The Transition

Reading through my journals, one might notice my constant wrestling with the role social media has taken in my life—how it has slowly replaced the richest habits of my earlier years. Social media is like a bread that never satisfies: it fills but never nourishes. The true and sustaining bread the Lord offers is often set aside, replaced by the empty calories of scrolling and noise. The bread prepared by the world is tempting and addictive in ways that are hard to resist. I struggle with it, and although I lose the battle at times, I also see myself slowly progressing toward freedom.

For the past few days, I’ve been intentionally replacing my social media habits with the activities that once brought me genuine joy. I’ve returned to reading, and I have sought creative works—not only in literature but also in cinema and various streaming platforms—that speak to the complexities and nuances of human life. These stories, with their slower pace and deeper emotional palette, remind me of the true rhythm of existence. Life is not a rapid sequence of events; it is a journey accompanied by thought, conscience, emotion, memory, discernment, and the quiet weighing of choices. That is where my joy lies: living through others’ stories, seeing the world with their eyes, understanding their struggles and triumphs.

I recently began reading Iris Murdoch, inspired by having finished six seasons of the Australian series A Place to Call Home. Murdoch’s writing reflects the kinds of characters I would love to write about if I possessed her gift—deeply human, morally entangled, intellectually alive.

The series itself mirrors a period I have always admired from afar. The Australia of the 1950s, though fascinating, would not have welcomed someone like me—an outsider, a foreigner—into its tightly knit social circles. Yet I am drawn to observing how communities functioned during that time, how their struggles, though seemingly small by today’s standards, were matters of life and death for them. Many characters carried unprocessed trauma—from Nazi brutality, from Japanese atrocities—only to return home and face suspicion, rejection, gossip, and small-town politics. They escaped one war only to enter another: the war of social hierarchy, where people would plot, spy, bully, and scheme to protect their fragile status.

I know this world well. Growing up in a small barrio, I saw these same dynamics unfold in different forms. Perhaps that is why I am drawn to these stories. They remind me of where I came from and how much the world has changed—and yet hasn’t.

Gratitude and Health:

First and foremost, I thank the Lord for the encouraging results of my recent lab tests. Except for the usual elevated blood sugar, everything else looked good. Yesterday I finally saw the cardiologist, who increased my lisinopril from 10 mg to 20 mg because my blood pressure remains slightly above the ideal range for my age. My Cologuard test came back negative, which is a relief. The only slightly unusual finding was a subnormal PSA percentage, though this could be affected by diabetes. For now, I will give myself time to adjust to the higher lisinopril dose and monitor any side effects.

My two persistent enemies remain diabetes and hypertension—but they are manageable enemies, provided I stay faithful to the work.

There may also be an extension of my Obamacare subsidies for two more years, which would carry me safely to Medicare at 65. That news alone feels like a hand gently guiding me, and I am grateful to the Lord for such provisions in this transition from youth to old age. I trust that He will not leave me without help as I continue this journey.

Still, I must do my part. I was inconsistent in the past with medical follow-ups, hoping diet and lifestyle alone would solve everything. Yet even those imperfect efforts helped. I think of my parents and siblings, many of whom did not maintain their health due to lifestyle limits or lack of resources. Two of my siblings are gone; one lives with disability; two others manage chronic conditions. My point is simple: health maintenance is twofold. You need medical care and lifestyle discipline. They support each other like two pillars holding up a fragile bridge.

The Shifting Landscape of Aging:

Psychological changes come with aging too. At first, I imagined retirement as a time to finally pursue all the adventures I had missed during my working years—more travel, more social networks, more freedom, more “good times.” But reality teaches otherwise. I could travel, yes—but travel is kinder to those with companions, and I do not have one. I could explore lesser-known natural spots, but my sugar and blood pressure require that I have emergency options nearby. I could expand my social circle, but the desire is no longer there. I now find more fulfillment in solitude, in reading, writing, gardening, contemplation—things that require fewer people and more inner space. And “good times,” as the world defines them, have lost their shine. They cost too much in energy, money, and peace. I’ve met enough of the wrong people in my youth to know that the search for excitement is often more exhausting than rewarding.

So what remains? A modified version of my old dreams. There are many gentle joys still available to my aging body and spirit. Meditation, which I practice daily, has become one of my most treasured hours. Walking in the park and then tending the garden give me a tiredness that leads to genuine rest. And now that I am shifting time away from social media and back toward reading, writing, and storytelling, I am rediscovering a quieter, steadier form of happiness.

This, I suspect, is the natural trajectory of a human life. Even when regrets arise—regrets about not traveling more, not seizing certain chances when I was younger—I remind myself of two things:

Many of my siblings missed their youthful pleasures not by choice but by circumstance.

Many elderly patients I cared for once lived vibrant, adventurous lives, only to be later confined by frailty.

We all carry different configurations of joy and suffering. Measuring my life against someone else’s curated image is a path to misery.

Social Media and the Search for Meaning:

Social media feels increasingly hollow these days—filled with failures, tragedies, and endless obituary posts. How can one find satisfaction in such a medium? The only exceptions are pages by scientists, philosophers, and the occasional clever comedy skit that offers guilty pleasure. But even these cannot replace contemplation, reading, or writing. I’ve begun reducing my screen time and I feel freer for it.

Yesterday’s Journey:

After days of anxious waiting for test results, I can finally rest in quiet. With my lisinopril dosage increased, I might avoid strenuous activities until my body adjusts.

Yesterday, after seeing the cardiologist, I returned home to take my morning Metformin. My blood sugar rises in the early morning no matter what I do, so I ate something light—apple, mandarin, and I could have added a protein shake. Around 10:30 AM I walked in the park, encouraged by my lab results, which affirmed that my diet and lifestyle changes are working. I intend to maintain them for as long as I can.

On the way home I stopped at Publix and picked up a bag of mandarins, bread, fish—flounder so thin they almost seemed imaginary—and some tuna, which I enjoy air-fried.

Later, I began reading Murdoch’s The Bell, hoping to replace the joy that A Place to Call Home had given me. When I couldn’t find a new series that fit my taste, I turned to YouTube to “walk” through Manila. Having visited three years ago, it felt comforting to revisit it from the safety and quiet of my room. I remembered the overwhelming stimuli of being there in person—the heat, the noise, the pace—things I may no longer be able to endure. Yet watching someone boldly explore the farthest corners of the city gave me a nostalgic thrill.

Afterwards, I returned to Murdoch.
2025-11-26 08:39:27
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