Every story has two endings.

The first ends when the article is published. The second begins in the comment section.

Over the past days, Daily Tribune published a number of stories involving the LGBTQ community. Some were written by me. Others were written by my colleagues. They tackled different subjects—a transgender graduate’s desire to wear attire that reflected her identity, Pride Month activities in Laoag City, and other stories that simply gave space to the lives and experiences of LGBTQ Filipinos.

The stories were different.

The response was painfully familiar.

Rather than discussing the issues raised by the articles, many readers turned their attention to the people themselves. LGBTQ Filipinos were called “evil.” Some declared they deserved God’s punishment. Others described them as mentally ill. Several commenters reduced an entire community to a disease by calling them “HIV carriers,” while others questioned why a newspaper would even publish stories involving LGBTQ people at all. Some praised countries with harsher laws against LGBTQ communities, believing that compassion had somehow become weakness.

As I moved from one comment section to another, I realized I was no longer reading reactions to individual stories.

I was witnessing something much larger.

The stories had changed, but the prejudice had not.

That realization stayed with me long after I closed my phone.

Journalists grow accustomed to criticism. We understand that readers will disagree with our reporting, question our judgment, or challenge our perspectives. That is part of the profession. Healthy disagreement keeps journalism accountable.

But what I encountered was different.

These were no longer criticisms of journalism.

They were judgments about whether certain people deserved to be treated as human beings.

I found myself wondering how many LGBTQ Filipinos had read those comments before I did.

How many young people questioning their identity saw strangers calling them “evil.”

How many parents read comments celebrating the rejection of children who simply wanted to be accepted.

How many people decided, once again, that silence was safer than authenticity.

Words written in a comment section often disappear beneath the next post.

Their impact does not.

Perhaps what made this difficult to ignore was that this issue has never been distant from my own life.

I have a cousin who is a lesbian.

She has never been anything less than family.

We grew up celebrating birthdays together, sharing meals, laughing during reunions and creating the kind of memories that become part of every family’s story. When she came to embrace who she truly was, nothing changed in the way we loved her. She remained the same daughter, cousin, niece and friend she had always been.

We are a deeply Catholic family.

Faith has shaped the way we were raised. We pray together, celebrate the sacraments, observe Holy Week, and find comfort in God during moments of uncertainty. Yet nowhere in our family’s faith did we find a reason to love her less. If anything, our faith taught us that love is strongest when it is given freely, without conditions attached.

Beyond my family, I have also been fortunate to know many members of the LGBTQ community through journalism, work and friendship. They are government employees, journalists, entrepreneurs, artists, students and professionals. They pay taxes, care for aging parents, build careers, serve their communities and dream of better futures just like every other Filipino.

That is why comments describing LGBTQ people as “evil” or dismissing them as “HIV carriers” no longer feel like abstract opinions.

I see people I know.

I see my cousin.

I see friends who have stood beside me in difficult moments.

I see colleagues who have worked tirelessly to serve the public with integrity.

I see human beings whose lives are infinitely more complex than the labels assigned to them by strangers online.

One comment, in particular, lingered in my mind.

Calling LGBTQ people “HIV carriers” is not simply insulting. It perpetuates one of the oldest and most damaging myths associated with the community. HIV is a virus, not an identity. It does not discriminate according to sexual orientation, and reducing an entire group of people to a disease ignores decades of medical knowledge while reinforcing the stigma faced by everyone living with HIV.

When misinformation is repeated often enough, it becomes discrimination disguised as certainty.

As I reflected on these conversations, I also reflected on my own faith.

Like millions of Filipinos, I was raised Catholic. I know there are Catholics who sincerely hold traditional beliefs about marriage and sexuality. Those convictions are part of their faith, and they deserve to be discussed respectfully.

But I also remember learning that compassion, mercy and humility were among the virtues Christ asked of His followers.

Throughout his pontificate, Pope Francis repeatedly challenged Catholics to encounter LGBTQ people not first through judgment, but through compassion. His words, “Who am I to judge?”, resonated around the world not because they settled every theological question, but because they reminded many believers that humility should accompany conviction. Again and again, he called on the faithful to welcome people, accompany them in their lives and remember that every person is a child of God.

Whether one agrees with every aspect of his pastoral approach is beside the point.

What remains undeniable is that he consistently reminded Catholics that mercy should never be forgotten.

That lesson feels especially important today.

Supporting the dignity of LGBTQ Filipinos does not require abandoning one’s faith.

Likewise, practicing one’s faith should never become permission to humiliate, ridicule or dehumanize another person.

Acceptance does not always mean agreement.

Respect does not always require sameness.

Compassion is not surrender.

These are distinctions we seem to have forgotten.

This article is not an attempt to persuade every reader to change deeply held religious beliefs. That is neither my role nor my intention.

It is an invitation to look beyond labels.

Beyond the rainbow is a son trying to make his parents proud.

A daughter hoping her family will continue to embrace her.

A student dreaming of graduation.

A public servant dedicated to honest work.

A journalist chasing deadlines.

A doctor caring for patients.

An artist creating beauty.

A friend who has always been there when you needed someone.

Beyond the rainbow are Filipinos whose humanity should never be determined by the comment section beneath a Facebook post.

As journalists, we often say that our duty is to tell stories that matter.

I believe these stories matter because they remind us of something we too easily forget.

Before people become symbols in a debate, before they become hashtags, headlines or targets of ridicule, they are human beings.

And if we cannot recognize that first, then perhaps the conversation was never really about the LGBTQ community.

Perhaps it has always been about us—about the kind of compassion we choose to extend, the kind of faith we choose to live, and the kind of society we hope the next generation will inherit.