The Midlife Crisis
I Never Saw Coming
Between the chessboard, my stroke, my family, and the dreams I had to postpone.
"Kaya ko pa kaya?"
whispered to an old photograph
There are moments in life when you suddenly stop and ask yourself if this is really where you are supposed to be — not because you have failed, and not because you have stopped dreaming, but because the person you used to be can no longer do everything the way he used to. That, for me, is what a midlife crisis feels like. It isn't always about buying a sports car or chasing your youth again. Sometimes it is much quieter.
The Chessboard That I Miss
For years, chess has been more than a game to me — it has been part of my identity. I am a chess athlete, an Arena Grandmaster who has competed in the Philippines and in Malaysia. I know the tension of the clock, the silence before a move, the thrill of finding a winning combination. Chess taught me patience. It taught me sacrifice. It taught me that sometimes you have to lose a piece to win the game.
But life gave me a lesson no chessboard could prepare me for: a stroke. Suddenly, the athlete who was used to competing had to learn a completely different kind of competition. This time the opponent wasn't sitting across the board — the opponent was inside me. My body. My limitations. My uncertainty. And sometimes, my own fear.
I still love chess. I still crave the smell of tournament halls, the sound of chess clocks, the handshake before the first move. But there are tournaments I can no longer simply join — not because I don't want to, but because my body sometimes says, "Not yet."
And that hurts. Masakit. Because when you're an athlete, you don't simply miss a tournament — you miss a piece of yourself.
The Learner Who Still Wants to Learn
There's another part of me that refuses to grow old: the learner. I have always craved new courses, new technologies, new ideas, new skills, new opportunities. Whenever a new program or scholarship or fellowship crosses my path, something inside me still says, "Gusto ko 'yan."
Then reality sits beside me — tuition, transportation, food, bills, family expenses, my children's needs. And I find myself doing the mathematics of the heart: "Kung gagastusin ko ito para sa sarili kong pag-aaral, saan kukunin ang panggastos ng pamilya?"
So I postpone. Again. And again. And sometimes I wonder how many dreams I've quietly sacrificed — not because I lacked the ability, but because someone else needed me more.
When you're young, you ask, "What do I want?" When you become a parent, you begin asking, "What does my family need?" Somewhere between those two questions, your own dreams sometimes get lost.
The Opportunities That Passed Me By
There are opportunities I remember — some I pursued, some I missed, some I wasn't ready for, some that simply came at the wrong time. There are doors I look back at now and wonder: what if I had entered that door? What if I had studied that course, accepted that opportunity, competed in that tournament? What if I had started earlier, or my body had remained stronger, or I had more money, or I were younger?
Those questions can become dangerous, because "what if" has no endgame. Like a chess position you keep analyzing long after the game has ended, you can spend your entire life replaying moves that can no longer be changed.
You cannot win a game by constantly analyzing the position you already left behind.
Age Is Another Opponent
There's something strange about getting older. When you're young, thirty seems old. Then forty comes. Then fifty. And suddenly you realize time is no longer something you take for granted. You watch younger people receive opportunities you once dreamed about — new athletes rising, new professionals beginning, students freely pursuing degrees. And sometimes you wonder, "Am I already too late?"
That question has visited me many times, especially after my stroke. Because recovery teaches you humility. You celebrate things other people take for granted — standing, walking, moving, speaking, trying again. And every small victory reminds me: I am still here.
But Maybe This Isn't the Endgame
Perhaps I've been looking at this crisis from the wrong side of the board. Maybe it isn't a crisis of age. Maybe it's a crisis of identity. Who am I now? If I can't compete the way I used to, am I still an athlete? If I can't study every course I want, am I still a learner? If my body has limitations, am I still strong? If opportunities have passed, do I still have a future?
I think I finally know the answer: YES.
Yes, I am still an athlete — because an athlete isn't defined only by medals. Yes, I am still a learner — because curiosity doesn't have an expiration date. Yes, I am still strong — because strength isn't the absence of disability; strength is continuing despite it. And yes, I still have a future — because the game is not over.
I May Have Lost Some Moves. But I Have Not Lost the Game.
My stroke changed my life. My disability changed the way I move through the world. Age has changed my opportunities. Family responsibilities have changed my priorities. And yes, there are dreams I've had to postpone. But I refuse to call them dead. Postponed is not the same as abandoned.
Maybe I can't chase every dream anymore. Maybe I have to choose carefully — to be wiser about where I spend my time, energy, and money. Maybe my next victories won't come with trophies. Maybe they'll come as another course completed, another book read, another skill learned, another tournament attended even if I'm not the one playing, another young person inspired — another day when I wake up and say, "I still want to learn."
My New Definition of Winning
I used to think winning meant defeating an opponent. Now I understand that sometimes winning means simply refusing to surrender. Winning is getting up after the fall. Winning is accepting the body you have while continuing to strengthen the mind you possess. Winning is choosing family without completely abandoning yourself. Winning is looking at your age and saying, "Yes, I am older. But I am not finished."
The chessboard of life has changed. Some pieces have been taken. Some moves can no longer be played. But there are still pieces on the board — and as long as there is a piece left, there is a move.
So, Am I Having a Midlife Crisis?
Maybe I am. But perhaps this crisis isn't asking me to become the person I was twenty years ago. Perhaps it's asking me to discover who I can still become. The younger me wanted to conquer the world. The older me wants to make sense of it.
The athlete in me still wants to compete. The survivor in me wants to inspire. The father in me wants to provide. The educator in me wants to teach. The learner in me still wants to discover. And the dreamer in me? He refuses to retire.
I may have missed opportunities. I may have lost time. I may have limitations I never asked for. But I still have something incredibly valuable: another move. And tomorrow morning, I intend to make it.
Checkmate is not yet written.
Still learning · Still fighting · Still dreaming · Still living
