I apologize for the delay; I was unable to post for several months. I had a stroke last year, and this is my story.
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While the city blazed with parades, lights, and fanfare, my world dimmed in an instant.
I remember it clearly—or at least, I try to. The day began like any other Manila Day: warm air, buzzing streets, and that proud, defiant heartbeat only our capital knows. But somewhere between the laughter and the feast, my left arm went limp. My words began to slur. My heart knew before my mind could catch up: this was not normal.
I was having a stroke.
While others were marching in celebration, I was being wheeled into a hospital, not knowing if I would ever march again.
The irony bit hard—on the day Manila was born, I almost died.
The days that followed were blurred pain and silent prayers. I couldn’t move my hand. My body, once strong and steady, had become unfamiliar. I was a prisoner in my own skin. But something in me, something Manila-bred and fire-forged, refused to give up.
I fought.
One twitch became a movement. A breath became a sentence. One step became two. Then three.
Now, one year later, I don’t just celebrate Manila Day — I honor it as my second birthday. Not the day I was born, but the day I was reborn.
I am not the same man I was.
I am slower, maybe. But I am deeper. Wiser. Grateful.
The left hand may still be stubborn, but the heart? It’s unstoppable.
So today, as the city raises its flags — so do I.
A survivor. A warrior. A living testament to the spirit of this city and the strength that rises when all else falls.
Happy Manila Day. Happy Survival Day.
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