I never thought politics would become the reason people would quietly walk out of my life.
Not because I stole from them. Not because I betrayed them. Not because I lied to them. But because somewhere between headlines, opinions, elections, and online arguments, people began measuring friendship through political loyalty instead of understanding.
As a journalist, I have spent years chasing stories, verifying facts, and trying to deliver the truth as fairly as I can. But in today’s climate, neutrality often feels like a crime. The moment you criticize one side, you are accused of supporting the other. The moment you refuse to blindly follow a political camp, you are treated like an enemy by both.
I am neither pro-Duterte, nor pro-Marcos, nor blindly loyal to any politician for that matter. I believe no leader should be beyond criticism and no administration should be exempt from scrutiny. Journalism is not supposed to worship power. It is supposed to question it.
But despite striving for objectivity, I am still human.
I have opinions. I have frustrations. I have beliefs shaped by experience and observation. And while I try to separate my personal views from my work, people often forget that journalists are not machines built without emotion. We absorb the same tensions, fears, and divisions affecting everyone else.
The difference is that every word we say is magnified.
Every caption I write, every report I publish, every statement I make becomes vulnerable to interpretation. To some, balance is betrayal. To others, silence is complicity. There are people who no longer care about facts unless those facts agree with what they already believe.
What makes it more frustrating is how easily journalists are now compared to vloggers and online personalities who can upload opinions without verification, accountability, or editorial scrutiny.
People say “fake news” so casually now, as if journalism is simply about typing words and posting them online.
What many fail to understand is that journalists go through layers of verification before a story is published. Editors scrutinize our work. Statements are cross-checked. Sources are verified. Photos, videos, reports, and documents are vetted because credibility is everything in this profession. A legitimate journalist risks reputation, career, and public trust every time false information is published.
We are not fake news simply because you dislike the truth.
Sometimes, people reject reports not because they are false, but because the facts clash with the version of reality they created for themselves. In an age where algorithms feed people only what they want to hear, truth has become negotiable for some.
But journalism does not operate on feelings, fandoms, or political loyalty.
A responsible journalist does not publish without verified sources, without evidence, and without accountability.
And somewhere in the middle of all that noise, I lost friends.
Some slowly became distant. Others cut me off entirely after political disagreements surfaced online or in conversations. People I once laughed with, trusted, and shared memories with suddenly looked at me differently because I refused to conform to their political expectations.
At first, it hurt more than I wanted to admit.
There is a strange loneliness in realizing that some relationships were only stable as long as opinions remained identical. It makes you wonder whether the friendship was truly built on respect, or merely on comfort and agreement.
Still, I have always remained open to discourse. I believe people should be able to disagree without hatred. Democracy was never meant to be an echo chamber where everyone thinks the same way. Conversations should challenge us, not destroy us.
True friendship is not measured by identical political beliefs. It is measured by the ability to respect each other despite disagreement.
A real friend listens. A real friend stays. A real friend understands that political opinions are only one part of a person, not the entirety of their humanity.
And if some people choose to leave because of politics, maybe that loss reveals something important: not every connection is built to survive truth, honesty, or difference.
Maybe losing them was for the best.
In the end, journalism taught me something deeper than how to write stories or chase breaking news. It taught me that truth has a price. Sometimes that price is criticism. Sometimes it is misunderstanding. Sometimes it is isolation.
But despite everything, I continue.
Because beyond the noise of politics, beyond loyalty to surnames and personalities, my responsibility remains the same: to seek the truth, to tell stories honestly, and to stand firm in integrity even when it becomes personal.