Wesley Dela Cruz

When I was about to turn 13, there was magic in the air. It wasn't just another candle on the cake; it was a rite of passage. My first year officially labeled as a teenager. I had navigated the hallways of high school, felt the awkward thrill of making new friends, and thought—for the first time—I had carved out a little corner of the world just for me.

Naturally, my excitement spilled into the idea of throwing a birthday party (the kind you see in movies, with laughter bouncing off the walls, food lining tables, a home buzzing with teenage joy). My dad, ever supportive, went above and beyond. He set up tables and chairs, invited caterers, prepared everything as if hosting royalty. And royalty was exactly how I'd feel, surrounded by friends.

But afternoon turned into evening…

Messages sent with hopeful anticipation were met with silence or polite cancellations. By 9 PM, disappointment settled into my chest. Just then, my niece and nephew arrived—faces smiling, oblivious to the emptiness of the house.

I didn't quite know how to feel.

Was it hurt?

Sadness?

Something else…?

The absence of people I trusted and considered friends left a subtle bruise. It was a quiet lesson I didn't realize I was learning.

From then on, birthdays became complicated. I'd think twice, three times even, about celebrating. "It's not about the party," I'd whisper to myself, hiding behind a cautious smile. Friends or family would gently push me to celebrate, encouraging even as hesitation tugged at me. Birthdays had transformed into tests. Tests of belonging. Tests of friendship. Tests of solitude.

Fast forward fifteen years.

On my 28th birthday, the universe seemed to chuckle softly at my expense again. I planned a simple lunch with two dear friends, only to find both were sick on the day. But this time, instead of the familiar sting, I felt something else… A gentle, ironic amusement. There was no bitterness, no silent tally kept against friendship. These two people were genuinely cherished. Their absence wasn't rejection—it was simply life, messy and unplanned.

Perhaps that's the greatest lesson I've carried from my 13-year-old self to my 28-year-old self:

Friendship isn't measured by attendance but by INTENTION.

Real friendships can withstand empty chairs and canceled plans because they're built on deeper foundations—trust, empathy, laughter, and shared vulnerabilities.

Reflecting today, older and perhaps a touch wiser, I've learned birthdays aren't about who's there or who's not. They're about who you become when the candles burn out and silence settles. Sometimes, the universe hands you empty tables to teach you how to sit comfortably with yourself.

In the spirit of Whitney Houston, whose song my kindergarten principal sang proudly before every class, I've embraced this truth:

"Learning to love yourself is the greatest love of all."

Perhaps, in that solitude—amid life's betrayals, broken trust, and endless complexities—I've learned to bask in my own company, to genuinely enjoy my own friendship. In the quiet of those empty tables, I've discovered the most important friend of all:

Myself.

There’s something intoxicating about stepping into a room where you are, undeniably, the dumbest person there. Where everyone else is fluent in a language you barely understand, moving to a rhythm you can’t quite catch, or navigating concepts so intricate they might as well be speaking in mathematical hieroglyphs.

I used to fear that feeling—the disorientation of being lost, the vulnerability of being seen struggling, the quiet shame of not knowing. But lately, I’ve been learning to dance with it. Quite literally.

Dancing Through Discomfort

A few weeks ago, I attended my first house dance class. I knew the music, sure. But the dance? No idea. The movements were foreign, intricate, almost counterintuitive to what my body wanted to do. I felt stupid—uncoordinated, clumsy, constantly half a beat behind.

And yet, there was something liberating about it. In between the awkwardness, I found echoes of a mindset I had learned to trust: the fastest way to learn something is to enjoy it. To not shrink away from the moments I feel stupid but to lean into them, stretch them, and let them dissolve into familiarity.

A year ago, I was in the same position when I picked up the piano. I wanted to learn Chopin’s Nocturne Op. 9 No. 2, and I brute-forced my way through it. My fingers were stiff, my timing was off, and I had no idea how to use the sustain pedal. It sounded like a mess. But every day, I sat down and played. One hour, every single day, for six months. At some point, I realized I wasn’t just playing notes anymore—I was making music. And after that, learning new pieces felt exponentially easier.

That’s what I reminded myself in that dance class: just get through this part—the part where it sucks. The part where I suck. The part where I want to shrink into the background. Because if I stay long enough, I know it will stop feeling foreign. It always does.

The Art of Not Knowing

That’s become a recurring theme in my life lately—intentionally putting myself in places where I don’t know anything. Recently, I attended a Japanese language exchange meetup. It was held in a small café in Manila, filled with Japanese professionals working on fascinating projects. One of them was an engineer helping build a railway from Laguna to Clark. Another was a businessman with several ventures in Japan.

The first half of the event was in English, so I held my own. But then, the second half switched to Japanese. And I was thrown into the deep end.

I knew enough to understand some parts but nowhere near enough to respond with ease. It would have been easy to feel embarrassed, to mentally retreat and let the conversation wash over me. But instead, I focused on paying attention to what I didn’t know. I let myself stumble through broken sentences, listened harder, took mental notes. And I realized:

Being the dumbest person in the room is not humiliating. It’s thrilling.

It means I am exactly where I need to be.

By the end of the event, I had met a private tutor who could help me improve. I had gaps in my knowledge, sure, but now I could see them clearly. And once you can see a gap, you can start filling it.

Leaning Into the Unknown

It’s not just dance. Or piano. Or Japanese. Lately, I’ve been listening to scientists talk about space-time and consciousness—about how our perception of time affects our experience of life. I hear them throw around terms like polytopes and quantum states, and half the time, I have no idea what they mean.

But I listen anyway.

Because I know this feeling now.

It’s the same feeling I had when I first sat in front of a piano, fingers hesitant on the keys. The same feeling I had when I walked into that dance studio. When I switched to Japanese mid-conversation.

And I know now that the trick is to stay.

To resist the urge to retreat.

To enjoy the discomfort.

To let it stretch me.

Because every time I’ve done that, I’ve come out the other side fluent in something new.

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.

Tick... Tock...

Can you hear it? Time slipping away...

The older I get, the more I feel it. Time with family becoming scarce.

It's funny... I recently saw an IG Reel about how the time we spend with our parents and siblings drops dramatically as we hit our late twenties. Work, life, responsibilities—they all get in the way.

Ever since I moved out and hit my mid-twenties, spending time with my family has become something really special.

Growing up, my situation was a bit different. My brothers are at least 18 years older than me. It often felt like I was an only child. They were living their own lives while I was still figuring out mine. 

But now, as adults, we’ve found this incredible new rhythm.

We’ve started a tradition... monthly meetups. No strict plans. Just lunch, talking about life, and sharing stories.

It’s amazing how refreshing these meetups are. Even after spending seven hours together, it never feels like enough.

We don’t need fancy activities to keep us engaged. Just sitting down, eating, and listening to each other.

Our stories range from everyday stuff to really deep conversations. Sometimes, we tackle tough topics that can be uncomfortable. 

But despite any disagreements, we all look forward to these hangouts.

The generational gap between us adds so much depth. My brothers could be my parents, and my dad is the age of my friends’ grandparents.

This difference adds layers to our conversations. It shapes how we respond to a variety of topics. Is Elon Musk great or just crazy? Should we be scared of an invasion from China? Who could be the most ideal presidential candidate in the Philippines? 

And beyond these issues, we talk about how we consume information—TikTok or YouTube? Our views on health and managing illnesses? 

These differing perspectives make our talks so much richer.

We share stories about relationships... especially romantic ones. 

My dad talks mostly about his early adventures with my mom. My siblings? They often discuss how they navigated married life and adjusted to parenting. They share their regrets, but more often, they express gratitude. Gratitude for the lessons learned, the changes they made, and the wisdom they gained.

And here I am, a recipient of this unfiltered wisdom. Directly from their experiences.

We laugh about funny adventures and weird interactions with unique people we’ve met. Like quirky religious figures, celebrities, politicians, or even a run-in with a criminal. 

I can’t believe some of the names I hear are people I’ve seen on the news. And no, I can’t name them (peace).

Each story, whether funny or serious, adds a new dimension to our understanding of each other and the world.

I love bringing my modern-day perspective to the table. Talking about tech advancements and entrepreneurial dreams, I see how my insights fit into their stories of the past.

It feels like time traveling, hearing their firsthand accounts.

One memorable moment was visiting Quattro. It’s a bar on Timog Avenue, right in the Scout area of Quezon City where I live now.

None of them live here anymore, but they all have memories in this area. My dad was assigned here during his policeman days. My brothers worked in the film industry and had offices nearby.

They hung out here during high school and college. They even rented a place as a family right across the block from where I live now, more than 30 years ago.

I wasn’t born yet, but knowing they had lived here before made it even more special.

Quattro was magical for me because of that realization. It’s a place that has stood the test of time... just like our family’s relationship.

Growing up, I envied my friends who were close to their siblings or had big families. It was mostly my dad and me.

So now, in my adulthood, this experience feels richer. I super value it because I know their time is becoming more scarce. We all have other priorities.

The fact that we make time for this shows the special love we share.

These monthly meetups connect me deeply with our shared past while grounding me in the present. They’re not just about reminiscing but understanding how our lives are evolving.

It’s a blend of history, personal growth, and family bonds, making each gathering feel like a meaningful journey through time.

In a world that’s always changing, these moments of connection and shared history become more valuable.

They remind me of where I come from, help me see where I’m going, and keep me anchored with the people who matter most.

So, if you’ve got family, don’t let the clock tick away without making those connections. Whether it’s lunch, a phone call, or just sitting together... make time.

After all, these moments become the memories that ground us, shape us, and remind us of who we are. 

Don’t wait. Start your own tradition. You won't regret it.

Ring... Ring...

I didn’t expect to end up in tears—happy, joyful tears—from a 2-minute phone call.

Last night at 9:30 p.m., my phone rang. It was one of my close college friends, someone I hadn't spoken to much over the past four years. Life had taken us on different paths—he was deep into the rigors of law school at Ateneo Law School, while I was busy pursuing my career in tech.

But that night... the years melted away.

He called to share the incredible news: not only was he graduating, but he was also at the top of his batch. Hearing this, my heart swelled with pride and happiness. It felt like a moment frozen in time, a time capsule we had opened together, marveling at how life had unfolded.

Four years ago, he was on the waitlist for law school, his dream seemingly slipping through his fingers. His grandfather was his inspiration, and he was determined to become a lawyer. During those uncertain months, I was his sounding board, his cheerleader, his confidant. 

We spent countless hours on the phone... me listening to his worries, encouraging him, and praying with him. I helped him focus on what he could control and let go of what he couldn’t.

At the same time, I was facing my own crossroads. I was contemplating leaving a stable corporate job to chase my dream of working in tech and becoming an entrepreneur. We were both on the brink of major life changes, supporting each other through our respective journeys.

Fast forward to now... he has achieved his dream, and I have immersed myself in the tech industry, building businesses across different sectors. That two-minute phone call where he shared his triumph was a profound reminder of our deep connection.

We laughed... we cried... we celebrated together, even though we were miles apart.

This blog is dedicated to him and his beloved grandmother, who recently passed away. She would be incredibly proud of him for his perseverance and dedication. I was a witness to his journey, and I know she was too. Even though she isn't here to see it come to fruition, her influence and love have been a guiding force for him.

In this moment, I am filled with gratitude. Gratitude for the friendship that has withstood the test of time and distance. Gratitude for the ability to share in his joy. And gratitude for the reminder that these connections, though they may not be part of our daily lives, remain deeply significant.

We should celebrate these friendships—the ones that don’t require daily conversations to remain strong. The ones that, when reconnected, feel like no time has passed at all. Last night, I wasn't the one who graduated, but my heart felt the same joy and pride as if I had. And that is the true essence of friendship.

To my dear friend, congratulations on your incredible achievement. Your journey has been nothing short of inspiring. To your grandmother, I know you are watching over him with pride. And to everyone reading this, cherish your friendships, celebrate their milestones, and remember that true connections are timeless.

You know that feeling

When you're talking to someone close to you, maybe family, and you just can't see eye to eye?

Yeah. That's been my life lately.

Especially when it comes to stuff like what's happening in Gaza
Or why it feels like I'll never be able to buy a house.

It's like we're living in different worlds, you know?

The other day, I was trying to explain to my older relative about Palestine
All this stuff I've learned from the news, social media
But it was like we were speaking different languages.

Frustrating doesn't even begin to cover it.

Here I am, thinking I've got all this information
Hoping to connect
And instead? I feel more isolated than ever.

And don't even get me started on the housing market...

Ever tried explaining to someone from an older generation why you can't afford a house?
It's like
They grew up thinking hard work = house with a white picket fence.
For us? It's not that simple.

Prices are insane. It feels like a game we can't win.

And it's not just that

I'm constantly bombarded with all this other stuff:
Wars with China
Criminal syndicates in our neighborhoods
Content telling me I need to build muscles
Take care of my gut health
Improve my communication
Watch dragons fight on TV
Go for financial freedom!!

It's exhausting.

All I want is to connect.
To understand.
To be understood.

But these conversations... this information overload
It leaves me feeling so disconnected.

I started questioning everything
Does any of this even matter?

Nihilism started looking pretty good, you know?
Just a way to cope with all this chaos

But that didn't feel right either.
It felt like giving up.

So... what do we do?
How do we find meaning in all this mess?

I've been digging into some ideas
Viktor Frankl... Jacques Derrida

Don't worry, I'm not going full philosophy nerd on you.

But Frankl... he believed we can find meaning even in the worst situations.
It's not about what happens to us
It's how we respond.

And Derrida? He talks about how meaning is always shifting.
Never fixed.

At first, that frustrated me.
Now? I find it freeing.

Life doesn't have to be a rigid script.
It's more like a conversation.
Always evolving.

When I put these ideas together
I start to see a way forward.

It's not about finding one big, unchanging meaning
It's about creating it.
Through our actions.
Our attitudes.

We're not powerless.
We can shape our lives, even in small ways.

And that... that gives me a sense of purpose.

Maybe it's about finding those little pockets of meaning
In our daily lives.
The connections we make.
The goals we set.
How we choose to respond to challenges.

It's not about having all the answers
It's about being open to the journey.

You ever feel that way?
Like you're searching for something more
Even when everything seems uncertain?

And here's the thing about those older relatives
As much as they talk like they've got it all figured out
They don't.

They're navigating life just like we are.
Just with different tools.
Different experiences.

We're all trying to find our way.
And that's okay.

Maybe accepting that no one has it all figured out
Maybe that's what can bring us together.

Our differences don't have to divide us.
They can connect us.

So next time you're in one of those impossible conversations
Remember: We're all just trying to figure this out.

Maybe we won't solve everything today
But we can take a step.
Towards understanding.
Towards connection.
Towards a life that feels a little more meaningful.

We don't need all the answers.
We just need to keep moving forward
Together.

What do you think?
How do you find meaning in all this chaos?