It’s barely dawn, the horizon cloaked in soft purple and orange as I stand on the tee box, gripping my driver. At 5:30 a.m., while most of Manila sleeps, my group of early risers is wide awake, trading laughter and friendly jabs about swings gone awry. Our humor is irreverent, occasionally bordering on scandalous, but it’s precisely this camaraderie -– this daily dose of joy — that fortifies me for the day ahead.

By the seventh hole, around 7 a.m., the tranquility of the greens is interrupted by the familiar vibration of my phone. Patient updates trickle in steadily, each message a subtle reminder that my leisurely morning is closely shadowed by responsibilities awaiting me at the hospital.

By 9 a.m., golf shoes exchanged swiftly for my favorite Jordans and scrubs, I navigate through morning traffic toward the hospital. Work officially starts at 9:30 a.m., but as any doctor knows, the workday never truly begins or ends — it flows ceaselessly, overlapping seamlessly with life itself.

Hospital rounds blend clinical updates with personal connections. A longtime patient greets me warmly, asking about my morning game. She’s battling bravely, though visibly weaker this week. Sadly, two other elderly patients passed away recently, both in their late eighties. Their absence is palpable, deeply felt by their families and by all of us who cared for them. Such losses never get easier; they linger quietly, poignant reminders of medicine’s profound limits.

This past week also brought additional duties. At the Philippine Society of Nephrology convention, I delivered two separate talks — each time stepping from the casual company of golf buddies into the professional rigor of my field. Standing before peers, I joked about my pre-talk nerves rivaling any tricky putt. Thankfully, my sniffles — courtesy of relentless allergies — held off just long enough to see me through without embarrassment.

Then came the inauguration of Makati Life Medical Center, marking a bright new chapter for healthcare in our community. Amid the excitement and celebration, I quietly checked my phone for patient updates — a constant balancing act between presence and responsibility.

Yet amid these professional milestones, the most poignant moment this past week was Dad’s 82nd birthday. Our celebration was modest; a small cake, gentle smiles and quiet family conversation. Dad, affectionately known as “Lolo Bien” to his grandchildren, sat quietly among us. Whether he recognized the celebration or not was uncertain, yet simply having him there, calm and present, meant everything. Each morning, I try to pause briefly, whispering a goodbye before rushing out. Yet, some days urgency overtakes intention, leaving me with pangs of guilt.

Every evening, without fail, I return home to my parents, as I also return home to the laughter and warmth of my own family, a quiet sanctuary that brings me joy and balance. My mother, sharp and unwavering, anchors our evenings with warmth and wisdom. Seeing them daily grounds me, providing silent reassurance after even the most chaotic days. Their quiet presence reminds me of the strength found in family, especially when words are few. It’s a rare blessing to still share these quiet daily moments with my parents, something I never take for granted.

Tonight, exhaustion settles deep into my bones, and I reflect on the rhythm of my life — early mornings filled with laughter, intense hospital rounds and the gentle routine of returning home. It’s a balancing act between joy and sorrow, laughter and contemplation, professional duty and personal connection.

Tomorrow, the cycle repeats. I’ll be up before the sun, swinging my driver, answering patient messages by the eighth hole and navigating daily triumphs and challenges. And tomorrow evening, as always, I’ll find comfort in the quiet company of my family

— grateful for another day lived fully, balancing life’s profound fragility with its undeniable beauty.