Friday was no ordinary day.

The coliseum roared with applause and pride as the 117th Commencement Exercises of the University of San Jose-Recoletos unfolded. It was a ceremony that gathered every college, every course, every dream birthed in the heart of Cebu. Nursing. Engineering. Business. Arts. Each name called was a story. Each face, a chapter written in hard work, quiet courage, and sleepless sacrifice.

And somewhere in that vast sea of green togas and crimson linings sat my brother.

Still. Focused. Radiant in his silence.

I spotted him in the crowd, and my heart paused—just for a second.

Because in that moment, he was not just my brother.

He was a symbol of perseverance. Of making it through. Of rising, even when the journey had been anything but easy.

This wasn’t just a ceremony. This was a resurrection of every version of him who once doubted, once cried, once thought, “Will I make it?”

And he did.

After the ceremony, our family—an entire clan of hearts who carried both joy and memory—gathered once more. We made our way to Pusô Bistro, a place whose name couldn’t have been more fitting. “Pusô” means heart. And truly, this day carried so much of it.

We filled a long table with food and faces—some smiling wide, others a bit misty-eyed.

Because this day was also for something we hadn’t gotten to do—something grief had once stolen.

We celebrated his birthday.

It was long overdue.

His birthday had come and gone on May 5th, but we didn’t have it in us to celebrate then. Not when Hans, our cousin, our gentle light, had passed on the very same day. The weight of that loss sat heavy on all of us, and celebration felt too loud, too wrong, too soon.

So we waited.

And now, as my brother held up his dessert—“Happy Birthday” written in chocolate on the plate—we honored both the delay and the depth behind it. It wasn’t just a sweet moment. It was a healing one. A quiet act of reclaiming joy, without forgetting the sorrow that came before it.

Around that table, we remembered what life teaches us again and again:

That grief and joy are not opposites.

They are twins, born of the same love.

And often, they sit side by side at the same table.

There were toasts, laughter, and photo after photo. Some formal. Others goofy. But all of them real. The kind that say, “We’re here. We survived. We’re moving forward—together.”

And as the day turned to evening and our stomachs and hearts alike were full, I thought about how sacred it is to witness someone’s becoming.

To watch them earn their place in the world,

and to know that even in their quietest victories,

they carried the prayers of those who loved them most.

So this is for my brother—our graduate, our birthday boy, our beacon.

This is for Hans, who we missed every second that day.

And this is for every person learning to hold grief in one hand, and celebration in the other.

We did it.

He did it.

And love—despite everything—remained.