Finding purpose after losing everything

When people ask me, “Kumusta?” I’ve gotten pretty good at saying, “Okay lang,” or a sarcastic “Buhay pa!” The retort conveniently shuts down an impersonal conversation.

The truth: I wasn’t okay. I didn’t have the luxury of falling apart. Life doesn’t stop just because you’re grieving. Bills still arrive. My children still need a father. Responsibilities don’t disappear when your heart breaks. So every morning, you sluggishly get up, put one foot in front of the other, and do what needs to be done.

Two years ago, my mother died. I didn’t cry at her funeral; only my wife and children saw me break down in the emergency room. Her final moments were bereft of drama—only muffled sobs from my children as former Disaster Risk Reduction and Management Office colleagues tried to revive her. Dementia and surgery complications had robbed us of meaningful conversation in her final years.

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My grief never got a chance to play out because public service demands that you put your life on hold. Trained in old-school newsroom discipline, I was back at my desk the day after her funeral. I thought I was postponing my loss, but I was running away from it.

Less than a year later, I lost my job. It wasn’t due to poor performance or involvement in an anomaly—despite what a spokesperson insinuated in her usual performative press briefing. I simply was on the wrong side of the political fence when the ax fell, with no ninong or influential family name to protect me. In government, graduate degrees, academic honors, and stellar performance ratings rarely shield you from shifting political tides. Being an only son didn’t mean inherited security either; it just meant there was no one else to share the load.

Determined to stay in public service for my pension, I applied in three agencies, confident my decades of experience counted. All three rejected me.

With bills mounting, I took a lower-level job. It was honest work, but most days felt like being forced back to square one—and along the way, getting written off by Gen Z coworkers who had yet to prove themselves.

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Then came the lesson every former official learns: power attracts crowds, while disempowerment clears the room. The moment your influence vanishes, your phone stops buzzing, your name gets removed from group chats, and an eerie silence settles in.

I grew bitter at politics, life, and being treated as disposable. I built walls, cutting ties with longtime friends—including those fishing for details of my downfall. Anger was simply easier to carry than disappointment.

It took time to realize I was fighting two battles at once: a derailed career and unprocessed grief. When duty comes first, grief quietly waits. But grief is patient, and when it calls your name, it demands to be paid in full—with interest.

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Amid the emotional roller coaster, an unexpected lifeline appeared. A former media colleague invited me to host a radio program.

Broadcasting was foreign to me; I was a newspaperman at ease with a red pen. I didn’t have a deep, authoritative voice. My voice cracked and mumbled on air. Yet someone took a gamble on me.

What started as a side gig became an anchor. Broadcasting reminded me of a basic truth: communication isn’t about a golden voice—it’s about having something worth saying. Listeners were simply asking, “Can I trust this person?”

Our value isn’t determined by a fancy job title or a large office. Those things come and go. What remains is whether we still have something useful to offer.

I still grieve every day. There are mornings I catch myself walking toward my mother’s bedroom before reality hits. The grief hasn’t vanished, but I’ve learned how to carry it. I’ve stopped waiting for life to return to what it was, and I’ve stopped believing that recovery requires a polished mahogany desk or a carpeted office.

Today, I’m still rebuilding. While I don’t know where this path leads, I’ve learned that titles disappear, power fades, and some people walk away. But purpose survives. Sometimes, you only find it after falling deep enough to discover what you are truly made of.

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At 56, Ares P. Gutierrez is too old to be young and still young to be old. He consults for government agencies, anchors a weekly radio program on disaster resilience, and hosts a bi-weekly show on migration for government radio. He hopes to rekindle his romance with his first love, journalism, health and time permitting.