpful to anyone. Like, I don't want to write something that people spend time reading and then it's not worth their time. I respect people's time and I don't want to waste it.

But I guess the feedback I've been getting shows me that maybe the personal stuff, the stuff that feels vulnerable, that's actually what connects with people. Kind of like how I wrote about my dad for my Basic English essay.

I think another reason I'm doing this is because I'm trying to build up this wealth of memories. Like, life for me is about preserving as much memory and life experiences as I can. Writing them down feels like such a fun and meaningful way to do that.

So if you're reading this and we haven't caught up in years, this is kind of my way of letting you know what I've been thinking about. And if you want to help me keep going with this, you could message me and ask me about any area of my life. That kind of prompt would really help me a lot.

I'm still getting that cringe feeling when I hover over publish. But I think maybe that feeling just means I'm doing something that actually matters to me, even when I'm not sure I'm any good at it yet. So I'm going to keep hitting publish and see where this goes.

So I'm sitting in this meeting, watching our new UX designer present to the head of product, and I'm just... quiet. Not because I don't have opinions, but because I can already see what's happening.

It wasn't a disaster or anything. He didn't bomb it. But I'm listening to him go through the exact same stuff we talked about yesterday, like word for word, without any of the changes we agreed on. And then our head of product starts giving him feedback - the same feedback I literally gave him 24 hours ago.

I'm just sitting there thinking, did he not hear me yesterday? Or did he hear me and just... ignore it? It was like watching someone get the same correction twice and pretending the first time never happened.

The thing is, just three days before this, I was actually excited about hiring this guy. Senior designer, solid portfolio, worked with US teams before so he knew how to do remote work. During his interview, he walked us through real projects he'd done, not just made-up test cases. That matters when you're hiring someone to actually lead design.

I'd spent hours onboarding him myself. Showed him our whole workflow - how we prototype with AI first instead of sketching everything out. Went through every design problem we needed to solve. Explained the business case behind our next release. I'm pretty thorough with this stuff, and I can usually tell when someone's not following along.

But over those first few days, nothing was happening. He'd sit in our meetings, nod along, seem engaged. Then the next day, nothing. No progress on what we talked about. No questions if he was stuck. Just... nothing.

Today's presentation proved it. The prototype he showed was identical to what he had yesterday, before I gave him all that feedback. Identical.

So when the meeting ends, I'm thinking, okay, what do I do here? Do I pretend this is normal? Send a polite follow-up email with "suggestions"?

Look, I've been working with Americans for a year now, and they just say what they mean. No dancing around it. But calling someone right after a disappointing meeting still felt risky.

I called him anyway.

I wasn't yelling or anything. But I also wasn't trying to be nice about it. "I wanted you to do well in that meeting. You didn't come prepared, and I'm disappointed because that was your chance to build trust with our head of product."

I told him we hired him with high expectations. "Not to put pressure on you, but because we think you can actually deliver. I know you can do better than what I just saw, and I need to understand what's going wrong here."

Then I pointed out the obvious thing: "The prototype you just presented was exactly the same as yesterday's version. We spent an hour going through feedback and agreeing on next steps. What happened?"

He apologized. Said he just wasn't able to follow through. No excuses, no blaming the tools or the timeline or anything. Just took it.

"Look, I'm giving you another shot tomorrow," I said. "But I want you to see me as someone working with you, not someone who has to babysit your work. I think that's where you'd do your best work anyway. Would you agree?"

He did.

Today I watched him present to the CEO. Completely different person. Prepared, confident, actually addressing the problems we'd talked about. Everyone in the room could feel it. You could see him earning trust in real time.

Here's the weird part - I'm not even proud that I was right to hire him. That's not what feels good about this. It's watching someone take feedback seriously and actually do something with it. Like, immediately. Most people get defensive or make promises they don't keep. He just... did the work.

I think the Americans taught me something about feedback that I didn't expect. When you keep your emotions out of it and just focus on what needs to change, people can actually hear you. I wasn't mad at him as a person. I was just pointing out what wasn't working.

This is just his first week, so who knows what happens next. But that moment when I decided to be direct instead of polite? That created space for him to actually grow. Sometimes the most helpful thing you can do is tell someone exactly where they stand and what needs to change.

The satisfaction isn't in being right about the hire. It's in watching someone realize they can do more than they thought they could.

There was a time when I thought the goal was to find a dream job. I remember that moment clearly when I joined PayMongo and felt like I had finally broken into the tech world. It was remote, exciting, and filled with driven people. I was using a MacBook instead of a Lenovo ThinkPad, and that detail stuck with me. I don't know why, but that small shift felt like proof that I had made it somewhere. I was surrounded by like-minded people who wanted to grow, and it didn't feel lonely.

After my 9-to-5, I'd jump straight into a software engineering bootcamp. At night, I'd study stock trading. I was helping out with a side project where the PayMongo co-founders were investing in startups, and I'd contribute however I could. I didn't make any money from it. I was doing it because I wanted to learn, help, build, contribute, and somehow be admired. Be useful. Part of me wanted to be someone others in the startup community could look up to. That desire was real.

The peak of that era was when I co-founded a Web3 startup and we raised several million dollars in venture funding. We had a nice office at WeWork. I had the co-founder title. I worked with smart, talented people. And yet I couldn't figure out what we were actually trying to build. I wanted to care, but I couldn't find the deeper meaning in the day-to-day. I was more excited about the idea of being a co-founder than I was about the problem we were solving. I kept trying to think deeply about the work, but it was hard when the work didn't really speak to me. It felt like I was going through the motions, doing things that sounded impressive but didn't feel grounded.

What came next were three years that changed everything. I was 25 when I left that Web3 job, and those years until I turned 28 were some of the most challenging and rewarding of my life. I started a couple of export businesses, distributing products from the Philippines to the US. I tried to build an NFT project, a Web3 community that I had no idea how to run. I found myself working with another Web3 company along the way. 

Along the way, I caught up with Leandre, who was my batchmate in Ateneo. We tried to experiment with a bunch of different things. Too many to mention. But one example, just to share how crazy we were, was using satellite imagery to predict rice crop yield. Because of this, he became such a huge part of my journey and has helped me a lot in growing to the kind of person that I am now.

But here's the thing about those three years: most of these things didn't succeed in the way I wanted them to. They didn't get me the financial rewards I expected. I kept trying and trying, and for a time, several times actually, I felt like quitting. I felt like an utter failure. Several times, I was ready to give up. I struggled so much during this period. I was figuring things out on my own, freelancing, trying different ideas, surrounding myself with people who were also on their own journey of growing. I felt like I was finally becoming an adult, but it came with watching my parents age while I was learning who I actually was, not who I thought I should be. The struggles were real, but so was the growth.

Then, in the last year of those three years, something shifted. I was able to find a good paying job at a tech company in the US. I also set up a small business that became profitable. After years of experimenting, I finally had a taste of things actually working. It was humbling. The relief was real. I learned so much from these two experiences, and after going through all of that, I realized something important.

I used to struggle with the idea of being discontent because I thought that meant I wasn't grateful. I thought it was wrong to want more when I already had good things. But I've learned that discontent and gratitude can exist together. For me to continue being ambitious, I need to couple it with being grounded. That's what allows me to still be in pursuit of growth while also taking time to walk with my dogs, spend unhurried time with friends, appreciate moments with family, and eat good food without rushing.

Now I don't operate that small business anymore, so I have more free time. I just have my day job, which is in the US time zone, which means after the morning, I have the rest of the day to do other things. My current ambition is pursuing things I want to learn: languages, software engineering, spending time with family and friends, watching movies, even bonding with my partner by watching PBB together. These are the things that matter to me now.

I'd still say I have a dream job today, not because of its prestige, but because of the life it allows me to live. I'm still ambitious, but I'm also grounded. I'm not chasing a title or trying to impress anyone. My ambition now is to continue increasing the time I get to spend with people I love and make that time as meaningful and mindful as possible. It doesn't need to be loud. It just needs to be mine.

Two weeks ago, my high school friend who runs an ice cream store asked if I knew any good inventory management apps. He didn't want the usual platforms, and honestly, I couldn't find anything decent either. My first instinct was to just recommend whatever was out there. But then I slept on it, and something wouldn't let it go.

"I'll just build it myself"

I wrestled with this crazy idea of building it myself. I'd tried learning to code before through a bootcamp and didn't really get it. I wasn't confident. My mind immediately went to all the time I'd need to spend just learning the basics, breaking everything down into tiny pieces. It felt overwhelming.

But then something clicked. When I looked back at everything I'd pushed myself to learn (piano, Japanese, other skills) I always had to start from somewhere. What made the difference was having a clear goal, an intended outcome that motivated me. My friend was willing to pay me a few thousand pesos for this solution. But honestly, even if it took me forever, I was willing to do it. This was my chance to learn, help a friend, and actually practice building something real.

Learning in real time

The hardest part wasn't the coding itself, it was figuring out where to start. Most of my work was research, watching YouTube tutorials and consulting friends who are software engineers like Seaver. I took it step by step, one piece of the puzzle at a time. What surprised me most was how fast I could learn when I had focused, undistracted time to work on projects and really dive in. Having dedicated time to step back and not think about it was equally important. When I'd return, everything felt clearer.

But it wasn't all smooth sailing. There were definitely overwhelming moments. I'd hit bugs I couldn't fix and want to give up completely. I sacrificed sleep, weekends, my after-work hours, me-time. My fiancée was incredible through all of this. When I told her what I was working on, she got excited and supported me the whole way.

I was building something to solve a real problem. My friend's store was doing everything with pen and paper (tracking inventory, deliveries, spotting discrepancies and theft). There was no way to catch problems quickly. So I built them a complete system: user login, daily inventory logging, delivery tracking, discrepancy detection, sales reporting. Now they can spot issues almost instantly.

Demo day

Then came the moment I knew it was working. I deployed it to its own website and demonstrated it to my friend. He could log in, use all the functionalities we'd talked about. The look on his face... wow. I was exhilarated. He even commented on the design, said he was impressed.

That's when it hit me: I actually built this. From nothing to something that solves a real problem.

Something unlocked

I feel completely different now. Empowered. More confident. It's like I unlocked something I didn't know was possible. Programming always seemed incredibly difficult (I'd tried multiple times before and hit that wall). But breaking through that limiting belief changed how I approach learning everything now.

I've never felt so alive building something that actually matters. This isn't about becoming an employed software engineer, it's about building software for businesses, marrying my business background with technical skills to solve real problems.

The path forward

I'm scared because this path feels unfamiliar. But what excites me most is that I'm at the cusp of creating things. I love the process of building. Success looks like generating $5,000 a month in revenue in the short term. That's what I'm going for.

This feels like the beginning of something big. I want to keep practicing, keep building, turn this from a weekend project into something real. There are so many small businesses wanting to digitize their operations, and I think I found where I fit.

Thanks for letting me share this moment with you. It means everything to have people who understand why this matters. If you know any small businesses still doing things manually, send them my way. I'm just getting started.

P.S. The best part? I can't believe I almost didn't try.

Last Saturday, after clay shooting, a friend and I shared a car ride home.
He told me his mom is ill.
He said, "If you think of my time as 100%, a huge chunk already belongs to taking care of my mom."
The time left for himself was small.
He chooses carefully how he spends it.
He does not waste it.

It stayed with me.

I used to fill my days with sixteen hours of work.
I worked through weekends.
I thought it was something to be proud of.
I wore it like a badge.
I thought using time meant squeezing everything out of it.

Now, I want to live differently.
I want to be choiceful too, even if I am not forced to be yet.

My parents are in their seventies.
I see it in the way they move.
I hear it in the way they ask for small things.

I have been craving more time with them.
Sometimes it looks like buying medicines and making sure they follow their prescription schedule.
Sometimes it is listening to my dad tell the same story for the fiftieth time, and answering with the same curiosity as if I am hearing it for the first time.
Sometimes it is driving my dad all the way to Cavite on a Sunday afternoon, to visit the wake of a relative he loved.
Sometimes it is teaching my mom how to switch her K-dramas to Tagalog dub, so she can laugh and cry without reading subtitles.
Sometimes it is sending load through GCash so they have data when they leave the house.
Sometimes it is ordering a charger they need, or buying something random for them on Shopee.
Sometimes it is a simple prayer whispered over the phone when one of them says they have a headache.

The moments are not grand.
They are small, easy to miss.
But they are the ones I want to remember.

My favorite has been the prayers.
I call just to pray for them.
Sometimes they cry tears of joy.
I never knew how much these small things would mean to me.

I do not know how many afternoons I have left with them.
I do not know how many more times I can pray for them and hear their voices.
I do not know how many more times I can hear them laugh.
I do not know how many more small things I will get the chance to give.
But I know it will never be enough.

Two years ago, my older brother told me about Anthony Edwards.

He’s been a die-hard NBA fan since the Jordan era. Grew up with Allen Iverson posters on the wall. These days, he’s a church pastor who still trades basketball cards like a kid. Ant Man is his latest obsession. He even has a shelf at home where Ant’s cards sit like trophies.

When I visited him in Canada, he showed me the collection.

I didn’t know much about Anthony Edwards back then. But the way my brother talked about him made me curious.

I started watching interviews. Highlights. Sometimes a live game when I could. But mostly the interviews. The way Ant carried himself stuck with me.

He spoke with the kind of confidence that could easily sound cocky if you missed the heart underneath. He respected the game. He respected people. He just never once doubted who he was.

At the time, I wasn’t feeling great about myself. I didn’t realize it, but I needed someone like him.

When Ant faced Kevin Durant in the playoffs, someone he looked up to and idolized, he didn’t flinch. He played like he belonged. Watching that gave me something I didn’t know I was missing.

I don’t play basketball. But Ant taught me something real. You can admire the greats, and still become one yourself.

You just have to believe it first.

Hey, you know what I was thinking about the other day? Bullying.

I got bullied pretty bad in 7th grade. It wasn't some "character-building" experience like people claim. It actually held me back for years.

Picture this: I'm just being me, trying hard in school, when suddenly this group of jocks starts targeting me. For what? Being the nerd teachers liked. That was my crime.

It got so bad I ended up standing in a circle of them one day, actually apologizing—and I didn't even know what for. I just wanted it to stop.

That changed me. I stopped trying so hard after that. I dimmed my light. Just did enough to stay under the radar.

What brought this all back was watching Pinoy Big Brother recently. This contestant, Mika Salamanca, got ranked lowest for "authenticity" because people were spreading opinions about her behind her back. She had no idea until she got hit with the aftermath.

That's actually the worst kind of bullying, you know? Not the obvious stuff. It's when someone builds a case against you without your knowledge. When the room suddenly turns cold and you don't know why.

It's everywhere now—cancel culture, call-outs, digital pile-ons. People don't even recognize it as bullying. They call it "sharing opinions." But when those opinions are meant to isolate someone? That's harm, plain and simple.

I can't bring myself to cancel anyone because, honestly, I know how flawed I am. It reminds me of that story about Jesus and the woman they wanted to stone. "Let he who is without sin cast the first stone." Nobody threw one.

If you're being bullied right now, I want you to know: I believe in you. In your right to take space. In your capacity to grow.

What impressed me most about Mika was her grace. No cursing, no hateful response. Just dignity.

And if that's you—responding with dignity when others try to tear you down—I'm rooting for you. Even when it feels like the world's against you, at least one person is cheering you on.

Because you deserve that. You really do.

You won't believe what happened on my birthday this year.

So my 28th just passed, and I planned this super casual lunch with my two closest friends. Guess what? Both called in sick. On my actual birthday!

But here's the weird thing - I wasn't even upset. Actually found it kind of funny.

It took me back to when I turned 13. That was a whole different story.

I was SO pumped about finally being a teenager. Dad went all out - rented tables, chairs, even hired caterers. I sent all these invites, waited all day... and nobody showed. Just my niece and nephew eventually came by, no clue they were walking into an empty party.

That one hurt. Bad.

For years after, birthdays became this weird test. Would people show up? Did they even care? I'd downplay everything, telling myself "it's not about the party" while secretly hoping someone would prove me wrong.

Fast forward 15 years to this latest birthday. Same situation, totally different feeling.

The big difference? I finally get it:

Real friendship isn't about attendance - it's about intention.

Those two friends who couldn't make it? I know they love me. Their absence wasn't rejection - just life happening.

Maybe that's what all those empty tables were teaching me. How to sit comfortably with myself. How to be my own best friend.

Like Whitney Houston said (my kindergarten principal used to sing this before class, no joke): "Learning to love yourself is the greatest love of all."

Honestly? That's been the best birthday gift.

So I had this weird realization the other day that I wanted to share with you...

I've actually started enjoying being the dumbest person in the room. Seriously!

Remember that house dance class I mentioned I was going to try? I went, and it was exactly as awkward as you'd expect. I was completely lost - wrong moves, wrong timing, basically a walking disaster compared to everyone else.

But here's the thing - instead of getting embarrassed and leaving, I stayed. And I kind of loved it.

It reminded me of when I started learning piano last year. I was determined to play that Chopin nocturne, even though my fingers felt like wooden sticks. I practiced an hour every day for six months straight. Sounded like a cat walking across keys at first! But eventually, something clicked. I wasn't just hitting notes - I was actually making music.

The secret? Just push through the part where you suck. That's it.

I did the same thing at this Japanese language meetup last week. First half was in English - easy. Second half switched to Japanese and I was DROWNING. But instead of checking out mentally, I leaned in. Paid attention to exactly what I didn't understand. Tried speaking anyway, even when I knew I'd mess up.

By the end of the night, I'd connected with a tutor and had a clear map of what I needed to learn next.

That's when it hit me: Being the dumbest person in the room isn't humiliating - it's exactly where growth happens.

I'm doing this with everything now. Even listening to scientists discuss quantum physics and consciousness when I barely understand half the terms.

The trick is just to stay. Don't retreat when you feel stupid. Enjoy that discomfort.

Because every single time I've done that, I've come out speaking a new language - whether it's piano notes, dance moves, Japanese phrases, or simply understanding something that used to be completely over my head.

Kind of addictive once you get past the initial awkwardness, you know?