For All the Tables That Held Me This Year
The cold breeze brushed against my skin as I hurried toward the hospital on New Year's Eve. The streets lay unnaturally quiet, with only the occasional vehicle gliding past and stray cats and dogs wandering the shadows. In my mind, I could almost hear the contrasting chaos behind every closed door—the lively gatherings, laughter and anticipation building toward the midnight feast of media noche.
But on the streets, amid that eerie stillness, my own desperate prayers spilled from my lips, louder than anything else in the night. I pleaded for a hospital that could finally meet my urgent needs. The first one—the closest—had nothing available. The second offered no relief either. And yet, what lingered most vividly was the moment I pushed through the doors of that second hospital, a devastating scene unfolded before me—a lifeless baby cradled in grieving arms. In the hushed darkness outside, the hospital echoed with the piercing cries of suffering children, raw and unrelenting. My heart shattered with ache.
At last, we arrived at the hospital that possessed everything we desperately needed. As the hours stretched on relentlessly in the waiting area—time crawling with agonizing slowness. I found myself turning inward, reaching for my phone to write. This piece emerged from those fleeting moments of distraction amid the chaos.
In the crushing weight of that negative spiral, where despair threatened to pull me under, where I could have easily shattered into tears and surrendered to overwhelming sadness, I discovered my escape—my wings. Writing became the ethereal lift that allowed me to soar above the pain, to lose myself entirely in the flow of words and fleeting thoughts.
And then, amid the turmoil, something shifted—I turned toward gratitude, my mind drifting back to the cherished faces and souls who had woven through my entire year—the laughter shared, the quiet supports, the irreplaceable bonds that had sustained me. With no pen or paper at hand in that sterile limbo, I opened the notes app on my phone instead. I rarely wrote there, always preferring the tactile ritual of ink on paper, the deliberate scratch of a pen across pages. But when inspiration surges like an unstoppable tide, resistance fades, you can only surrender completely to the rush of thoughts demanding to be release.
I remembered every person with whom I had shared a table throughout the year—names and faces surfacing one by one in the dim glow of my phone screen. It seemed such a simple, ordinary thing, asking out to go to our go to fastfood restaurants like Mcdo or Jollibee, passing plates across cluttered tables, lingering over iced coffee or play snake in ladder or jenga after the food was gone. Yet in that hospital silence, with worry clawing at the edges of my mind, those memories flicker with quiet, fierce importance.
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When people say the way to a heart is through the stomach, I believe it. I’m always ready to say yes to food and company. Truth is, I’m a terribly slow eater. At home, I can linger as long as I want, but out with others—especially fast eaters—I grow self-conscious. I start wondering whether I should order less, choose something easier to finish, or just try to keep up so I don’t hold everyone back.
Each shared meal unfolds vividly in my thoughts: the easy rhythm of laughter rising above the clink of utensils, conversations that meander without hurry, spilling from one story to the next, weaving us closer with every bite. In the midst of chaos, when thoughts race and tangle like frantic threads, those moments of communal warmth become my anchor—unpretentious, profound, a reminder that connection often lives in the smallest, most everyday rituals.
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When people say the way to a heart is through the stomach, I believe it. I’m always ready to say yes to food and company. Truth is, I’m a terribly slow eater. At home, I can linger as long as I want, but out with others—especially fast eaters—I grow self-conscious. I start wondering whether I should order less, choose something easier to finish, or just try to keep up so I don’t hold everyone back.
Each shared meal unfolds vividly in my thoughts: the easy rhythm of laughter rising above the clink of utensils, conversations that meander without hurry, spilling from one story to the next, weaving us closer with every bite. In the midst of chaos, when thoughts race and tangle like frantic threads, those moments of communal warmth become my anchor—unpretentious, profound, a reminder that connection often lives in the smallest, most everyday rituals.
But here’s what I love most about sitting around a table together: it’s not just the food, but the laughter, the heartbreak, the stress and struggles shared openly. It’s the little conversations that stretch the meal far longer than the food itself. And the very best part is when no one rushes me to eat—when everyone simply eats, talks, and lets me take my time without a single “Bilisan mo naman kumain.” Maybe it’s because, as long as someone is still eating, no one feels the urge to leave. That quiet patience feels like a love language all its own: simple, unspoken, yet it means everything to me.
As this year ends, I’ve been constantly reminded of how challenging everything was. All the spoken and unspoken struggles we faced were shared over the warmth of a meal, where each time someone listened and offered a simple gesture of comfort and assurance—that I’m not entirely alone and can somehow rely on them—eased so much of the hardship the year had thrown at me. The simple act of just showing up means the world. There are times when, as an independent girl, I convince myself I don’t need anyone because I know I can handle everything on my own. But having people who initiate, who never hold back, and who—even when we’re out of budget—step in to rescue the moment just so we can be together, that changes everything.
I once read that most people don’t like spending too much time with others, so when someone chooses to hang out with you, it deeply means they feel comfortable enough to share their precious time. I definitely agree with that—especially over a meal, gathered around the table.
I once read that most people don’t like spending too much time with others, so when someone chooses to hang out with you, it deeply means they feel comfortable enough to share their precious time. I definitely agree with that—especially over a meal, gathered around the table.
So this is for all the tables that held me this year.
To my family—especially my parents, who always urge us to eat dinner together, and my sister, who cooks for us without fail, even indulging my random cravings and absolutely slaying the taste every time. To the merienda moments and midnight snacks my siblings and I share, doomed as we are to stay up far too late.
To my high school friends and my homegirls, who still drag me out like no time has passed, even though we’re now scattered across different universities. Those quiet initiatives to hang out and eat together once a month mean so much. For choosing to spend their precious vacation time with me when they could have just rested—it’s a different kind of warmth, the kind that makes you feel like they’ve genuinely been wanting to see you. The reciprocation and love are always there, steady and real.
To my family—especially my parents, who always urge us to eat dinner together, and my sister, who cooks for us without fail, even indulging my random cravings and absolutely slaying the taste every time. To the merienda moments and midnight snacks my siblings and I share, doomed as we are to stay up far too late.
To my high school friends and my homegirls, who still drag me out like no time has passed, even though we’re now scattered across different universities. Those quiet initiatives to hang out and eat together once a month mean so much. For choosing to spend their precious vacation time with me when they could have just rested—it’s a different kind of warmth, the kind that makes you feel like they’ve genuinely been wanting to see you. The reciprocation and love are always there, steady and real.
I’ve always loved this passage from A Little Life that captures it so well,
“And then I went to college, and I met people who, for whatever reason, decided to be my friends, and they taught me - everything, really. They made me, and make me, into someone better than I really am.
"You won't understand what I mean now, but someday you will: the only trick of friendship, I think, is to find people who are better than you are - not smarter, not cooler, but kinder, and more generous, and more forgiving - and then to appreciate them for what they can teach you, and to try to listen to them when they tell you something about yourself, no matter how bad - or good - it might be, and to trust them, which is the hardest thing of all. But the best, as well.”
To my college circles, who turned quick coffee hangouts into long, heartfelt catch-ups; who made every hard thing this semester feel so much more bearable. To the late-night talks, the TikTok streaks that felt like daily attendance checks—just to know we’re all still alive and okay. Thank you for always showing up whenever anyone needed company, for the endless laughs, and for the precious time you gave despite your own families, work, or side hustles.
It touches me deeply when people carve out time for those catch-up moments we all badly needed. Or when classmates get drunk together and genuinely listen to each other’s stories—no matter how intense or long—over a simple meal, a shared snack, hot porridge in the morning, or when someone cooks soup to pass around during a subject break. In those ordinary moments, the most meaningful conversations happen.
To my students, who generously shared their baon, surprised me with random snacks, and opened up about their dreams. There were times when I didn’t know what I was doing anymore—questioning if I was truly being the good influence I always aimed to be, wondering if I was contributing anything meaningful to their young minds. And yet, here they were, telling me that I did.
In moments when I never felt ready to pursue teaching, they were the first to greet me with a “Happy Teacher’s Day,” making me feel like I already was one. They’d invite me to hang out and eat with them, bringing their own baon and gently reminding me—it felt so simple, yet incredibly sweet. Younger people often feel uncomfortable around anyone older, but with these students, it was different. They treated me with respect and genuine warmth, sharing stories over a simple meal.
It touches me deeply when people carve out time for those catch-up moments we all badly needed. Or when classmates get drunk together and genuinely listen to each other’s stories—no matter how intense or long—over a simple meal, a shared snack, hot porridge in the morning, or when someone cooks soup to pass around during a subject break. In those ordinary moments, the most meaningful conversations happen.
To my students, who generously shared their baon, surprised me with random snacks, and opened up about their dreams. There were times when I didn’t know what I was doing anymore—questioning if I was truly being the good influence I always aimed to be, wondering if I was contributing anything meaningful to their young minds. And yet, here they were, telling me that I did.
In moments when I never felt ready to pursue teaching, they were the first to greet me with a “Happy Teacher’s Day,” making me feel like I already was one. They’d invite me to hang out and eat with them, bringing their own baon and gently reminding me—it felt so simple, yet incredibly sweet. Younger people often feel uncomfortable around anyone older, but with these students, it was different. They treated me with respect and genuine warmth, sharing stories over a simple meal.
Hearing their funny anecdotes warmed me completely. Maybe they became my favorites because their classroom dynamics and atmosphere reminded me of everything I loved about my own high school years: chaotic, noisy, messy, but still so much fun—full of memories we can always look back on with a smile. Those moments felt simple in the passing, yet they’ve become memories I truly cherish.
And there I was, hitting the Notes app’s character limit, still pouring out everything about the people I’ve quietly cherished. In the most gloomy white walls of the hospital, under lights that flicker with harsh white brightness, I found myself writing something so vividly colorful.
In the same quiet night and lingering cold, here I am—expressing my loudest love for all the tables that held me this year—feeling all the warmth I’ve ever given and received. To have seen, given, and received so much love this year is enough for me to realize how I was truly able to cope.
As the clock struck twelve, with fireworks bursting and painting the blank canvas of the night sky in brilliant color, a gentle reminder that love and hope are always there—and that, in the end, things do get better.
