I read the morning papers, watch the news, and scroll through my cellphone for a stream of messages. Before midday, I already feel weighed down, restless, and troubled.

In a rare quiet moment, as I sit alone to write this article, I drift back to my childhood in a barrio in Makati in the 1950s.

I can still hear Ella Fitzgerald singing, “Summertime and the living is easy.” And it truly was. Life then felt simple, unhurried and light.

The seasons followed a rhythm without fail. Summer came from March to April, the rains from May to August, and the cool “ber” months carried us through to February. Nature had its own steady rhythm.

Young and silly, as my friend Ernie Cecilia often said, we lived outdoors. We played whatever games we could invent in any open space we could find, from morning until we were called in for dinner. There were no cellphones, no constant noise, no interference, just laughter and the easy company of friends.

During school breaks, we gathered at the small corner sari-sari store of Beho, our friendly Chinese neighbor. We were fondly called “kanto boys” by the old folks. That corner was nothing special, yet it felt like the center of our world. We sat, talked, and passed the time without hurry, content just being there.

At exactly six in the evening, when the church bells of San Ildefonso rang, we would stop, face the direction of the church, and after the ringing ended, greet passing elders with the traditional “mano po.” It was a small ritual, but it grounded us in respect and community.

Even the rainy season had its own magic. Floods would come, but they were gentle and familiar. Instead of fear, there was adventure. We tied banana trunks together and drifted on muddy waters like gondolas in Venice, singing out of tune. It was simply part of our growing up.

Today, floods no longer feel that way. What were once manageable have become fierce and destructive. The Philippines may not be the most flooded country, but it is now among the most vulnerable. Floods are no longer seasonal inconveniences but recurring crises, driven by environmental neglect, illegal logging, congested urban centers, climate change, and worst of all, the massive corruption behind ghost and substandard flood control projects.

Looking back, the earth itself seemed quieter then, less burdened by the demands of a restless world.

Today, everything feels heavier.

The news brings one troubling story after another. Wars and rising tensions, including in the West Philippine Sea, continue with no clear end in sight.

Uncertainty lingers in the background of daily life.

Even rest offers little comfort. There is always a quiet unease, a sense that something urgent is unfolding somewhere, and that we are somehow part of it.

News no longer comes gently. It arrives all at once, constant and unrelenting, and the noise never stops.

In moments like these, we learn to step back. Not to turn away, but to breathe. To create space, enough to think clearly again.

That space can be found in simple ways. A quiet morning before the day begins. A short walk without distractions. Sitting still, even for a few minutes, and allowing the mind to settle. These small pauses steady us and bring us back to ourselves.

We are not meant to bear everything at once. The constant flow of distressing news can wear us down without notice. Choosing when to stay informed and when to step away is not weakness nor escapism. It is self-care.

There is comfort in returning to simple routines. Sharing a meal, having a real conversation, and holding on to familiar habits that give meaning to the day. In today’s complicated and conflicted world, these small acts bring balance and connection that go beyond cellphone and television screens.

We need people who listen, who understand, who can sit with us in silence. In times like these, it is not grand solutions that sustain us, but the quiet reassurance that we are not alone.

Looking back, life then was not perfect, but it felt grounded and at ease.

Today’s world is faster, louder, more confusing, and more uncertain. Yet people endure, a reminder that while we cannot control everything around us, we can still choose how we respond. We can slow down, even when everything else is rushing past. We can hold on to what is simple and real.

In the end, the challenge is not to escape the chaos, but to remain steady within it. To carry, even in small ways, that sense of calm we once knew.

And sometimes, it begins with something very simple. A pause, a breath, and the quiet reminder that despite everything, life moves forward, one day at a time.