Alienation

 

                                               (image: youtube.com)

There was a time when a teacher volunteered to operate the sound system during a learners' recital, but I declined the offer. It was not because I questioned the teacher's capability, but because I did not want to place him in a position where a technical failure could unfairly become his burden. Instead, we hired professional technicians because ensuring a smooth program was their responsibility. If they failed to deliver, I could demand accountability without reservation because it was the work they were engaged to perform. Accountability should rest with those entrusted, equipped, and expected to carry it.

That experience reminded me that our instinct to locate responsibility extends far beyond school programs. Lately, we have witnessed an outpouring of commentaries and formal investigations surrounding the death of a beloved basketball player and the recent school shooting in Tacloban. In moments of tragedy, we seldom find rest until someone can be held accountable. Perhaps it is our way of making sense of the senseless, believing that once responsibility is identified, grief becomes more bearable and chaos appears, however briefly, to be under control.

This tendency is hardly new. Social psychologist Gilad Hirschberger (2006) argues that people seek explanations after tragedy because doing so restores a sense of order and predictability in a world suddenly made uncertain. Accountability, therefore, is not merely a legal or social expectation. It is also a psychological need.

Yet there is a deeper form of alienation when our search ends with blaming others and never reaches the difficult terrain within ourselves. What if, instead, we asked questions that have no easy answers? What is this tragedy asking me to learn? If I were the coach, would my good intentions alone absolve me of the unintended consequences of my decisions? If I were the parents of the shooter, have I become so consumed by the countless demands of modern life that I failed to notice the quiet unraveling of my own child? These questions are not meant to indict anyone. Rather, they remind us that every public tragedy carries a private invitation to examine the parts of ourselves we too often leave unquestioned.

In an era that seems to require scapegoats to make sense of tragedy, we often forget to place ourselves within the narrative, not as spectators searching for someone to blame, but as individuals capable of becoming part of the solution. We become so preoccupied with identifying who failed that we overlook the more unsettling question of how our own choices, omissions, and responsibilities can help prevent the same tragedies from happening again.

Perhaps the greatest measure of our humanity is not how quickly we identify who is at fault, but how honestly we allow tragedy to transform us. Accountability will always have its rightful place because justice demands it. Yet beyond the verdicts, the investigations, and the public outrage lies a quieter responsibility that belongs to each of us. Every loss asks whether we have become more attentive, more compassionate, and more faithful to the roles entrusted to us.

Society is not made safer simply because the guilty are punished. It becomes safer when ordinary people choose, in the silence of their everyday lives, to become better parents, teachers, leaders, neighbors, and citizens. Perhaps accountability has never been only about finding the right person to blame. Perhaps it has always been about becoming the right person to carry our own responsibilities.

Wounds

 

                                               (image: youtube.com)

There is a film titled “The Curious Case of Benjamin Button” that captured the attention of many, including Academy Awards jurors. It tells the unusual story of a man who ages in reverse, beginning life as an old man and gradually growing younger. In its final scenes, Benjamin ultimately returns to infancy, ending his journey as a baby.

Some viewers interpret the film by drawing parallels to real life, suggesting that there are people who, instead of growing into maturity, seem to regress into immaturity. It is as though the film reflects how some individuals, regardless of age, remain governed by emotional deficits, eventually slipping into the irrationality and impulsiveness often associated with infancy.

In contemporary terms, Goleman (1995) posits that emotional intelligence, particularly self-regulation, is central to mature behavior, and its absence may lead individuals to act impulsively despite chronological age. This perspective supports the idea that emotional adulthood is not guaranteed by time but earned through inner regulation and unresolved conflict resolved.

We often encounter individuals who appear as giants on the outside, yet carry children trapped within them. More troubling is when these individuals are placed in positions of leadership, where unhealed inner wounds quietly seep into decisions, relationships, and systems. In such roles, harm is not always born of malice, but of overflow—the unconscious need to make others feel the weight they themselves cannot contain alone.

And this is when life becomes complicated and quietly fractured. Instead of moving toward the greater good, organizations begin to weaken as people are slowly consumed by what they carry within. Each one nursing private wounds, they unravel in silence, and in doing so, lose sight of the mission they once swore to serve.

Self-awareness has long been encouraged as a foundation for personal and relational growth. The “child within” must be acknowledged, not to be indulged, but to be understood and healed, so that wholeness may take its place. This process is not an end in itself but a passage toward becoming more capable contributors to the communities we belong to. When development turns inward without a parallel commitment to growth outward, education, skills, and even life itself risk collapsing into self-reference. True growth, therefore, lies in the balance between healing what is broken and building what is possible.

We are not defined by the depth of our wounds, but by the quiet courage to rise from them, and still choose to serve something greater than ourselves.

Switched Off

 

                                              (image: youtube.com / BNC)

Why was there such a massive reaction to the death of Rene Clert Baterbonia?

Beyond the sorrow that follows any loss, many were struck by the cruel timing of Rene Clert Baterbonia’s passing. Fresh from a triumph in the recently concluded Palarong Pambansa, he carried the quiet certainty of a future just beginning to open. He had spoken of Manila, of Ateneo, of basketball as a pathway toward something larger than himself. Then, almost abruptly, that trajectory collapsed. In what was meant to be a team-building activity, he drowned, and with him sank the unfolding possibilities of a life only starting to take shape. The grief, for many, was not only for what was lost, but for what had already begun to be imagined.

Anger soon followed, as it often does in grief. For those who knew him or followed his journey online, sorrow became a demand for accountability. Attention turned toward the figures entrusted with his care, particularly the team’s leadership, as people struggled to reconcile promise with preventable loss. In moments like these, grief rarely remains silent; it searches for a target, a name, a reason that might contain the chaos of absence.

Such reactions reflect a familiar human impulse to assign meaning when events resist understanding. As Elisabeth Kübler-Ross and David Kessler observe, anger is a common response in bereavement, often arising from the mind’s attempt to restore order in the wake of rupture (Kübler-Ross & Kessler, 2005). It is less about punishment than about coherence, a way of making the unbearable momentarily explainable.

In a wider sense, this need for accountability is shaped by a public culture accustomed to scrutiny and exposure, where responsibility is constantly negotiated in the open. Against this backdrop, a young life lost so suddenly becomes more than a private tragedy; it becomes a public question. And when answers feel absent, silence itself begins to feel like another form of injury.

This is why vigilance matters. Trust in coaches and guardians of the young must never drift into passivity. Authority in these spaces is not only functional but moral, demanding attentiveness, care, and the discipline of foresight. When that duty is softened by neglect or convenience, the consequences are no longer abstract. They are irreversible, carried by those left behind.

In the end, the grief over Rene's death has extended beyond individual mourning into something collective and distinctly Filipino. It echoes in shared anxieties about youth, potential, and the fragility of safety in spaces meant for growth. In his absence, many see not only a life interrupted, but a reflection of their own quiet fears for those still beginning their journey. And in that recognition, grief becomes both remembrance and reckoning.

Let You Own Light Shine

 

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You feel threatened by my abilities and skills? Why? Is it because you measure your worth against that of others? Must every strength you see in someone else become a challenge to your own?

There are instances in workplaces and group settings where individuals perceive the competence and growth of others as a form of threat. Is this because one’s sense of worth becomes tied to comparison with others? Must the strengths of others always be interpreted as a challenge to one’s own?

When another person’s success, confidence, or abilities cause discomfort, it may be easier to label them as a threat than to reflect on the internal reasons behind such reactions. This tendency aligns with the concept of projection, where internal insecurities are attributed to others. Recognizing this allows for greater self-awareness, healthier relationships, and a more focused commitment to personal growth rather than constant comparison.

In many workplaces, individuals who are actively developing their skills and performing their responsibilities with diligence are sometimes misperceived as competitors. Many of them are not engaged in comparison at all. They are guided by personal growth, professional responsibility, and a healthy sense of self-worth. However, their progress may be interpreted differently by those who struggle with self-image concerns.

Such perceptions, when present among leaders or colleagues, can unintentionally affect organizational development. When insecurity influences judgment, competence and initiative may be misread as threats rather than contributions. This can lead to counterproductive responses that undermine collaboration and create unnecessary division within the organization.

As a result, workplace dynamics may be affected, as insecurity-based interpretations can weaken trust and reduce collaboration. As noted in recent organizational psychology discussions, such perceptions can distort interpersonal interactions and contribute to avoidable conflict instead of shared progress (Clair et al., 2022).

Ultimately, individuals who demonstrate emotional maturity and self-awareness tend to contribute more effectively within both leadership and group contexts. Their capacity for self-regulation and reflection enables them to engage constructively with others, fostering collaboration and strengthening organizational well-being. In this way, personal development becomes directly linked to collective progress.

So, please take a moment to reflect on whether I am simply doing my job with integrity and purpose, rather than challenging or questioning your credibility.