Author Archives: M.A.D. LIGAYA
Beyond the Screen
(Were We Ever Meant to Be – Part 6)
After that, we spoke almost every night. If our affair were a voyage, we had sailed so far from shore that neither of us could see where we had begun—or decide whether we still wanted to return.
Our conversations developed rituals. I messaged first to ask whether the children were asleep. She checked whether Anna might call. We used earphones, lowered our voices, and deleted exchanges that could expose us. Secrecy itself became intimacy: every precaution reminded us that there was an us important enough to hide.
One evening, Kath returned to the claim she had never completely believed.
“You still expect me to believe that you lived without sex for eight years?”
“I already told you. I never paid anyone, and I never found a girlfriend.”
“Not even once?”
“Not even once.”
“Then how did you manage?”
“A selfie,” I said, making her laugh. “Twice a week. I tell myself regular release is good for a man’s health.”
“Do you need stimulation?”
I admitted to visiting adult websites.
“Disgusting,” she said, although she was still laughing.
“They would become unnecessary if I had something better to look at.”
Her laughter disappeared. “Don’t start, Marco.”
“I haven’t started anything.”
“Your voice changes whenever you want something.”
“And you recognize it.”
“Unfortunately.”
Then I asked whether she ever touched herself.
“No. Jay and I once tried doing something online when he first returned to sea, but it didn’t work for me. We never tried again.”
“Perhaps it wasn’t the distance.”
“What do you mean?”
“Perhaps it was the person on the other side of the screen.”
She stared at me without answering.
The conversation changed the air between us. Her teasing smile faded, but she did not look away. I heard her breathing through my earphones, each quiet breath making the thousands of kilometers between us seem less real.
“What’s wrong?” she asked.
“Nothing.”
“Tell me.”
“I feel like taking a selfie.”
She understood. “Then take one.”
“I need inspiration.”
“Visit one of your disgusting websites.”
“I would rather look at you.”
Silence.
I removed my shirt first. Beneath it, I was wearing a white undershirt. Kath shook her head, but the faint smile at the corner of her mouth betrayed her.
“You are shameless.”
“Your turn.”
“No.”
“Then why haven’t you ended the call?”
She could have. Her finger hovered near the touchpad, and for several seconds I believed she would make the choice neither of us had been strong enough to make. Instead, she leaned back.
Her hand moved slowly over her chest, almost unconsciously at first, then stopped when she realized I was watching.
“Marco, what is happening to me?”
“Nothing you don’t want.”
“Don’t pretend you know what I want.”
“Then tell me to stop.”
“I have been telling you that from the beginning.”
The answer should have ended everything. Instead, neither of us moved.
“Please,” I whispered.
Kath closed her eyes. When she opened them again, fear and desire occupied the same expression.
“Why are you so difficult to resist?”
She carried the laptop to her bed. I did the same. Before setting it down, she changed into a thin undershirt and returned beneath the sheet.
“This is all you are going to see,” she warned.
“For now.”
“Don’t push me.”
But she remained.
The two rooms, thousands of kilometers apart, became one private space of restrained movements, uneven breathing, exposed shoulders, and whispered names. We watched each other without touching, yet every movement seemed answered by another on the opposite side of the screen.
Kath hesitated several times. Each pause gave us an opportunity to stop; each time, I asked her whether she wanted to continue. Sometimes she said no while remaining in front of the camera. Once she covered herself completely, and I thought the moment had ended. Then her face reappeared.
When she finally chose to continue, the surrender was mutual, but it was not free of pressure, guilt, or fear. The screen protected us from physical touch while permitting us to pretend that what happened through it was somehow less real.
That night, we crossed the boundary Kath had refused to cross eight years earlier.
It was not the last time. Soon, many of our late-night calls ended the same way. We began our conversations sitting at desks and finished them in bed. What we called friendship had become impossible to defend, even to ourselves.
Afterward, Kath sometimes covered herself quickly and avoided my eyes. At other times she laughed with the shy happiness of the younger woman I remembered. I preferred those moments. Her guilt threatened the future I was constructing, so I answered it with assurances: no one had forced us, our marriages were already incomplete, and love could not be evil simply because it arrived at the wrong time. The arguments comforted me because they began with the conclusion I wanted.
Yet the more we possessed of one another through our screens, the less sufficient the screen became. I wanted to return to the Philippines. I wanted to hold her without glass, pixels, or distance between us.
One night, Kath asked, “What exactly do you intend to do about us?”
I had waited for that question.
“First, answer something. Whom do you love more—Jay or me?”
“That is a ridiculous question.”
“Why?”
“Do you remember the crisis Jay and I went through before you left for Korea?”
I nodded.
“You were the reason. I told him everything about us. He asked whom I loved more, and I answered honestly: you. He threatened to leave me. That was why I came to you that day. I expected warmth, some sign that you still wanted me. Instead, you advised me to reconcile with him. You pushed me back into his arms.”
Her revelation rearranged eight years of memory. I had believed Kath chose Jay because she loved him more or because what existed between us had been insignificant to her. Now I learned that she had once approached me on the edge of choosing—and I, absorbed by my own crisis, had failed to recognize it. The lost possibility became more intoxicating than any future we could realistically build.
Had I known, I thought, I might never have boarded the plane to Korea.
“When Jay apologized and promised to help me forget you, I accepted. But did he erase you? Look at me, Marco. I talk to you instead of him. I want to see you all the time. You ask whom I love more?”
“I understand.”
“No. Say it.”
“You love me more.”
“You fool. You are the only man I love. I needed Jay because you were not there. I was learning to love him. Then you returned.”
She began to cry.
“Perhaps we decide whether we are meant to be,” I said. “Leave Jay. I will leave Anna. Come with me.”
Kath lifted her tear-streaked face.
“And my children?”
“I will accept them as my own.”
We discussed separation, secrecy, scandal, custody, and sacrifice. She had far more to lose than I did, but I was confident she would choose me.
I proposed that we keep our relationship hidden even after separating from our spouses. If Jay discovered that I was the reason Kath left, he might fight for custody or prevent the children from seeing her. Anna would have to face another betrayal, Kenneth would have to understand why his parents’ marriage ended, and both families would endure gossip and anger. I spoke of these consequences as obstacles we could manage, not wounds other people would suffer.
Kath listened, but the practical future made her quieter than the romantic one. It was easy to say she would leave everything for love while we were safely separated by thousands of kilometers. It was harder to imagine telling her children that the man on her laptop would replace the father they knew.
“Give me time,” she said. “I love you, but I don’t know what to do.”
I heard only the words I wanted to hear: I love you. I treated everything that followed as uncertainty time would eventually overcome.
PART 7 – The Hardest Choice
Thinking First
The pause between stimulus and response is where wisdom lives—and it is a skill we can develop through practice.
Every word you have regretted saying and every action you have wished you could take back probably began the same way: you reacted before you thought.
When something angers, frightens, embarrasses, or offends us, emotion can rise with remarkable speed. Before we have fully understood what happened, harsh words may already have escaped our lips, an impulsive message may have been sent, or an action may have been taken that cannot easily be undone.
This does not mean that we are helpless victims of our emotions. Emotional reactions may come quickly, but they do not always have to determine what happens next. We can learn to create a small but crucial space between what we feel and what we do.
A statement often associated with Viktor Frankl describes this space as the place where our freedom to choose resides. Although the exact wording cannot be reliably traced to Frankl, the principle reflects one of his central teachings: circumstances may influence us, but we retain some freedom in choosing how we respond to them.
Even a brief pause can allow us to consider what an impulsive reaction might overlook: Did I understand the situation correctly? Will my words solve the problem or worsen it? Am I responding to what actually happened—or merely to what I felt?
Abraham Lincoln understood the value of such restraint. When deeply angered or disappointed, he sometimes wrote what became known as “hot letters.” He poured his frustration onto the page but did not immediately send what he had written. One famous example was his strongly worded letter to General George Meade after the Battle of Gettysburg. Lincoln placed it aside, and it remained unsigned and unsent. The letter released his anger without letting it control his final action.
We may never write to generals or make decisions affecting an entire nation, but we face smaller versions of Lincoln’s choice every day. We decide whether to answer an insulting remark, send an angry message, confront someone immediately, or wait until we can speak with greater clarity.
Thinking first does not mean suppressing emotion or refusing to defend ourselves. It means giving reason enough time to join the conversation. Sometimes two seconds will be enough. At other times, we may need two minutes, two hours, or even two days.
The important thing is to build the habit while the stakes are low. Then, when the stakes are high, the pause will already be there.
Pause and Reflect
Think of the last thing you said that you wish you could take back. What might have changed if you had paused before saying it?
One Step Forward
The next time you feel a strong reaction rising, pause and count slowly to two before responding. Notice whether your first reaction still feels like your best response.
Explored in full in Chapter 10 — Thinking First of A Holistic Approach to Self-Improvement.
Better Self… Better Life… Better Nation.
It Has Always Been You
(Were We Ever Meant to Be – Part 5)
“It’s you, Kath. It has always been you.”
“Stop, Marco.”
“I should have waited. I should never have rushed into marriage with Anna. I should not have listened to my mother. I should have taken you to Cebu.”
“I said stop.”
“I stayed with Anna because there was nowhere else to go. There was no Kath waiting for me. If I ever love someone again, it can only be you. I never stopped loving you.”
Kath stood and moved away from the laptop. When she returned, she looked shaken.
“Do you know what you are doing?”
“I’m being honest.”
“No. You are disturbing my peaceful life. You did it before, and you are doing it again.”
She ended the call.
For a moment, clarity pierced my certainty. She had entered my office years ago wanting nothing more than to begin a career. I had allowed her feelings to deepen while knowing I was married and held authority over her future. Now, after she had built a family and repaired her marriage, I had returned carrying the same disruption.
Kath had not been innocent, but neither was she merely an equal reflection of me. I sent the birthday greeting, insisted on the first video call, revived the old questions, and pushed every answer toward the conclusion I wanted. Each time she said friendship, I searched for a way to make the word contain romance. Each time she asked me to stop, I treated the request as fear to overcome rather than a decision to honor.
Yet even as I recognized the harm, part of me wondered only whether I had moved too quickly. Perhaps I should have revealed my feelings gradually. Perhaps I had frightened her by forcing the issue.
Near midnight, I sent an apology. I promised that I would never call again.
Kath called.
For a long time, neither of us spoke.
“I’m sorry,” I said. “I never intended to disturb your life.”
“But you did. You disturbed my mind.”
I wanted to ask why, but I believed I already knew.
“All I wanted was to reconnect,” I said. “To talk to you again.”
“Can’t you talk to Anna?”
“I can. But I don’t merely want conversation from you. I long for your presence. I want to see you.”
She shook her head. “Why can’t you leave me alone? Forget me.”
“I tried. God knows I tried. I failed.”
“I cannot control what you feel. But expect nothing from me. We are married. We have children. What we can have is friendship.”
“Then let me call once a week.”
She sighed. “Once a week.”
“Thank you. I love you.”
“We are friends, Marco.”
“Friends can say ‘I love you.’”
“Always a loophole.”
“Say it.”
She looked into the camera. “I love you too, my friend.”
The word friend should have ended the matter. Instead, it became permission.
Over the next two weeks, our weekly call became twice a week, sometimes three times. We told each other what had happened during the eight years apart. Kath spoke about her Christian community and the worship services she attended with Jay whenever he was home. I told her that I had begun taking my writing seriously and had created a website.
We also spoke about ordinary things—the children’s classes, groceries, weather, books, films, and the inconveniences of pandemic life. Those conversations were perhaps more dangerous than the declarations. They allowed us to rehearse companionship. We began imagining not only kisses and escape but breakfast, errands, shared jokes, and growing old within reach of each other. Desire entered through nostalgia; domestic fantasy persuaded it to stay.
“I know,” she admitted. “I read your stories and poems.”
“Then you know some are about you.”
“I didn’t want to assume.”
“Whenever I need to write love, joy, longing, or pain, I think of our memories. I think of the us that never happened.”
She asked about the white rose in one of my poems.
“You,” I said. “Obviously.”
“You must have prepared that speech to make me fall in love with you again.”
“Again? Are you saying you aren’t in love now?”
“Friends, Marco. Nothing more, nothing less.”
But soon she began calling me during the day. She knew the hour of my coffee break and the days I left work early. Once, when she noticed a woman behind me in a café, jealousy sharpened her voice.
At home, Kath waited until her children had gone to their rooms before answering my calls. Sometimes one of them knocked, and her entire expression changed as she turned away from the screen and became their mother. Those brief interruptions should have restored perspective. Instead, I waited impatiently for her to return, as though her family were intruding upon time that belonged to me.
“Make sure she isn’t with you.”
“No, baby. I don’t even know her.”
“Baby?”
“May I call you that?”
“Do whatever you want.”
I treated her refusal to refuse as consent.
That night, however, she did not answer my messages. At midnight, I called.
“Are you all right?”
She shook her head. “We have to stop this.”
“Why?”
“The pastor’s sermon struck me hard tonight. I realized that I long for your presence more than I long for Jay’s. I used to talk to him almost every night. Now I would rather talk to you.”
Jay was somewhere at sea, trusting the wife who had told him years earlier about me and had chosen to rebuild their marriage. I knew that history, yet I regarded his absence as an opening. Because Kath and I shared language, humor, and emotional intimacy, I treated compatibility as a superior claim. I rarely asked what promises Jay had kept during the years when I had been absent from her life.
Her confession filled me with joy even as I watched it frighten her.
“Why are you doing this to me again?” she cried. “I had become peaceful. I could have ended our first conversation, but I stayed. I answered your calls. When it comes to you, I am so weak.”
“I love you, baby.”
She looked directly into the camera.
“I love you too, Marco. May God forgive me, but I love you.”
PART 6 – Beyond the Screen
Staying Focused
Focus does not mean refusing to change direction—it means refusing to lose sight of your destination.
During my third rejection from a Middle Eastern university, I overheard a panelist say that I could not be considered because I lacked a TESOL certificate.
I was deeply disappointed. I had a bachelor’s degree in English, a master’s degree in Education, and a PhD in Educational Management. I had also completed most of the academic requirements for a master’s degree in English but had been unable to finish the thesis. Added to these qualifications were more than twenty years of teaching experience.
Surely, I thought, all of that should compensate for one missing certificate.
But it did not. The university had a policy: applicants without TESOL certification could not be hired. Whatever the panelists may have thought of my other qualifications, their hands were bound by that requirement.
I could have treated the rejection as proof that overseas teaching was not meant for me. I could have complained that the policy failed to recognize my education and experience. Perhaps I even had legitimate reasons to question it. But neither disappointment nor argument would give me the qualification I lacked.
So I asked myself a more useful question: What can I do next?
I enrolled in a TESOL program and earned the certificate.
That decision taught me something important about staying focused. Focus is sometimes mistaken for stubbornly following one plan. But genuine focus distinguishes between the goal and the route. My goal—to teach overseas—remained unchanged. The route toward it had to be adjusted.
Eventually, I secured a university teaching position in South Korea. The earlier rejections had not ended my journey. One of them had identified a gap I needed to close.
This is why setbacks should be examined before they are accepted as verdicts. Some criticism is unfair and should not control us. But some negative feedback contains useful information. Focus allows us to separate the pain of hearing it from the value of what it may reveal.
Staying focused has become increasingly difficult in a world full of competing goals, constant notifications, and attractive alternatives. Yet distraction does not come only from technology. Even worthwhile activities can pull us away from what matters most. A person can remain extremely busy while making little progress toward the goal that matters.
Focus therefore requires deliberate choices. We must decide what deserves our attention now, protect time for it, and temporarily say no—even to good opportunities that compete with a greater priority.
You do not have to cling to your original method. You may need another qualification, a different strategy, or a longer route than you anticipated.
Change the plan when necessary—but keep your eyes on the destination.
Pause and Reflect
What goal have you nearly abandoned because your original approach did not work?
What useful information might be hidden inside a rejection or criticism you received?
One Step Forward
Choose one important goal. Write down the single obstacle presently blocking it, then identify one concrete action you can take this week to address that obstacle.
Explored more fully in Chapter 9 — “Staying Focused” of A Holistic Approach to Self-Improvement.
Better Self… Better Life… Better Nation.
The Line Between Us
(Were We Ever Meant to Be – Part 4)
Two days later, I opened Kath’s profile again. I looked through her photographs until restraint felt more dishonest than desire.
That was the explanation I gave myself: restraint was dishonesty. I did not call my silence respect for her boundary or loyalty to my wife. I called it denial. By changing the name of the act, I made surrender sound courageous.
“Hello, Kath. Busy?”
“Not really. Just reading to kill time.”
“Can I call?”
“Why? Didn’t we discuss everything two nights ago?”
“Please. Just for a few minutes.”
“Why, Marco?”
I told her the truth. “I miss you. I only want to see you again.”
The message remained marked Seen for several minutes. Then she called me.
“Thank you,” I said as her face appeared.
“Don’t thank me. You are still impossible to refuse.”
She was wearing a sleeveless shirt and shorts. When she noticed where my gaze had settled, she adjusted the camera.
“I’m looking at your face,” I protested.
“Of course you are.”
I asked whether she missed me. She tried to evade the question, then surrendered.
“Yes. I miss you too. Are you happy now?”
“Very.”
Her expression grew serious. “Let me make something clear. We are both married. We both have children. I am talking to you because we are friends and because we shared a past. Nothing more, nothing less.”
“Loud and clear.”
She told me it would be our last video call. I asked for one call a week. She refused, and I knew—or convinced myself—that she would answer the next time anyway.
When she mentioned that Jay might not return until the following year, I asked when she expected me to visit the Philippines.
“You must miss Anna,” she said.
“I miss everyone I love.”
“Including your wife?”
“Why do you always bring her into our conversation?”
“Who should I mention—Mayette?”
Her teasing turned coarse. She asked whether I missed the sex I had had with Mayette. Irritated, I blurted out that I had not slept with anyone in Korea—not once in eight years.
She laughed. “Do you expect me to believe that?”
“It’s the truth.”
“Marco, you have needs. Are you telling me that in eight years, you never once paid a woman there for one night of sex?”
“Never.”
“That’s impossible.”
“I would never pay a woman for sex.”
“And why should I believe that?”
“Because if I ever sleep with a woman, I want it to happen because we both want it—not because I paid her. There should be desire on both sides and something real between us, even if neither of us knows where it will lead.”
Kath gave a short, disbelieving laugh. “That sounds very principled for someone with your history.”
“What is that supposed to mean?”
“Where was all that concern about what a woman wanted when you kissed me in your office and then—”
She stopped, leaving the rest suspended between us.
“And afterward?” she continued. “When you went home to Anna, did you kiss her too?”
“Kath—”
“Did you hold her the way you had just held me? Did you tell her you loved her?”
“It wasn’t like that.”
“Of course not. It never is when you are the one explaining it.”
I could have reminded her that I stopped when she pulled away. I could have insisted that what happened between us had never been entirely one-sided. But neither answer would erase the truth beneath her questions: I had wanted honesty from her while living dishonestly with both women.
“Believe whatever you want.”
“And Anna? What happens when you go home?”
I told her that Anna and I had not had sex since Kenneth was born. Diabetes had diminished her desire, and intercourse had become painful for her. We did not even share a bedroom during my visits.
“I’m sorry,” Kath said quietly.
“We found an arrangement that preserves our marriage and gives both of us peace.”
The arrangement was difficult to explain. Anna and I had forgiven many things without becoming truly compatible. The distance created by my work in Korea had probably saved us from the daily disagreements that once exhausted us.
Kenneth gave us another reason to remain a family, although I rarely admitted how much of the emotional labor of raising him Anna carried while I lived abroad. I called from Korea, sent money, came home when my schedule allowed, and told myself that provision was presence. The unanswered video call earlier that evening should have reminded me of the distance between my son and me. Instead, I had spent the night trying to erase the distance between Kath and me.
“Then why stay?” Kath asked.
“What else should I have done—find another Mayette?”
“I don’t know.”
“In Korea, I finally understood who I should have married. If I ever begin another relationship, I want it with only one person. If I cannot have her, I would rather have no one.”
The declaration sounded noble in my own ears. It converted years of infidelity into evidence of constancy: I had betrayed Anna with other women, yet because none of them mattered as Kath did, I could still imagine myself faithful to one great love. I did not ask whether devotion to an idealized woman could excuse disloyalty to the real woman I had married.
Kath turned partly away. “Who is she?”
“You know.”
“Say it.”
PART 5 – It Has Always Been You
The Truth About Then
(Were We Ever Meant to Be – Part 3)
I knew that question would come.
The agency where we had worked was large enough for secrets to travel slowly but small enough for them to arrive eventually. My uncle, a former soldier, owned it with a Korean friend he had known since the war. The business recruited Filipino workers for factories in Korea, which was why my family later had somewhere convenient to send me. Officially, I was transferred to supervise our workers abroad. Unofficially, I was being placed beyond Mayette’s reach—and beyond the daily consequences of what I had done to Anna.
“Why are you frowning?” Kath asked. “Are you angry?”
“No.”
“Then answer me. Do you know Mayette?”
I nodded. There was no point denying it. Kath had made friends at the agency; sooner or later, someone would have told her everything.
“Do I still have to explain?”
“No. I know the details—from the moment Anna found you at Mayette’s apartment to the day your mother and uncle practically exiled you to Korea. I only wanted to hear you admit it.”
I nodded again.
“The last time we met,” I said, “when you were having problems with Jay, I had intended to tell you about Mayette. I was also going to tell you I was leaving for Korea.”
“Your problem, Marco, is that you could never keep that thing under control. Did every intern who worked for you become—”
“Fine. I was a terrible person.”
The irritation in my voice silenced her. For a while neither of us spoke.
“Do you have a girlfriend there?” she finally asked. “How many Korean women have you been with?”
“You wouldn’t believe me if I said none.”
“I hope there’s no one. I hope Mayette ended all that.”
“It was your fault,” I said.
She stared at me. “What was my fault?”
“You left me.”
Even as I said it, I knew how unfair it was. Kath had not abandoned a relationship I had clearly offered her. I had given her secrecy, stolen affection, and complaints about my wife. I had wanted her loyalty while refusing to name what I intended to give in return. Still, the wounded part of me had transformed her transfer and resignation into betrayal. That story allowed me to regard everything I did afterward as pain rather than choice.
Her laughter was sharp with anger. “That’s ridiculous. Did I ask to be transferred? And what exactly was I to you? The person who listened whenever Anna disappointed you? The woman you kissed whenever you needed someone to kiss? Tell me, Marco—what place did I actually have in your life?”
She reminded me of the day I had promised to meet her so we could visit my mother in the hospital. I never arrived. Kath went anyway and felt like a fool.
“I never meant to stand you up,” I said. “When I told Anna I was visiting my mother, she insisted on coming. I delayed our departure, hoping you would finish your visit before we arrived. My mother later told me that you and Anna almost crossed paths.”
“You never explained. One call or message would have been enough.”
“I know.”
“And why was I transferred? Did Anna discover us?”
I drew a breath. “My mother requested the transfer.”
Kath looked stunned. “But your mother liked me.”
“She did. That was why she wanted to protect you. She knew about us—and she knew what I was planning.”
For the first time, I told Kath the truth. I had intended to leave Anna. On the day I failed to meet Kath, I had planned to ask her to fly with me to Cebu and stay there while I arranged the separation. My mother had warned me not to destroy a young woman’s future because of my unhappiness.
My mother had seen what I refused to see. I was newly married, emotionally volatile, and already searching for someone to become everything Anna was not. Kath was intelligent, attentive, affectionate, and easy to talk to. I called those qualities proof that she was my destined partner. My mother feared that I was turning Kath into an answer before I had honestly confronted the questions inside my marriage.
Tears gathered in Kath’s eyes. “Why didn’t you tell me?”
“Because I thought you rejected me.”
The evening after the missed meeting, we had worked late. When Kath brought me coffee, I pulled her into my arms. I kissed and touched her with an urgency I had never shown before. I wanted us to go all the way—not only because I desired her, but because I believed that once we crossed that line, it would be easier to persuade her to leave with me.
“And you thought I would agree?” she asked.
“I felt you pull back. I stopped. But because you had never said you loved me, I decided you were uncertain about us.”
“I was frightened,” she said. “You were married, I had Jay, and I did not know whether you wanted a life with me or only wanted my body that night. You expected me to risk everything on a plan you had never even told me existed.”
There was no defense against that. I had wanted her to prove her love before I proved the seriousness of mine.
“I loved you,” she said after a long silence. “But I could not fight for that love because of Anna. What we were doing was wrong. Every time we kissed, I felt guilty. And you never told me you were serious. I thought you only wanted to make me your…”
She did not finish the sentence.
The call suddenly disconnected. I tried several times to reach her, but she neither answered nor rejected me. Finally, I sent a good-night message.
She called back.
“Are you tired of talking to me?” she asked.
“No. I’m only sad about how things turned out.”
We looked at one another through our screens.
“How long had you and Anna been married when I became your intern?”
“Two months,” I said. “You arrived two months too late.”
“Another perfect line from Marco.”
It was playful, but it was also true. Anna and I had married after knowing each other for barely six months. Both of us had recently emerged from failed relationships. We had mistaken urgency for certainty.
My former girlfriend had wanted me to follow her to the United States, and I had refused. Anna had left a boyfriend she considered lazy and unambitious. We met at the agency, where my uncle—her godfather—had given her work. Two people nursing rejection found comfort in one another and called the speed of their attachment certainty. By the time Kath arrived, the marriage certificate was only two months old, but the differences between Anna and me had already begun to surface.
“Such a waste,” I said.
“It’s simple, Marco. We were not meant to be.”
I told her that when I finally accepted Anna as she was, I began to see her good qualities. We remained incompatible in many ways, but our marriage became more peaceful. I also admitted that after losing Kath, I had used affairs to punish Anna whenever we fought. Mayette had not been the only one.
Anna had forgiven behavior that I would have struggled to forgive in her. That truth complicated every complaint I made about our marriage. She could be temperamental, and our disagreements could be exhausting, but she had remained when she had every reason to leave. Whenever I presented myself as trapped, I omitted the ways she had absorbed the consequences of my choices.
“I’m not proud of what I did.”
“At least you didn’t leave Anna for Mayette.”
“Mayette was not Katherine. It was that simple.”
Kath rolled her eyes, but she smiled.
By the time we ended the call, it was three in the morning.
“Good night, Marco.”
“Good night, Kath.”
Before sleeping, I sent one last message: Love you, my friend.
Her reply came quickly. Friend? Have I been friend-zoned?
When I asked what she meant, she called it a joke and ordered me to delete our conversation.
I began erasing the messages. When I reached the line in which she said we were not meant to be, I stopped.
Were we really not meant to be?
PART 4– THE LINE BETWEEN US
Efficient Time Management
Time management is not about finding more hours—it is about deciding,
deliberately, what your available hours are for.
“If I had some extra time, I could make some extra money.” Jim Rohn’s answer: Forget it. There is no extra time.
Every person receives the same number of chronological hours: 24 each day and 168 each week. However, not everyone has equal freedom over those hours. Work demands, caregiving responsibilities, health conditions, financial circumstances, and long commutes can consume much of a person’s time before any personal choice is made.
Efficient time management does not deny those realities. It asks a more practical question: Within the time I can influence, am I using it for what matters most?
Jim Rohn once recalled a man telling him, “If I had some extra time, I could make some extra money.” Rohn replied that there was no extra time. When midnight arrives, the day is over. Whatever we hope to accomplish must be attempted within the time already available to us.
Laura Vanderkam’s 168-hour framework makes this easier to see. A person who works 40 hours a week and sleeps eight hours each night uses 96 hours, leaving 72. Those remaining hours are not automatically “free”—meals, commuting, household tasks, caregiving, exercise, and rest must come from them. Still, looking at an entire week often reveals possibilities that are hard to notice when we focus on one crowded day at a time.
Benjamin Franklin designed his daily schedule around purposeful blocks of activity. At the beginning of the day, he asked, “What good shall I do this day?” At night, he reflected, “What good have I done today?” His schedule was not merely about filling every hour with work. It connected time use with intention.
Franklin also admitted that maintaining perfect order was difficult. That matters because efficient time management does not mean rigidly controlling every minute. A schedule must guide us without becoming a prison.
Researchers Brad Aeon and colleagues describe time management through three related practices: structuring, protecting, and adapting time. We structure time by creating routines and assigning activities to appropriate periods. We protect it by setting boundaries and declining demands that interfere with important priorities. We adapt it when circumstances change and our original plans are no longer realistic.
Before improving how you use time, however, you must first discover how you are using it now. Memory is unreliable; a written record is much harder to argue with.
A time audit may reveal obvious waste, but it may also reveal something kinder: perhaps you are not lazy or undisciplined at all—perhaps you are carrying more responsibilities than you realized. Either discovery is useful because effective time management begins with truth, not guilt.
You cannot create extra time. But you can become more deliberate with the time that is genuinely yours to direct.
Pause and Reflect
If you recorded every hour for three days, what do you think you would discover about where your time actually goes?
Which activity deserves more of your available time—and which one deserves less?
One Step Forward
For the next three days, record how you use each hour. Mark every entry as essential, useful, restorative, or wasteful. At the end, identify one hour you can use more deliberately.
Explored more fully in Chapter 8 — “Efficient Time Management” of A Holistic Approach to Self-Improvement.
M.A.D. LIGAYA
M.A.D. L I G A Y A 