Light without power
In his Christmas message, President Bongbong Marcos urged Filipinos to become “a source of light and goodness,” to remember the poor, the sick, the calamity-stricken, and the marginalized. It was a familiar appeal — warm, faith-anchored and carefully worded.
But outside Malacañang’s holiday glow, many Filipinos greeted Christmas under harsher light.
Prices of basic goods remain stubbornly high, wages lag behind inflation and public hospitals continue to overflow. Calamity-hit communities are still rebuilding months after storms, while budget debates in Congress reveal priorities that often favor asphalt over aid, politics over protection. Compassion is preached, yet policy frequently feels transactional.
The President’s message highlights generosity, yet compassion is most powerfully expressed through governance. Budgets, social programs, and fair enforcement — not appeals alone — determine whether help reaches those who need it most. When these systems fall short, calls for individual sacrifices can sound detached from reality.
Christmas messages are meant to inspire. But inspiration without accountability risks becoming ritual. Light, after all, is not produced by words alone. It is measured by positive results, not by how eloquently leaders remind the public to care.
Guilty remorse
Christmas is supposed to be a season of mercy. Reflection. Softened judgment. And yet, some questions refuse to be wrapped in tinsel.
The alleged suicide of Catalina Cabral has triggered calls for collective remorse. We are told to pause, to be gentle, to remember that mental health struggles are real. They are. I have never disputed that. Depression is not a moral failure, and medication is not a confession of guilt.
But empathy does not erase accountability.
Cabral was repeatedly and publicly linked to budget insertions and corruption allegations, sins that do not just steal money but steal lives. Roads left unbuilt. Flood control undone. Hospitals unfinished. These are not abstract crimes. They translate into drowned homes, untreated illnesses, and preventable deaths.
It is difficult to summon grief for someone whose alleged actions may have contributed to so much suffering.
We can mourn a life without sanitizing a legacy. We can recognize human fragility without rewriting history. Reflection should not demand selective memory.
Remorse should be reserved not only for the fallen, but for the countless Filipinos who never had a chance because corruption took it from them quietly, efficiently, and without apology.
It’s the season of living
It’s the season of being preoccupied — endless going out, last-minute grocery runs for Noche Buena and being stuck in traffic with hot-headed motorists who’ve been waiting for hours.
Growing up, I looked forward to Christmas because it meant vacation was near. It was the season of gifts, lights, spectacle and festivity — everything bright and exciting. But now I’m at an age where I can be independent, and my perspective on Christmas has changed.
It’s no longer just a season of celebration — it’s a season of living. This is the time we celebrate the birth of Jesus, and at the same time, we celebrate human connection — how we love and how we show up for one another.
I’m starting to live Christmas more intentionally. I find myself thankful, praying that I get to spend many more Christmases like this — complete, together, with my family: my Nanay, Tatay and Adi.
We’re only four, and I’ve learned how fragile that completeness is. Life changes quickly. One day, we may be three. Time moves forward. We grow older every year. Someone may move away. Or, God forbid, death may come to us.
I don’t want to spend future Christmases only reminiscing about the days when we were complete. I want to live those days now.
Endless going out feels better when it’s with my brother, even when he asks me for money because he’s short. Last-minute grocery runs mean more when I’m with my mom, buying the ingredients for her favorite Valenciana — even though she’s the only one who eats it during Noche Buena. Even being stuck in traffic feels different when it’s with my dad, the same man who taught me how to drive.
I wouldn’t trade this for anything.