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The Equilibrium, A. Pablo Street Malinta, Valenzuela (2025)

10/12/2025

𝗙𝗘𝗔𝗧𝗨𝗥𝗘 | Gift Wrapper

𝘚𝘢𝘯𝘵𝘢 𝘩𝘢𝘴 𝘧𝘢𝘷𝘰𝘶𝘳𝘪𝘵𝘦𝘴 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘐’𝘮 𝘯𝘰𝘵 𝘰𝘯𝘦 𝘰𝘧 𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘮. 𝘛𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘸𝘢𝘴 𝘤𝘭𝘦𝘢𝘳 𝘵𝘰 𝘮𝘦 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘮𝘰𝘮𝘦𝘯𝘵 𝘐 𝘭𝘦𝘢𝘳𝘯𝘦𝘥 𝘰𝘧 𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘦𝘹𝘪𝘴𝘵𝘦𝘯𝘤𝘦.

Len had but one wish, something that everyone else had, but something Santa never fulfilled. Nevertheless, she is still grateful to spend time with her family. Every Christmas, each of them had a role to fulfil. Her sister would be responsible for the decorations around their house; her mother, the cook who prepares food they would share for Christmas; her father, who wraps gifts the neatest, though he roughly makes it home for Christmas Eve or morning, working long hours as a tricycle driver just to sustain their living; and Len who sets out the cookies and milk as offering to Santa after they come home from Simbang Gabi.

On Christmas Eve, Len, her older sister, and her mother would be at the church, attending Simbang Gabi. With the place packed with people and their words spilling into the air, it was impossible not to eavesdrop on conversations. Upon overhearing a mother and her child's exchange, something interesting and mysterious about it piqued her attention.

“Sige na nak, 'wag na tayo bumili ng popcorn. Sige ka, hindi ka bibigyan ng regalo ni Santa Claus kasi masyado ka na maraming hinihingi”. The mother told her child in an attempt to calm his growing demands. The child pouted in response, but it was enough to make him give up. Len could not help but wonder who this man was who could make children behave by just being mentioned.

Asking her father about it, she found out that Santa Claus is a kind man who delivers wishes throughout the world. Children would offer cookies and milk at night in hopes that Santa would visit them. In the morning, they would wake up, rushing to find the plates of cookies they had left cleaned off and gifts left under a tree for them to open. The gifts would be wrapped in colourful paper, building their anticipation to open them as the mystery beneath the wrapper grew. She could not help but wonder.

Will he ever come to her house, too?

Ever since then, Len has used the spare snack money her father gave her for school to buy biscuits and a sachet of milk after attending Simbang Gabi with her parents. Len picks out the fanciest plate they have to lay out the biscuits while waiting for the water she had set in a kettle to boil before pouring it onto the powdered milk in a glass. With a heart filled with excitement, she sets out the plate and the glass of milk in the living room, warning her family not to touch them. This leaves her preparations for the offerings complete.

However, upon Len’s wake the next morning, her heart would be filled with a pang of pain and dejection. Although the biscuits had been eaten, the glass of milk emptied, and presents sat on their table, deep in her heart, Len knew Santa had not visited her.

Pressing her nose against the glass window, Len watched as the neighbouring kids ripped open the wrapping of their presents. With longing eyes, she watched the other child, surrounded by his family, excitedly open the gifts as he guessed what the wrapper contained. Len had but one wish, something that the other kid and anyone else had, a wish so simple she thinks Santa would be kind enough to grant it for her.

The thrill of ripping up gift wrappers, something Len never got to experience. The luxury of buying something for one-time use was something her parents found wasteful, especially when they were struggling with money. Therefore, whenever Len received gifts, it would either be already unwrapped or she would be told to save the wrapper for future use, leaving her yearning for a simple joy she had never known.

Perhaps the biscuits were too bland, the milk too sweet, or maybe she had been a naughty child. As she grew older, she would do the same old routine, repeating the same preparation in hopes that Santa would finally grant her wish. But to no avail, it never did.

This year, she changed her offering routine. Last year was supposedly her last, after she finally wrote a letter about what she wished for her, and it still did not get fulfilled. But her mother insists that she does not stop; perhaps the following year will be the one where she receives what she wants.

This time, instead of biscuits, Len bought cookies. She replaced the usually fancy plate with one that feels more like “home”. Then placed these prepared meals on the usual table in the living room, where she met her busy mother and sister, who were suspiciously startled when she placed down the plates. And then, she went to bed with a slight hope in her heart that the wish would be fulfilled.

As she woke up, she slowly went to the living room, each step carefully taken. Although she said she had no more expectations of what was to come, there was still a small whisper in her heart that her wish would come true. The cookies and milk were cleared, although mysteriously enough, this time, there were no presents on the table.

Her mother had called her to the kitchen, telling her to eat with them. As she went to the kitchen, she was met with a neatly wrapped gift, a kind that only one person in the family could make. Her sister, sitting beside it, wore a warm smile, and there beside her was her father, home early for the first Christmas morning in years.

Her chest lightens, her tense shoulders relax, and a smile appears on her face.

𝘚𝘢𝘯𝘵𝘢 𝘪𝘴 𝘧𝘪𝘯𝘢𝘭𝘭𝘺 𝘩𝘦𝘳𝘦.

Not the one from the North Pole, but the one she had always expected to come. The warm presence of her whole family for Christmas.

𝘔𝘢𝘺𝘣𝘦 𝘚𝘢𝘯𝘵𝘢 𝘥𝘪𝘥 𝘩𝘢𝘷𝘦 𝘧𝘢𝘷𝘰𝘶𝘳𝘪𝘵𝘦𝘴, 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘧𝘰𝘳 𝘰𝘯𝘤𝘦, 𝘴𝘰 𝘥𝘪𝘥 𝘩𝘦𝘳 𝘧𝘢𝘮𝘪𝘭𝘺.

Her wish, along with its hidden layers, is finally fulfilled. And possibly, soon, the wishes of other children, too. Some wishes might be difficult to fulfil, but they can only come true when one wishes for them to be. As Christmas comes, the spirit of hope and gratefulness should not be forgotten. A written letter, a whispered prayer, a silent hope, albeit wishes to be fulfilled only by those who can dream.

via | Aishen Marasigan
Cartoon | Angel Bartolome
Copyread | Diane Ecaldre
Layout | Sidney Villalino

08/12/2025

𝗜𝗖𝗬𝗠𝗜 | Salute to Service: Sama-Ka-Bata 2025

More than just skill and intellect, we honor students who embody the true qualities of leadership. These are individuals who guide with integrity, inspire through action, and teach with purpose. 👩‍🏫🧠

Last December 5, 2025, the Valenzuela City School of Mathematics and Science held an awarding ceremony for student teachers who stepped up during the Girls and Boys Week or Sama-Ka-Bata event. Rising to the challenge, they demonstrated passion, responsibility, and commitment to their roles, showing us that they possess not only the mind of an educator but also the heart of a learner.

May this celebration remind us that leadership is rooted in humility and the courage to make a difference. 💞

Newscast via | TV Broadcasting Team / The Equilibrium

07/12/2025

𝗙𝗘𝗔𝗧𝗨𝗥𝗘 | When Stars Visit the Streets

There are cities where stars drown behind smoke, and there are children who learn to borrow their light from somewhere else. In Manila, the closest thing to a night sky arrives in December—when parols bloom on windows like captured suns, when Christmas lights drip from rooftops like constellations arranged by human hands, when even the humblest street corner glows faintly with color.

For children who had grown up in the dimmest parts of the world, this borrowed brightness meant more than anyone realized.

Along the cold pavement near Quiapo Church, Maya adjusted her brother higher on her back. Michael’s thin arms wrapped around her shoulders, his cheek pressed lightly to her hair. He was older, but life had taught him to take up less space than any child ever should. His legs—once quick, once full of life—lay still against her sides.

She never complained about carrying him.
He never complained that she had to.

Yanyan trailed behind them, her bare feet blackened by dust, a bundle of Sampaguita garlands hanging from her small arms. She was the youngest, though her eyes had learned to look older.

Across the street, families spilled from Simbang Gabi like sunlight spilling from an open door. The warm glow painted every face in honey-colored light. Mothers tucked jackets around their children; fathers lifted sleepy toddlers into their arms; grandparents laughed with their entire faces. The smell of freshly baked bibingka drifted like a memory. Christmas songs floated from somewhere unseen—a choir caught between prayer and celebration.

“Ang saya naman tignan,” Michael murmured from Maya’s back, his eyes tracing the running children.

“Paskong-Pasko na talaga,” Maya replied, trying to smile.

They watched a little boy—about Michael’s age—race after his father, both wearing matching red jackets. The boy stumbled, fell, laughed, and was lifted back into warmth without a second thought.

Michael looked down at his own unmoving legs.

Yanyan caught the shadow that crossed his face—the kind of quiet that breaks something in a person.

“Kuya…” she whispered, unsure what to say.

But Michael only shook his head lightly. “Okay lang. Masaya lang kasi sila panoorin.”

Yet even children cannot lie to themselves completely.

A cold wind passed. Warm laughter crossed the street but never reached their side.

Yanyan, the smallest but the loudest heartbeat among them, tugged at her Sampaguita. Her bare feet were numb, her fingers stiff, but she kept smiling. Children her age should have been asleep in warm pajamas, dreaming of gifts. Instead, she counted coins.

And counted again.

And again—just to be sure.

Like counting could bend the world in their favor.

“Hindi talaga aabot,” she whispered at last, her voice barely more than a breath, fragile as the petals she carried.

Her shoulders shook. She bowed her head as if apologizing to the world for failing.

Maya pulled her close with one arm while balancing Michael’s weight with the other. “Wag ka umiyak, Yanyan. May bukas pa.”

But tomorrow was a stranger to them.

As they passed a bakery, Yanyan froze, her eyes wide. Cakes of all shapes and colors gleamed through the glass. Her lips parted slightly, and for a brief moment, she imagined herself with one. She whispered softly, almost to herself.

“Ang sarap po siguro magkaroon ng birthday cake….”

Maya glanced at her, then at their coins in Yanyan’s small hand. She knew immediately. The pile would never be enough for even the smallest cake. A lump formed in her throat. “Baka sa susunod na lang…” she whispered.

They continued walking, weaving through the thinning crowd, until they reached their usual corner under a closed store’s awning. The cold wrapped around them like a shroud, but they huddled close. Above, the sky was mostly smothered by smoke and clouds, but a few stars peeked through, faint and shy.

They fell into a quiet that stretched between them, listening to carols drifting from somewhere unseen, to the faint laughter of children who ran without care. For a fleeting moment, the city didn’t feel so harsh—it seemed to lean toward them, just enough to let them catch a glimpse of something like mercy. Then, in whispers, they bowed their heads together.

“Papa Jesus,” Yanyan murmured, “kung puwede po, sana… sana magkaroon po ng himala.”
Michael’s voice was quieter, almost a breath: “Sana po… kahit konti… Okay na po kami doon”
Yanyan added, “At sana po… lagi po kami maging magkakasama.”

A shadow moved in the quiet, gentle as a sigh. A man knelt before them, a Santa-like red cap perched on his head, grocery bags resting at his sides.

“Mga anak,” he said softly. “Kumain na ba kayo?”

Maya shook her head.

He looked at them for a second before smiling gently. From his bags, he pulled out three steaming cups of arroz caldo, pandesal, kutsinta, bibingka, and lumpia then pushed aside the other plastic bags. The warmth alone made the children shiver in relief.

“Papa Jesus?” Yanyan whispered, eyes wide, a mix of surprise and joy spilling from her small voice.

The man looked at them for a long, quiet moment, then shook his head gently, a small smile touching his lips. He reached out and patted Yanyan’s head softly, the sorrow in his gesture almost as palpable as the cold around them.

Then, slowly, he reached into the last bag.

And lifted out a small cake. Round, iced, with tiny sugar flowers, and a single candle taped to the top.

“Para sa iyo,” he said, handing it to Yanyan. Her hands trembled as she touched it. Written shakily on the icing were the words:

“Happy Birthday, Yanyan,”

Yanyan gasped. She pressed her face into Maya’s shoulder and whispered, “Po… para po sa akin?”

“Yes,” the man said softly. “Ngayong gabi, ikaw ang pinaka-special sa mundo.”

Tears spilled down Yanyan’s cheeks before she could stop them. She let go of Maya for a moment and ran forward, hugging the man tightly, burying her face against his chest. His hand rested on her head, stroking her hair as if trying to absorb some of her sorrow and replace it with warmth.

Maya’s eyes glistened. Michael’s cheeks were wet. Yanyan’s small hands shook as she blew out the candle.

Arroz caldo warmed their bodies, and cake sweetened their hearts. It was the quiet magic of being seen, of being chosen. Yanyan fed Michael a tiny slice; Michael returned the favor, frosting smudging Maya’s nose. Maya kissed the top of Yanyan’s head. Messy, warm, together—finally, they were enough.

The man watched quietly. Then, without a word, he stood and disappeared into the crowd, leaving them with food, a cake, and a miracle.

Above, the sky twinkled faintly. The parols glowed like borrowed constellations. For one night, for this perfect moment, the lights were theirs.

Christmas had always belonged to everyone else.

Tonight, for the first time in a long time, it belonged to them, too.

And perhaps—if one dares to believe—the world is always full of little Santas, small wonders, and quiet miracles. That magic does not arrive in packages or coins, but in the hands that give, the hearts that see, and the hope that refuses to die.

Even in the coldest corners, even in the darkest streets, the stars will visit those who remember how to believe.

via | Jasmine Vercasion
Layout | Sidney Villalino

05/12/2025

𝗙𝗘𝗔𝗧𝗨𝗥𝗘 | Christmas Blues

It is joyous, this time of the year, it's supposed to be.

Every time I walk home, more and more bright lights color the gray road, and jeepneys now play a seemingly universal playlist consisting of Jose Mari Chan and Mariah Carey. Street stalls have now started to sell p**o bumbong and bibingka, and mall air conditioning seems to have a stronger scent of capitalism.

It is nostalgic, familiar, yet I cannot help but feel blue.

A nine-to-five job is not particularly designed to foster social connections. It is made to maximize space and ensure every peso turns to profit. That means everyone is in their boxes, isolated, alone.

It's been years of the very same routine. Saying good morning to the security guard, tiptoeing around the wet spot the janitor had just mopped, and plopping down to my semi-uncomfortable office chair. It is the perfect recipe for loneliness and self-isolation.

I say hi to my coworkers when we meet at the printing room or when we refill our bottles in the water station, but the relationship does not dig deeper. It stays on the surface, superficial and cordial. There is no one to blame for this type of relationship. After all, there is always a hint of misery that lingers on the cold tiled floors, and pretending it does not exist only worsens it. So, everyone stays in line, doing what they are paid to do so.

This air of loneliness becomes heavily apparent, especially during the Christmas season when the winds are a little bit colder, and I turn a little bit older.

It happens every year, yet I am never ready for it. For the tides to shift, and for the Earth to complete one more revolution. It's arbitrary, this event. It is only on paper that we mark the cycle in which the year repeats. It is only on paper that everyone will step into another starting line. It's a celebration because everyone agreed to partake.

And yet it is this 4-month event that highlights what one lacks. There is, of course, the mountain of gifts and material goods that reeks of late-stage capitalism. The glamorous Noche Buena that the government thinks fits within the budget of 500 pesos. But beyond that, Christmas is ultimately about love, family, and companionship.

Some have been lucky to form friend groups in this miserable office, but I am not fortunate enough to be part of them.

I make my effort. I engage in conversations with curiosity and genuineness, and at the moment, it feels as though I am slowly building a connection with Maria from Accountancy, but when it matters, I always find myself having nowhere to go.

It's almost as if we're playing the boat is sinking, and I am somehow always the one left, like Jack hanging on the side of Rose’s door. No matter how tight I hold onto it, I’ll still sink to the bottom of the Atlantic.

Also, like Jack, I hold no resentment for these people. Part of me chose this path. We, humans, tend to lean into what gives us the most comfort, and sometimes that means sticking to already established connections we’ve made in the past. It is hard to make deeper connections if only one is willing to dig.

Most of the time, this ugly sense of longing is buried by the joy I feel when I see those around me happy. They might not care for me as deeply, but their smiles are contagious enough to mask the unhappiness brewing inside. People watching is my favorite hobby, I guess!

It is only when I sit in the dark, alone with my thoughts, does the ache finally hits. I replay every interaction and analyze where I went wrong and where I can be better. What cues did I miss? What conversation starters are better?

At some point in this self-inflicted torture that I realized that maybe it is not my fault. Maybe it is neither of our faults.

It is what makes its damage more potent, the fact that it's the circumstances that resulted in this situation in the first place. It is not their fault that they are closed off when it comes to friendships within the confines of the office. It is also not my fault that those I’m surrounded with are just not willing to reach beyond what is necessary. It is simply the reality of being an adult, and reality only makes statements, not debates.

Just like how the rain simply falls, the inevitable will always occur. Christmas will come around, and the seasons will change. The winds will be colder than before, and the songs of celebration will eventually ring. It might seem like an endless loop, but I will still try and try, and maybe, just maybe, the holidays will finally be as joyous as they made it out to be.

via | Angel Bartolome

01/12/2025

𝗙𝗘𝗔𝗧𝗨𝗥𝗘 | The Science of Quiet Moments

Scientists say the brain is a strange and stubborn archivist. It collects millions of fragments—sounds, smells, the rhythm of footsteps, doors closing—but it chooses only a few to preserve, polishing them quietly, often without our knowing. But it never tells us which ones will stay, which ones will fade, or which ones will quietly sit in the corner of our minds until one ordinary day, they return with a weight that presses against your chest, a gravity made of all the small, overlooked moments you didn’t realize mattered until they hit you again.

They say it stores what the heart recognizes first, long before the mind understands. They are the invisible, almost forgotten gestures—a plate of warm food placed on the table without being asked, a shirt folded neatly on the cabinet, a whispered “𝘨𝘰𝘰𝘥𝘯𝘪𝘨𝘩𝘵 𝘢𝘯𝘢𝘬,” or the strange, magical way you fall asleep on the sofa while watching cartoons and wake up on your bed, blankets tucked, safe, without ever knowing who carried you.

When you look back, it is strange how the moments that stay with you the longest, hidden underneath layers of your memory, are not the grandest ones. Instead, it’s the small, quiet moments—the way your mother would wake you up for school with a gentle whisper, the way your father would switch off the light after checking the room one last time, seeing you asleep on the bed.

For years, you assume it simply happened, that sleep carried you through the hallway until you reached the bed. But now you know—someone lifted you gently, tired arms wrapped under your small frame, adjusting your blanket so you wouldn’t get cold, kissing your forehead even if you never felt it. All their exhaustion—the long day, aching feet, heavy shoulders—vanished the moment they saw you safe, warm, and sleeping peacefully. That little peace of yours was why they endured it all. That was why every tired step, every struggle, was worth it.

𝗧𝗵𝗮𝘁 𝘄𝗮𝘀 𝗹𝗼𝘃𝗲, 𝗱𝗶𝘀𝗴𝘂𝗶𝘀𝗲𝗱 𝗮𝘀 𝗮 𝗺𝗲𝗺𝗼𝗿𝘆 𝘀𝗼 𝗻𝗼𝗿𝗺𝗮𝗹 𝘆𝗼𝘂 𝗱𝗶𝗱𝗻’𝘁 𝗿𝗲𝗮𝗹𝗶𝘇𝗲 𝗶𝘁 𝘄𝗮𝘀 𝗲𝘅𝘁𝗿𝗮𝗼𝗿𝗱𝗶𝗻𝗮𝗿𝘆.

Growing up, you argued. You slammed doors. You said words sharper than you intended. You ignored advice, resisted rules, and sometimes refused to speak to the very people who cared for you the most. You did not know how to measure exhaustion or patience; you only knew frustration and the desire to be understood. And they sometimes fail. They spoke too sharply, scolded too quickly, misunderstood, lost their temper, or remained silent when you needed words. Not every household is perfect; not every childhood is easy. Some scars are visible, some invisible. Some arguments leave a pain that lingers for years. And yet, even in these imperfect moments, love persists in small, quiet ways.

Love was present even when it was flawed, even when it was quiet, even when it was tired. Because even in the midst of conflict, they still saved the last piece of food for you. Even after you shouted, they still checked if you had enough money for another school day. Even when you felt unloved, they still made sure you were sleeping soundly.

What makes these moments hurt, though, as one grows older, is the sudden realization that none of them are permanent. Someday, they will grow old. Their steps will slow down, their hands will tremble when lifting things, their voices will soften and lose volume, and their eyes, once bright and full of life, may cloud with fatigue and age. The very gestures you have always taken for granted—the folded shirts, the warm food, the tucked blankets, the calls to check if ever you need something—will begin to require effort. And then, one day, they will vanish.

One day, the footsteps outside a bedroom door will no longer pause to check if you’re asleep. One day, you might fall asleep on the sofa, and no one will be there to carry you back to bed. One day, no one would greet you after coming home from a long, tiring school day. One day, the familiar call of “𝘔𝘢?” or “𝘗𝘢?” will feel foreign on your tongue not because you have forgotten the words, but because the voices that once answered them have fallen silent, and the habit of calling them has faded over time.

People often expect loss to announce itself dramatically, but sometimes it slips in gently. You wake up one morning, and the house feels different. You reach for the memory of a voice and realize you haven’t heard it in a while. You try to remember the last time someone scolded you for coming home late, or the last time someone asked if you’d eaten, or the last time you smelled hands that cared for you, reeking of garlic from your favorite meal—and you cannot. And suddenly the smallest things hurt the most, because those were the things that once held your life together without you noticing.

This is why the brain protects the small memories. It knows that one day, the soft moments will matter more than the big ones. It knows that the tired hands that worked endlessly to give you a comfortable life were performing a kind of love you were too young to recognize. It knows that even if arguments happened, even if misunderstandings lingered, even if the relationship was complicated, the brain still stitches together the gentle scenes—the ones that proved love existed in whatever form it could.

Perhaps it is a call to awareness—a reminder of the empty stomachs behind your full plate, the sleepless nights behind your restful childhood, and the hidden tears behind your comfort.

𝗕𝗲𝗰𝗮𝘂𝘀𝗲 𝗽𝗮𝗿𝗲𝗻𝘁𝘀 𝗱𝗼 𝗻𝗼𝘁 𝘀𝘁𝗮𝘆 𝗳𝗼𝗿𝗲𝘃𝗲𝗿.

Time is a thief that moves in silence. It gathers the moments you thought were yours to keep, vanishing them before you realize they were fleeting, even the ones you held for granted.

So before that day comes—before time steals the chance you still have, before regret becomes heavier than gratitude—you must do the things they never asked for but have always deserved.

Go home a little earlier.
Stay a little longer.
Listen a little deeper.
Answer their calls without waiting for need.
Thank them without waiting for guilt.
Love them without waiting for loss.

And for the love that carried you through your childhood in ways you never understood then—𝗵𝘂𝗴 𝘆𝗼𝘂𝗿 𝗽𝗮𝗿𝗲𝗻𝘁𝘀 𝘄𝗵𝗶𝗹𝗲 𝘆𝗼𝘂 𝘀𝘁𝗶𝗹𝗹 𝗰𝗮𝗻.

via | Jasmine Vercasion
Copyread | Francine Gomez
Layout | Anne Ducut

30/11/2025

𝗪𝗔𝗧𝗖𝗛 𝗡𝗢𝗪 | Bonifacio Day Special 🇵🇭

𝑯𝒐𝒏𝒐𝒓𝒊𝒏𝒈 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒔𝒑𝒂𝒓𝒌 𝒕𝒉𝒂𝒕 𝒊𝒈𝒏𝒊𝒕𝒆𝒅 𝒐𝒖𝒓 𝒇𝒓𝒆𝒆𝒅𝒐𝒎 🔥

Today, we remember Andrés Bonifacio and the courage, passion, and unwavering spirit that moved him to fight for our nation’s freedom. His determination continues to inspire us to stand for what is right and to love our country with pride.

May this day remind every Filipino that heroism lives within all of us, and that even the smallest act of bravery can spark a lasting change.

The Equilibrium honors Andrés Bonifacio and every Filipino who continues to fuel the spirit of bayanihan.

Original Video via | TV Broadcasting Team / The Equilibrium

26/11/2025

𝗢𝗣𝗜𝗡𝗜𝗢𝗡 | People First, Progress Follows

Population and Development Week is celebrated annually from November 23 to 29. This week, schools and communities are called to put the people’s concerns into the limelight—population growth, responsible choice, family planning, and investment in human development.

With the hassle and bustle of various issues looming over the nation, this recognition should not only be viewed as a ceremony but also as a time to be informed that the nation's progress cannot be separated from the well-being of all its citizens.

According to the United Nations Population Fund (UNFPA), a country's development slows down when its people are uninformed about reproductive health, family planning, and demographic change. When people choose to ignore these topics, they choose not to deal with certain realities that influence social issues, which continue to haunt the country: poverty, employment, education, and public health.

As a solution, this week aims to correct that. Education in population matters shoulders the youth with knowledge and responsibility in making informed decisions that build healthier families and stronger societies. Knowledge is a privilege, but beyond that is also protection and progress.

Population and Development Week also embodies the call for responsible parenthood. The World Bank, for instance, ensures that families that are planned and well-supported are able to achieve better health, better education, and a higher chance of escaping poverty. Understanding these realities makes people more aware that population issues deal with the real lives of each individual.

This week serves as a reminder of how population pressures influence the demands on national resources. As stated by the Asian Development Bank, rapid growth weighs heavily on public services and community needs, while balanced growth allows more investment in each citizen. Therefore, awareness matters—for the choices one makes today shape the opportunities of tomorrow.

While multiple programs are launched during this week to hone informed communities that are resilient and better equipped to contribute towards national development through youth empowerment, reproductive health education, and responsible decision-making, the real challenge remains after the observance ends. Awareness is only the first step. Sustained progress needs continuous education, strong policy support, and active participation from individuals, families, and institutions. The issues of population concerns do not disappear just after a week, but rather, they demand year-round commitment.

In the end, Population and Development Week calls us to remember that the choices of today's citizens shape the course of a nation's future. When citizens are informed, responsible, and continually care for either the present or future generations, we can go a long way toward having a Philippines where development is sustainable, inclusive, and equitably shared by all.

via | Sophia D’Souza
Cartoon | Jianna Bulaqueña
Layout | Chloe Sobreviñas

25/11/2025

𝗡𝗔𝗧𝗜𝗢𝗡𝗔𝗟 𝗕𝗢𝗢𝗞 𝗪𝗘𝗘𝗞 𝟮𝟬𝟮𝟱

Every November 24–30, we come together to celebrate the power of stories, the ones that shaped our childhood, sparked our imagination, and opened worlds we’ve never seen.

With the theme “Tulay ang Pagbasa sa Bukas na Puno ng Pag-asa” (Reading is the bridge to a future full of hope), we honor stories not just as sources of knowledge, but as bridges that lead us toward growth, possibility, and a more hopeful future

May this week inspire us to read a little more, dream a little bigger, and appreciate the stories that continue to guide, comfort, and transform us.

Layout | Anne Ducut & Chloe Sobreviñas

25/11/2025

𝗦𝗣𝗢𝗥𝗧𝗦 𝗡𝗘𝗪𝗦 | Stroked heading to the regionals

PARAISO NI BASTE — Swimming with pride, Corvin McMeans, a student-athlete from the Valenzuela City School of Mathematics and Science (ValMaSci) clinched multiple podium recognitions in the Valenzuela City Divisional Swimming Meet last November 14, 2025.

Carrying ValMaSci’s name on his back, he drilled passing through the unit meet, making him qualified for the regionals.

Mcmeans bagged Gold in Butterfly (100 meters), Silver in Butterfly (50 meters), Bronze in Breaststroke (100 meters), Bronze in Breaststroke (50 meters), and Bronze in Freestyle (50 meters).

He went against multiple strong athletes across different schools from Valenzuela city. Some schools include Claremont School of Valenzuela City, Saint Mary's Angels College of Valenzuela Inc., and Sto. Rosario School.

Consistency and discipline will always be the key for McMeans. These factors gave him an edge over his opponents as per his coach, Mr. Ronald Frio.

On another angle, McMeans is looking forward to his Regionals run, welcoming new challenges and opportunities.

“I felt good knowing that I made it to the NCR meet and that my training did not go to waste; but, the thing is I haven't won yet
—there are still more challenges up ahead,” McMeans said.

While performing, McMeans stated that he had nothing on his mind because he was rather focused on the competition. Moreover, he was not only doing it for himself, but also for the people who surround and support him.

“In my mind, I thought to myself that: it doesn't matter if I can't do it because I have to do it not just for myself but for all the people that believe in me and are cheering for me,” McMeans expressed.

As he plummets to the regionals, he carries his words: “the older you get, the faster you have to be and the harder it will get; so I have to try my best to achieve that goal [Palarong Pambansa].”

Even though the outcomes are yet to be decided, one thing is definite: his passion for swimming is worth more than any medals.

via | Gabriel Aquino and Nayumi Vargas
Copyread | Jose Puno
Layout | Kevin Rodrigueza

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