Wesley Dela Cruz

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?

A person very dear to me once told me that morality could be summed up in one simple rule: “Just don’t be an asshole.” At first, I nodded along, because—yeah, fair enough. If everyone just followed that, life would be a lot smoother. It’s an easy moral guideline, clean and concise, something you can carry in your pocket and pull out in any situation.

But the more I thought about it, the more it started to unravel.

What happens when your decisions don’t just affect a few people, but hundreds, thousands, or even millions? What if you’re in a position where every choice has cascading effects, creating ripples you can’t even predict? The problem with “just don’t be an asshole” is that it assumes morality is about avoiding harm rather than actively pursuing good. And in high-stakes situations, in leadership, in influence, in shaping the world—avoidance is not enough.

I think about that psychological experiment—one of many, really—where you tell kids not to do something, and suddenly, their impulse to do it skyrockets. There’s something inherently flawed about moral frameworks that are framed in the negative, in what not to do, instead of what to pursue. A morality that is passive—designed to avoid the bad—will always be weaker than a morality that is active, one that pushes you to seek, to learn, to engage with the world in a meaningful way.

And that’s where the real work comes in.

The Constant Pursuit of Understanding

If you’re serious about morality, you can’t just pick a single principle and let it sit there like an idle compass. You have to test it, refine it, challenge it—because morality is not a fixed point. It’s a lifelong pursuit.

That means studying religions, not just one, but many—seeing how different cultures and philosophies have tackled the questions of good and evil. It means diving into history, philosophy, psychology, not because you need to agree with everything, but because the broader your lens, the sharper your judgment. You can’t navigate the complexity of moral decision-making with a single, rigid framework. You need depth, nuance, and range—a kind of intellectual flexibility that allows you to see the full spectrum of ethical thought.

This is especially true for anyone who aspires to wield influence. The bigger the stage, the greater the weight of your moral calculus. The decisions of an ordinary person can afford to be simple. The decisions of a leader cannot.

The Two Moral Rules: Proactive vs. Passive

And then there’s the contrast between the two “Golden Rules” of morality—the ones attributed to Jesus and Confucius:

1. Jesus: “Do unto others as you would have them do unto you.”
2. Confucius: “Do not do unto others what you would not want done to you.”

The difference is subtle but profound. One is proactive. The other is protective. One pushes you to create good, while the other tells you to avoid causing harm. Neither is superior; they are tools for different seasons, different dilemmas.

But I find myself drawn to a morality that balances both—one that actively seeks to make things better, rather than just sidestepping wrongdoing. Because life is not a series of moral landmines you have to avoid stepping on. It’s a field you have to learn to cultivate.

A Morality That Prepares You for Influence

At the end of the day, morality—at least the kind that matters in the long run—can’t just be about not being an asshole. That’s the baseline, the starting point. The real work is in constantly refining your understanding, exposing yourself to new perspectives, and developing a moral framework that is adaptive, thoughtful, and proactive.

Because when the time comes, and you find yourself in a position where your choices shape the lives of many—you’ll realize that “don’t be an asshole” is simply not enough. You’ll need something deeper, something sharper. And the only way to prepare for that moment is to start building it now.

There are moments in life when you don’t just exist—you live. This morning was one of them.

I woke up in a space that was quiet, entirely my own. No obligations, no expectations. Just me, the morning light, and the kind of sound system that deserved to be used at full volume. So, I did.

Bruno Mars, Michael Bublé, the Bee Gees—I let them in, filling the space with rhythm, nostalgia, and the kind of joy that shakes something loose inside you. And then, without hesitation, I danced.

I danced like the main character in a Disney movie opening scene. I danced like my life had just begun. And maybe, in some ways, it had.

For so long, life has been measured in decisions, responsibilities, and the next steps. Today, it was measured in movement, in breath, in the feeling of my body keeping time with something greater than myself. It wasn’t just happiness—it was something deeper. A reclamation. A reminder. A realization that no matter what has happened, no matter what will happen, I am here. And being here is enough.

There’s something about dancing that makes you feel alive in the truest sense. It forces you into the moment. No past, no future—just now. And if now is all we really have, then I want to fill mine with music, movement, and moments like this.

And beyond the music, beyond the dancing, there was something more—a shift. A new energy, a pulse of inspiration that stretched beyond just today. It carried into everything: the way I see my work, the way I make decisions, the way I am stepping into a life that is truly mine. The world is moving, and I am moving with it.

This morning, I danced. And in doing so, I lived.

There was once a traveler who had heard of a grand city hidden behind three gates. The city, they said, offered peace to all who entered. Inside, there was no more wandering, no more searching. Life was simple there. Whole.

The traveler set out with nothing but a key he had carried since childhood. It was said to open the gates.

When he reached the first gate, a guard stood waiting.

“Who seeks to enter?” the guard asked.

“I do,” said the traveler. “I have the key.”

The guard looked him over, his gaze lingering on the dirt on the traveler’s hands, the stains on his clothes.

“Only those with clean hearts may pass.”

The traveler looked down at his hands, ashamed. The weight of the key in his pocket suddenly felt heavier. He turned back, unwilling to press further. For many years, he wandered the plains beyond the gates, carrying the quiet guilt of his unworthiness.

But guilt, when carried too long, has a way of turning into something else.

Years later, the traveler returned to the gates but this time with fire in his heart.

He stormed up to the first gate, his voice raised. “I demand to enter!”

The guard, unchanged by the years, met him with the same steady gaze.

“And what do you carry with you this time?”

“Anger,” said the traveler. “Anger at the ones who told me I wasn’t worthy. Anger at the gate that kept me out.”

The guard nodded. “Then you must pass through the second gate.”

The traveler stepped forward, but the guard did not follow.

At the second gate, there was no guard — only a wise man sitting quietly by the path. The traveler approached cautiously, still clutching his anger like a weapon.

“You carry your anger like a shield,” the wise man said without looking up. “Do you feel it protects you?”

The traveler hesitated. “It does. It keeps me from feeling small.”

“And yet, you look tired,” the wise man said softly. “Lay your shield down. You don’t need it here.”

The traveler frowned. “Why should I? They made me feel unworthy. They built these gates to keep people like me out.”

The wise man finally raised his eyes. “And did you ever wonder why they built the gates?”

The traveler shook his head. He had never asked himself that.

“To protect something,” the wise man said.

The traveler said nothing. For a long while, the two sat in silence. Eventually, the traveler rose and continued on, alone.

When he reached the third gate, there was no guard. No wise man. No keyhole. Only a narrow path winding through a quiet field.

The traveler stepped through.

At first, he saw nothing. It was only open space stretching endlessly before him. The air was still. The grass whispered faintly in the breeze.

He walked slowly, unsure of where he was meant to go. There were no walls, no signs of the grand city he had been seeking for so long. Only the wind, the grass, the distant sound of a river running unseen through the valley.

He kept walking.

And then he saw it.

The city rose gently from the horizon, nestled between the hills, its rooftops bathed in the soft light of dusk. Smoke curled lazily from chimneys. He could see people moving along the narrow streets, laughing, carrying on with their lives, unburdened by questions they no longer needed to ask.

It wasn’t the walls that made it beautiful. It wasn’t the gates that made it whole. It was the life inside — the quiet order, the steady rhythm of those who had found peace within its boundaries.

The traveler stood at the edge of the path, watching the city in the distance.

For the first time in his life, his heart felt light. The weight of the key in his pocket, the anger he had carried, the guilt that had bound him — all of it seemed to fall away, carried off by the wind.

He reached into his pocket and pulled out the key.

He turned it over in his hand, watching how it caught the light.

Then, without a word, he let it fall gently into the grass.

He stood there, gazing at the city.

The wind moved through the field. The grass swayed gently at his feet.

And the traveler stood.

The first clap broke the silence, sharp and deliberate. It echoed through the crisp, cold air, carried by the stillness of the Fushimi Inari Shrine. I bowed, clapped again, and let my hands fall together.

The chill in the air bit at my skin, a stark contrast to the warmth of my home country, where 30-degree days felt like a constant embrace. Here, in Kyoto, Japan, it was eight degrees, the kind of cold that seeps into your bones, slowing your breath.

I closed my eyes and began to speak, quietly, just to myself.

“Please, let me hold on to what I’ve worked for. Let me stay steady. Keep my job safe, keep it growing. Let my business thrive, grow bigger, reach its full potential.”

I paused, the chill tightening my chest as I inhaled deeply.

“Let me have enough to live freely. To give freely. That’s all I want. Enough to take care of myself, enough to be generous to others. Enough so I don’t have to worry anymore.”

The words felt raw, stripped down. Honest. They weren’t perfect, but they were mine. The cold seemed to hold them in the air longer than I expected, almost as if the mountain itself was listening.

The shrine was alive with stillness. Vermilion torii gates stretched endlessly ahead, glowing faintly in the dim light of dusk. Each step forward carried me higher into the heart of the mountain, where ancient spirits felt as close as the frosty breath escaping my lips.

The trail twisted upward, the steep incline making every step harder. My legs burned as the gates blurred together, forming a fiery ribbon that led deeper into this sacred space. Each gate carried a name, etched in black, left behind by someone who had given. Someone who believed in the power of faith or gratitude or maybe just the act of offering something back.

I kept climbing, the cold tightening around me, the air sharper now. My thoughts swirled like the wind around the mountain, carrying me to a time not so long ago when I felt like I was falling apart. I remembered how it felt to have nothing—to feel like I was nothing. No savings. No stability. No confidence in myself.

I thought of the endless nights worrying about my future, about the days when even small decisions felt like life-or-death gambles. Friendships were slipping through my fingers, not because they wanted to leave, but because I couldn’t keep up—not financially, not emotionally.

But then I thought of what followed. The small, steady steps I took every day, even when I didn’t believe they would lead anywhere. And now here I was, halfway up a mountain in Kyoto, walking a path I never imagined for myself.

I stopped at a smaller shrine along the way, resting my hands on my knees. My breath hung in the cold air, visible, as if even that had weight in this space. The city lights flickered below me, distant and faint.

“If you’re listening,” I whispered, “thank you. Thank you for this moment. For letting me see how far I’ve come.”

The gates ahead seemed to shift, their shadows lengthening in the dim light. This wasn’t just a mountain. It wasn’t just a shrine. It was every moment I had doubted myself. Every time I had whispered a prayer, hoping for a way out. Every failure I thought I wouldn’t survive.

I took another step forward, the cold biting at my skin, the weight of the climb pressing into me.

The descent felt different. The path didn’t seem to end so much as dissolve into the night, folding back into the city below. The torii gates no longer felt like obstacles to pass through but milestones to reflect on. The ache in my legs grounded me in the present, but my thoughts drifted.

The prayer I had whispered earlier came back to me, but it wasn’t a prayer anymore. It was a realization, a loop across time.

“You’ve faced worse,” I thought to myself, remembering the version of me who was terrified of the future. “And you didn’t stop. You built this life. You can build the next one too.”

The gates blurred as I reached the base of the trail. The city streets were quieter now, the hum of life settling into a soft murmur. I stopped at the final gate and turned back to look. The mountain stood still, as it always had, as it always would.

Faith doesn’t have to belong to a specific moment or place. It isn’t just a prayer or a belief. It’s the way time folds in on itself when you finally see that you’ve been carrying the answers all along.

I stepped forward, into the cold night, into the unknown, into the next version of myself.

This year, I learned to love better.

Not in the pristine, storybook way. Instead, it was the kind of love that allows space for every emotion: joy, anger, sadness, and disappointment.

I learned to feel them all without letting them drag me into chaos.

Relationships, at times, feel like magnets. They pull and repel, locked in a dance of tension.

But I found a way to step out of that cycle. I became intentional. Steady. Like wood.

I chose when to lean in and when to step back.

This transformation helped me navigate one of my closest, most complicated relationships: the one with my dad.

A Strained Connection

My dad and I started the year distant.

We disagreed on things we were both passionate about. The strain between us grew.

Conversations became battles. Passion turned to frustration. Frustration turned to silence.

Then, earlier this year, he told me he had been diagnosed with tuberculosis. He was 74.

It was hard to process. I was grieving, not just for his health, but for the time we had lost.

I sent help for his medicine but stayed emotionally distant. I convinced myself I was “setting boundaries.”

In truth, I was protecting my pride. I was too hurt to reach out, to let my guard down.

But as the months went by, I felt a growing urgency.

Not because the pain had disappeared, but because I realized that no amount of waiting would fix things. It was a choice I had to make.

The Jollibee Brunch

In November, I made that choice.

I asked my dad to brunch. It felt like a small gesture, but it was heavy with meaning.

We met at Jollibee. As I sat across from him, I felt the familiar surge of anger rising, ready to remind me of every unresolved hurt.

Instead, I started with gratitude.

I thanked him, not for anything recent, but for everything he had done over the course of my life. I thanked him for becoming a dad again at 47, decades after my older brother was born.

I acknowledged how hard it must have been to raise me alone after separating from my mom.

I told him how much I appreciated the sacrifices he made. Giving up relationships. Stepping back from his social life. Making me his focus.

I wasn’t rehearsed. Once I let gratitude take the lead, the words flowed naturally.

I told him how those choices shaped me. How they allowed me to grow into someone who could love deeply, who could bring joy to others.

I let him know that I saw all of it. Not just what he did, but what it cost him.

The Shift

As I spoke, something changed.

The anger I had been carrying for years dissolved. Gratitude has a way of doing that, not by erasing the hurt, but by creating space for something bigger.

And then, my dad surprised me.

He apologized.

It was the most sincere apology I had ever heard from him. He acknowledged the ways he had hurt me, without defensiveness or excuses. For a moment, I was stunned. It was as if a door we had both kept locked had suddenly swung open.

We agreed on something fundamental that day: how we would love each other moving forward.

It would be through acceptance. By focusing on the joy we could bring to each other, rather than the wounds of the past.

Being Firm in Love

While the moment was healing, it wasn’t just about forgiveness. I took the opportunity to share where I was in my life.

I told my dad about the man I had become. How the people around me, at work, my friends, those who know me best, see me as a kind, loving person.

And then I told him that I wished he could see me that way too.

I wanted him to know that all the sacrifices he made weren’t in vain. That they had shaped me into someone others truly enjoy being around.

But I also gave him a choice.

I told him he could either continue to see me through the lens of the past, creating walls between us, or he could recognize the person I am now and the love I have to give. I told him I would prefer the latter.

I told him that I wanted to enjoy him, for however much time we still have.

I explained that my only wish this year was to create memories with him. That no disagreement, no regret, no past wound mattered more to me than the time we could still share.

I told him, as plainly as I could, that I wanted to spend this limited time we have respecting and enjoying each other.

The Lesson

This year, I learned that loving better doesn’t mean forgetting the past. It doesn’t mean avoiding the hard conversations.

It means showing up.

It means allowing space for the full spectrum of emotions without letting them control you.

It means making the choice to love—not because it’s easy, but because it matters.

Sitting across from my dad that day, I felt the weight of that choice.

And in choosing to love him—not perfectly, but honestly—I found something profound.

A love that holds space for everything: the pain, the joy, the differences, and the possibility of something new.

This year, I learned to love better.

It all started with brunch.