Ascent Towards Light

I sit, ensconced with my comforter in the almost-bare and empty apartment unit, where, for the longest time, since 2022, have been a witness to the changing landscapes of my dreams and visions. 

It is here where I decided for myself that it’s finally time to pursue my God-given dreams, and it is also here where I experienced a cold, lingering feeling of anxiety that would spread across my chest and that would paralyze my body, because of the newness in the adjustment, coupled with the passive-aggressive bullying that I experienced in a private university, when I ventured into the residential, face-to-face campus life. 

In October of 2023, I spent my hours weeping before the resident doctors, and the consulting psychiatrist, repeating over and over again, how I felt rejected by the very society that I am trying so hard to fit in, and that I have been seeking validation from. 

But during the months when I felt I was defeated with clinical depression, and negatively encouraged with my desire to quell the narrative of my existence, it was during the moments, and times, where I witnessed my family, especially my siblings, Keith and Alpha, rally at my side. And even the ones whom I do not call family, but whom I consider a brother and friend, like Shelu, sleep in the uncomfortable bench inside my hospital room, while I doze off into normalcy, buoyed by the increase in my dosage of medications, and stirred by my Mother’s habilin to continue this life that I have no matter what happens. Interestingly, I was hospitalized at Western Visayas State University Medical Center, but I was also self-supporting enough to pay for my hospital bills.

In a sudden turn of events, my brother Keith, at that time, was also admitted in a private hospital, and as the eldest in the family, even if I was just recently discharged from the hospital, my capacity to help in my brother’s hospital bills was all the more motivated by my love for family, and the knowledge that, during the times when I spent my last remaining hours with Mama at Iloilo Mission Hospital, I promised that we were going to stick together as a family. Looking back, I gave because it was my duty.

I’m declaring to the winds and the seas that I have never been selfish, stingy, and greedy of what has been provided for and given to me, because I have always considered money, a tool, that can be used to help lives, communities, and the ministry. My life is not motivated by the sole desire to get rich in this dark, and broken world. As someone who grew up lacking, and poor, my idea of money does not revolve on using it to show others that I am better, that I could because I have more. 

Jesus never really had a lot of money when he was here on earth. In fact, his teachings focused on selling one’s possessions, and follow in His footsteps.

As I look back on the road that I have taken, especially at the start of the year when I entered the portals of the University of the Philippines Visayas, where my siblings walked, and run, I considered giving up my six-digit monthly salary, and my freedom to work wherever I want, as a worthy sacrifice in pursuit of completing a program that is close to my heart, and where I could serve for the good of His glory.

At first, I was deeply entrenched with my fears, and my self-limiting beliefs, so much so that I would come to my classes hyperaware, and hyper focused on what others would think of me — a 36-year old, Millennial, graduate of the Associate in Arts program of the University of the Philippines Open University, and who has a different perspective on the timeline of life. 

But as I was encouraged by my spiritual mentors, Tita Nene Grace, and Ptr Gideon Nanit, I became more comfortable with the feast and validation that only comes from His Word. Over and over again, I repeated to myself that I am loved, chosen, and deeply known by the very One who created me. 

There are times when I would feel that I was not enough, and that I needed to still prove that I struggled through the process in getting admitted to my program, and so I must be entitled with my UP education. But I have always come home to the joy of deeply understanding what my Savior did for me on the Cross of Calvary, and that, despite my human frailties, and my granular knowledge of my weaknesses, I am comforted that I was bought with the precious blood of my Master and Lord.

Throughout the months of navigating the relationships, and the terrain of trust, and safe spaces, I also carried with me boulders, and heartbreaks, that almost crushed my resolve to continue. I would wake up in the early hours of the morning, and weep, for the stories that I could not share, because I ascribed to the honor creed. And so even if it was painful, and heavy, I repeatedly prayed over and over again, that I would be sustained to complete the semester, and the accompanying demands and rigors of school work, and extra-curricular commitments. 

And so, I did.

I am proud to have earned grades, not that I am grade-conscious, in which I could say were commensurate to my efforts, and my love for the courses. But more than anything else, I am proud to have completed the second semester. Our — Doc Amantillo and mine — game plan has always been this: enroll, pass subjects, enroll, until such time that I would finish my program.

One of the greatest gifts that I received—from the time that I celebrated my birthday last year in Boracay with my family, up to the moment when I traveled with my Father in Bukidnon, and Sto. Tomas, Davao del Norte, and back to pursuing my God-given dreams — was the gift of being able to share to the public, and to the world, the essays that I have been writing on my blog, The Prodigal Kid.

This year, the Lord granted my childhood dream of becoming a published author, through Transience: A Journey on Grief and Coming Home, and through Kasingkasing Press.

I have received responses, and feedback, how those who have finished Transience, wept through all the journey, and that there were times, when the road was too heavy, and the pain was so searing. 

It was never my intention to make people weep. 

In a way, the essays that I have written, in my transit towards healing, and acceptance, after the death of Mama in 2021, have allowed me to appreciate the indefatigable power of words to navigate the mental and emotional thorns of grief, and death. Writing was my coping mechanism — a retreat from the darkness, and a sanctuary from the suffocating idea of the reality that my Mother died, at a time in my life when I was slowly being healed from intergenerational trauma, and the conflicted narrative between my desire to vanish from my side of the earth, towards the vast unknown, and my powerful dreams of life-building, and life-creating.

As I’m working towards the realization of my vision, I am also thankful this birthday year, of the incredible support and prayers from the people who shared and cheered me on. These cheerleaders (especially my cousin Tata Debbie Hope and Nang Ayet Gaitano-Palma), and prayer partners (my forever friend Aibee and constant male accountability partner Aries Rico), rallied at my side when I was at a standstill, and my heart was at a loss on how I could continue, when the path that I have taken is filled with boulders, and overpowering obstacles, which sometimes catapult me towards a scheduled meltdown, and breakdown, deep inside the recesses of my inner world. 

Despite the thorn-filled pathways, I also did not forget to stop, smell the roses, and gather ye rosebuds while I may. Because I am absolutely aware how incredibly short life is. And how every day is a gift of grace.

So, in quiet fortitude, I am thankful that I am still alive after all these months. I am fully aware that I may never have tomorrow, but I am also assured that my hope is in the promise of heaven, and the joy of seeking my Master’s face, all the days of my life.

My only prayer, as I get to enter another whirlwind of days in and days out, and the continuance of the unspooling of my life’s narrative, amidst the completion of all the prayer-breathed hopes and dreams, is that I get to marry a beautiful, and loving wife, who values Christ’s heart, more than my own.

And in all of my needs, I claim the promise of Philippians 4:19 and Philippians 1:6.

What an incredible life it is. 

Despite the silent weeping, and the quiet rhythm of my heart amidst all the joy and long-suffering, I am blessed beyond measure that I met people along the way, who expanded my heart, and made me re-affirm in my intentional, and relational ministry of loving — my Master, myself, and my ministry of relationships.

Towards my dreams of light, and of love, I claim the promise of that blessed hope, and joy, in Christ alone — for the rest of my days, and towards the setting of the orange sun. 

On Trauma Response and Writing

One of the clearest forms of childhood trauma that I experienced was during the times when I had no control over my situation and that other people decided for me.

Growing up it became a pattern in the form of people pleasing, constant need for validation, escape through withdrawal from the world, and radio silence.

And people took advantage.

Growing up a Pastor’s Kid, I hated moving around from one place to another. I felt like I had no roots.

But I glazed over the emotions because of the spiritual concept and truth which is called God’s will.

I also felt like one of the reasons why I considered everything as part of the bigger picture was because my family grew up in poverty and we were at the mercy of the church support.

I remember one time, when I was in fifth grade, Mama and I went to Iloilo City with only provisions for fare and a gift certificate that Mama would use to buy school supplies before school would start.

But the mall would not honor the gift certificate. We went instead to Tita Sonia’s place and I witnessed my Mother cry.

I was sitting on one of the benches inside my aunt’s place while Mama wiped her tears.

I hid that memory from my consciousness because I felt like it was embarrassing to witness my Mother cry in front of newly met relatives after we went home from Davao del Norte.

When I was diagnosed with manic depression, and I spent days at the old house in Antique, whenever I felt like the overwhelming emotions were too paralyzing and the flashbacks kept coming back, I would break the unbreakables in the kitchen.

One time, I had an episode and I witnessed my Mother weep, while slumped on the floor. She asked me:

“Toto, ano problema haw?”

I did not answer her. Instead, I went back to my catatonic gaze.

The last time that I saw my Mother wipe tears from her eyes was during the wedding of my cousin Nene Jocelyn. I spoke on behalf of the cousins of the bride, and during that time, I felt enough courage and clarity to speak about love and sacrifices.

I saw Mama tear up during my speech.

You see, I may not be one of my Mother’s favorites, but we went to a lot of shared pain from our experiences because I became the de facto eldest child when she lost my older sister at birth.

We had a lot of shared painful experiences that I only talk to my psych doctor, Doc Victor Amantillo.

More than the shared experiences, it was probably because I became the clearest form of disappointment. A walking failure. A ticking time bomb, worthy of blowing up and be incinerated into nothingness.

But Mama’s habilin for me to continue my life, provided direction—seeing through to the end no matter the cost, no matter the hurt, no matter the searing pain.

Now that I think about it, writing for me, felt like a symptom of my illness, more than a life-affirming coping mechanism. And Mama understood the power of words, because she and Papa filled my childhood with books.
In retrospect, I’m happy that Mama and I bonded over Tom Clancy, Michael Crichton, John Grisham, JJ Nance, and RBC Ministries’ Courage.

All the trauma that I experienced as a kid, could never compare to the grief that I felt when I lost her. She was one of the few women who held my universe together.

So, I kept writing. Because for me, to write means to continue living.

To write means to live—trauma response, painful shared experiences, grief and loss, and all.

Mama and RORO, 2016

Homeward Bound

I sat in the silence of the dark living room, which, for as long as I could remember, became the de facto space of the family’s New Year’s Eve celebration. This year, I’m thankful that I’m alive and that I get to start the year with family.

I started 2023 with a wandering in my heart: where is home?

Amidst the lingering pain of losing Mama on January 13, 2021, we were also catapulted into a hurricane of unintended consequences when the very same death resulted in rushed decisions by one of the remaining heads of our unit. I was at a loss on how to process my confusion as to where home is, because for the last six years since 2015 and up to the time when Mama died, I considered my parents, specifically Mama, our home—where I could come home to “when I fall down”.

On the eve of the first day of January 2024, I felt a longing in my heart for my Mother. During New Year’s Eve, I saw Mama in the person of my grandmother Lola Narda, when she was moving her lips after sipping something, and I exclaimed that she looked like Mama. I could not forget Mama’s face and her facial expressions, because although I have grown accustomed to sitting with my grief when I feel sad, like that of the ocean waves that crash on the shore, there are still moments when I would visit the album on my Photos Gallery that’s specially curated—all photos of Mama since when I was a child that were saved on my phone — and weep, when I feel like I wanted to experience catharsis with crying my eyes out.

After I exclaimed that Lola Narda’s facial expression looked like Mama, I wanted to sob. It was the most visceral thing to do at that exact space and time. As much as I am surrounded by my strongest support system, which is my family, I am also a child that terribly misses his mother. But I blinked back repeatedly my tears because I did not want to ruin the fun and the joy of welcoming the new year, and the new beginnings.

In the morning of January 1, 2024, I could not hold back my tears. I wept on the stairs of the cottage where my siblings were sleeping, snot and tears and all, because of the mixture of grief, longing, and love that I could not place, nor could I show towards. All the love that I felt at that moment for Mama, welled up and became tears that I could not stop.

Because to be honest, 2023 was a year of possibilities and finally making those steps towards realizing my God-given dreams. However, I was reminded that, even if my number one fan and cheerleader left for heaven early, Jesus is the only one that should validate my existence.

In the first week of October, when I was at the hospital and I was in the holding room while waiting for a vacant hospital room, I wept in the presence of the consulting psychiatrist when I talked about my internal conflict between continuing my life, as what my Mother wanted and wished for me to do before she passed away, and the desire to quell the narrative of my existence.

I sobbed relentlessly because in that moment, and in that very day, I was confused as to how my existence could rob others of the joy and the purpose of their very same existence so much so that they would intentionally question my desires and my dreams, and in so doing, cruelly hurt me.

But I came out of that ordeal, alive.

And I’m so thankful that I’m still here. Although for most of last year, I was at a loss as to how I would grapple at the thought and the concept of home, I found the answers in the travels with family and friends, the stories from the books that I have read and the people that I talked to, and also from the people that I have met along the way towards the finish line of 2023.

I realize that there could be many faces and spaces that I could call home.

God took Mother, at a time in my life when I’m finally managing the idea and the practice that it’s okay not to be okay, and that I have humanly accepted the fact that death is the ultimate prize of the victory towards life; but the Lord also replaced the love that my Mother could continually give me when she would still be alive today, with the love from the people (you) who rallied at my side, when the turbulent waters almost capsized my boat – you who reminded me time and time again that I am chosen, loved beyond measure, and known down to the very core of my existence.

Death may have threatened to knock at my door once more this year – but, though difficult and painstakingly laborious, the decision to live was further strengthened because of the promise of Philippians 1:6.

“Being confident of this very thing, that He who has begun a good work in you will complete it until the day of Jesus Christ.”

And I also rest in the promises that “all things work together for good”; “God’s grace is sufficient”; and our “hope is in heaven”.

When I had my follow up consult with my doctor, my psych doctor since 2016 Doc Victor Amantillo, before the Christmas holidays, and before I embarked on a Successful Living Summit in Boracay to reframe my narrative, I told him that despite the challenges in the very life that I live, and the unspooling of the narrative to quell my existence, I actually love this one life that I have.

I love the smell of newly bought books; sitting in silence at Prince Baker while sipping my King-sized Iced Cappuccino; talking to my forever friends and spending quality time with them; and to wonder, at daybreak and during dusk, what tomorrow will bring.

I love the moments that I spend with family and friends over food and coffee, creating powerful conversations and intentional actions that elevate my human experience – and that perhaps in doing so, someday, when I look back at my life that I have lived, would make me appreciate that I have made each waking moment count.

Because this one and only life is so beautiful. So much so that I am absolutely blessed to be able to live this very one life, heartbreak and hardships and all — albeit short.

Perhaps, it is true what Yann Martel, in the book, The Life of Pi, said about death:

“The reason death sticks so closely to life isn’t biological necessity; it’s envy. Life is so beautiful that death has fallen in love with it, a jealous, possessive love that grabs at what it can.”

The year 2023 was filled with God’s goodness and grace, and though my life was splashed with dark and colorful hues, that made me fall down on my knees; brought tears to my eyes; and compelled me to question my existence, I am so thankful to still be here and to be part of this community and this journey.

I wonder how many sunsets I would have to chase and capture; storms I would have to weather; and turbulent seas I would have to sail in order for me to realize and appreciate over and over again, that a life lived in glorious surrender to one’s Master and Creator, is the only life worth living.

I wonder what 2024 will be like.

But, no matter what happens, I am going to continue living this beautiful life – until my last breath and until the last beating of my heart. ♥️

Onward, always forward, towards the blazing tempests and the glorious beautiful pathways of 2024. 🦋

Conquered Chocolate Hills with Le Familia, 2023

Sacrifice

This was my speech during the wedding of my cousin Jocelyn to Darrin Fankhanel on December 18, 2014 at Bearland Paradise Resort, Tigbauan, Iloilo.

I am Ian Tayona, one of the dysfunctional first cousins of the bride.

When I was a kid, I would hear stories from my parents about my cousins. I could still remember that I looked up to my cousin, the bride, because she graduated at the top of her class. And for a family who didn’t have really that much in life when it comes to material things, we prided ourselves in the little achievements that we bestow to our parents during recognition or graduation day.

Fast forward to many years, I have come to a level where I could freely talk about anything with my cousin. Her reason for striving harder for the family. The memories of Lola Auring and Lolo Narding. Her failed relationships that gave life lessons.

And all of these communications was done through Facebook. A very helpful tool with families that has a member who works abroad for the family.

There is a meme on social media and is posted and reposted on someone’s Facebook profile that says this way: “Cousins are usually the first friends we have as children. No one will ever understand your crazy family like your cousins do even if you haven’t talked much lately.”

In essence, this is true.

I have spent countless times talking to my cousin about my aspirations and she was there to encourage me to press on. Her positivity and determination propelled her to live and work halfway around the world just to give better chances for her future, her family and contribute to the society.

If you are into Suzanne Collins’ The Mockingjay, there’s a quote there that mentions love: “It’s the things we love most that destroys us.” In the context of that quote though, the writer meant that we tend to sacrifice everything that we have even if in the end it leads to rejecting our own need for self-preservation just to protect the ones we love.

Sacrifice is love. And I have seen it in the life of my cousin. I could even remember the time when we sent her off at the airport and she told us that when we say our goodbyes, we leave immediately because she does not want to look back at us anymore. It might make her sad.

The many stories of the Overseas Filipino Workers who leave their comfort zones just to provide better chances for the family is interwoven with the word sacrifice. And in my cousin’s life is one of those stories interlaced with this word.

Today’s milestone proves that when we give love, we receive love in return. But because in our family, and I mean the blood that runs in the Tayonas, the genetic make-up, we tend to love so passionately to the point of breaking, Darrin is just one blessed guy. He is loved forever.

When Manang Jocelyn first told me about Darrin and she mentioned that he is a reader, I told her that readers are good companions because they are more empathetic persons. I may have contributed to analyzing Darrin’s persona and affirming that he is the Aladdin to her Jasmine, the Prince Eric to her Ariel, the Prince Charming to her Cinderella and the King of the North (Game of Thrones reference) to her Talisa Maegyr.

What I’m really trying to say is that today, there will be no momentous event without the word sacrifice. Darrin and Manang Jocelyn even traveled halfway around the world just to get married in the sandy shores of Panay and be with us tonight.

Because apparently, the greatest love of all was manifested when a Father sent his Son to shed his blood on the cross, giving His life away so that we live.

And as we live, we get to love selflessly, faithfully and sacrificially.

To Manang Jocelyn and Darrin. To sacrifice. To love.

Sacrifice is love.