It was just another Tuesday. Just another event coverage. Just another adventure about to unfold—at least, that’s what I thought.
I had just turned 23 last September 17. A fresh graduate. A young adult trying to navigate life’s twists and turns, still wide-eyed and curious about the world.
So when I volunteered to cover the Miss Asia Pacific International 2025 event in Cebu, excitement coursed through every inch of me.
It was my first out-of-town coverage and my first time to ride an airplane.
Finally, I would witness the clouds through an airplane window—the dream I've carried since childhood.
“Finally,” I whispered to myself as the engines roared. I was taking off for real.
I was excited about everything: the dress I’d wear, the stories I’d capture, and the chance to see beauty queens up close (once upon a time, I dreamt of becoming one, too).
I couldn’t even sleep the night before because I was too thrilled to close my eyes.
When we landed in Cebu around 10 a.m., the city greeted us with clear skies and a warm breeze.
I went straight to work, taking photos and videos as the candidates arrived.
I was mesmerized by the sparkling crown displayed inside a glass case.
I was supposed to stay for only a day, but that short trip would forever change the way I saw life.
The event was set for 7 p.m., so I spent the afternoon exploring the nearby streets, trying to savor my first time in Cebu.
Everything felt light. The day was calm, joyful, filled with promise.
That night, dressed in a shiny black gown, I stepped into the ballroom feeling confident and grateful.
The lights shimmered, the food was good, the laughter of media peers filled the room.
I even reconnected with Kevin, a fellow alumnus who was one of my students in my practicum days.
It was shaping up to be one of those nights that sparked joy and nostalgia all at once.
Then, everything changed.
WHEN BEAUTY TURNs TO CHAOS
During the candidates’ final walk in their ternos, the ballroom began to tremble.
At first, I thought it was part of the sound system.
Within seconds, the chandeliers above us shook violently, their glass pieces clinking and falling. Plates rattled. The ceiling began to crumble. The ground swayed so hard, it was impossible to stay steady.
A 6.9 magnitude earthquake had struck!
I was editing videos for posting when it hit, and instinctively, I dove under the table.
Around me, candidates were screaming and jumping off the stage, some crawling for safety.
I could see the terror in their faces—faces that just moments ago smiled for cameras.
For a few seconds, time blurred.
My body froze, but my mind raced with thoughts I never expected to think that night: Will I ever get to go home? Will I see my family again? Will this be how my story ends?
It was the first time in my life that I truly faced the possibility of death.
It was close enough to feel and close enough to make me realize how fragile everything really is.
When the shaking stopped, we rushed out of the hotel, hearts pounding.
Aftershocks came again and again, forcing us to stay in the open parking lot.
Then, as if the universe wasn’t done testing us, it began to rain.
We huddled together in fear and exhaustion until we were allowed back inside the lobby.
There, as I looked up at the damaged ceiling, the chaos slowly turned into clarity.
Three lessons sank deep into my heart.
THE LESSONS I TOOK HOME
First, life is fleeting.
No one can predict what will happen in the next hour, much less the next day.
That morning, I was full of excitement and wonder.
By nightfall, I was trembling under a table, praying to survive.
Everything can change in a snap.
Every breath we take, every laugh we share—it’s all temporary.
And that is what makes it so precious.
Sometimes, we live as if we have all the time in the world.
We delay phone calls, postpone dreams, tell ourselves, “There’s always tomorrow.”
But what if tomorrow never comes?
That night reminded me that life doesn’t wait for you to be ready.
You have to live fully in every moment—say the words you mean, chase what you love, and let people know you care.
Because time, once gone, doesn’t circle back.
Second, no diamond is that precious in the face of death.
I remembered the crown I had admired earlier, encased in glass and glowing under the light.
During the quake, that same crown was tossed aside as its queen ran for safety.
It struck me how material things, no matter how beautiful or valuable, mean nothing when our lives are at stake.
You can’t take them with you.
The only true wealth is peace of soul, love, and purpose.
We spend so much of our lives chasing things that shine—titles, possessions, recognition—believing they’ll complete us.
But in the face of real danger, none of these matter.
The designer gown, the glittering crown, the nameplates and medals—they all lose their meaning.
What matters is who you are when everything else is stripped away.
That realization humbled me.
It reminded me that the worth of a person is not measured by what they own, but by how they love, how they give, and how they choose to live.
And third, fate has its own strange timing.
Of all the days and places, I happened to be there.
My first flight. My first coverage outside Manila. My first taste of independence—and it all collided with one of the most terrifying nights of my life.
But maybe, it happened to teach me something: that even when the ground shakes beneath your dreams, you can rise, you can be strong.
Courage isn’t the absence of fear; it’s the quiet decision to keep going after fear has touched you.
I used to believe everything had to go according to plan, that hard work and excitement would guarantee a smooth journey.
But life reminded me otherwise.
Life can surprise you, shake you, and even break you, only to rebuild you into someone braver than before.
That night, fate reminded me that I am not in control—but I am capable.
I may not choose what happens, but I can choose how to respond.
I can choose to be strong.
And, sometimes, that’s enough.
AFTER THE QUAKE
The next day, I packed my things in silence.
As the plane took off for Manila, I looked out the window—this time, not just to see the clouds, but to reflect on how fragile yet beautiful life is.
Days after, I struggled to sleep.
I’d wake up in the middle of the night feeling phantom tremors, my body remembering what my mind tried to forget.
But each morning I woke up alive was another reminder of grace—a proof that I was given another chance to keep going, to see, to write, to live.
Today, as I continue to conquer the lingering fear, I hold on to gratitude.
Gratitude for a life spared, for lessons learned, and for the chance to see another sunrise.
I pray for Cebu—for the people who were there, for those who lost friends and kin, and for those who still have to heal.
Sometimes, it takes the earth to shake beneath you to realize the strength you’ve had all along.