It was 4:00 a.m. on Black Saturday. Everyone woke up early to pack for a picnic at the nearby beach. I was in Batangas with my relatives, along with my brother. The previous night had been rough—I was once again put in the spotlight for not drinking alcohol. I had to explain myself, as my uncle wasn’t used to seeing me just sitting in a corner, engaging in the conversation with only a glass of water in hand. I've been sober for over a year now.
“So, today’s probably going to be another round of convincing these people why I chose not to drink,” I told myself the moment I opened my eyes that morning. Still, I got out of bed feeling carefree, choosing not to overthink it. If people insist on their opinions, I’ll let them—but they won’t make me relapse. That’s my conviction.
The beautiful landscapes of Batangas offered me a chance to reflect even more deeply. It was a gorgeous morning, and the sun was rising as we made our way to the nearby beach. I hadn’t gotten much sleep the night before—something I expected, since I rarely sleep well anywhere other than my own bed at home. But the lack of sleep didn’t prevent me from arriving at some meaningful realizations. While staring at the mountain ranges, three thoughts came to me:
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Be Present – Back in the ’90s and early 2000s, we didn’t have smartphones constantly distracting us from the moment. All we had were each other—real-time conversations that fostered meaningful exchanges. I realized that whenever a chance for conversation arises, it’s an opportunity to sharpen the slowly dying art of communication. Genuinely respond with a mind unsaturated by the hundreds of random internet images and videos. Put away your phone—or whatever your distraction of choice is—and embrace the present moment, whether it’s connecting with people or simply admiring the scenery around you.
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You Are Not the Center of the Universe – Stop the Main Character Syndrome (MCS) – The world doesn’t revolve around you. Stop perceiving others as mere background characters in the story of your life. That mindset leads to thoughts of superiority, which, in turn, trigger an ongoing need for validation. Narcissism grows in silence, until eventually, you operate on a covert mission to gain praise just to feel better about yourself. How messed up is that? And it all starts from thinking others don’t compare to your supposed level of “self-improvement.” You’ll end up becoming manipulative and controlling just to bend everything to your liking—turning into a full-blown asshole. The worst part? You might not even notice it at first. But eventually, everyone else will—and that’s how you become a certified "Karen."
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Listen More. Acknowledge More – To overcome MCS, you need to genuinely listen to people. Acknowledge their thoughts and respond in the moment. Really process what they’re saying. Come up with responses that satisfy their input enough to move the conversation forward naturally. If you always steer the discussion toward your own preferred topic—just because you think it’s more interesting—you’re acting like an MCS brat who believes others’ ideas are dull and that your input will magically “save” the vibe. Not only are you robbing yourself of the chance to learn something new from others, but you’re also hijacking the flow of the conversation for your own ego.
These three realizations hit me hard—because they reflect my own struggles. Sometimes, when conversations feel boring—when I’m not getting the validation I crave or don’t feel heard enough—I grab my phone. I scroll a little just to distract myself, then rejoin the talk, barely hearing what’s been said. I pick up a few lines, rephrase them in my own words, and pretend I was listening the whole time. That’s messed up. Some might say it's normal in today’s age of constant distraction, but it wouldn't hurt to put our devices aside and truly be present.
Whenever I sense the connection is getting dull or pointless, I try to rescue the moment by tossing in some “intriguing” topic—usually something about myself. Classic MCS behavior. I end up sidelining others just because I get bored easily and assume I have better ideas than they do. It weakens my ability to truly listen and build genuine relationships. All because of this unconscious hunger for validation—at the expense of the very lessons I claim to reflect on.
Moments later, we arrived at the beach. I noticed how serious my reflections had become—I wasn’t my usual self. I was quiet and filled with a strong desire to act on those realizations. We settled into a simple cottage by the shore, but I didn’t initiate or join any conversation. No one talked to me or attempted to engage. That hit me. Turns out, most of my social interactions happen because I start them. I’m often the talkative one.
But it was okay.
The silence brought peace. It gave me more time to reflect—this time, with the tranquil beach right in front of me. As I sat, hypnotized by the calm sea, my uncle eventually broke the silence by offering me a drink. I politely declined. Usually, whenever I refuse alcohol, I feel compelled to explain. But this time, I didn’t. I acknowledged the offer with a smile and simply said, “I don’t drink anymore.” That was it.
I stayed in the circle, listening to their stories without interrupting—unless asked. When I did respond, I kept it minimal. I didn’t hijack the discussion. At one point, I felt the urge to grab my phone. The conversation wasn’t about me, so it didn’t spark my interest. I thought about playing a video just to subtly show my disinterest—like, “Go on with your booze talk, I’ll entertain myself.” But there was no signal. I couldn’t load anything.
That brief moment of frustration exposed how quickly I was ready to abandon my own reflections. I felt like a hypocrite. So, I put my phone away and turned back to the conversation. This time, without distractions, I really listened. I absorbed what they said, processed their words, connected them to my own experiences, and formulated thoughts I was ready to share—if given the chance. And at that moment, all three of my realizations finally bore fruit.
The most rewarding outcome? I learned things about my uncle—my late father’s sibling—that I never knew before. By actively listening, I was able to ask questions that came naturally and were relevant to his story. That led to even deeper insights about our family. If I had stayed in MCS mode, I never would’ve learned these things.
The highlight of the conversation was discovering that my uncle is going through a relationship crisis within the family. He has wounds that remain unhealed—wounds he might not even know how to address. Or maybe he’s simply numb. That, right there, is why listening matters.
So I kept listening. I asked questions—not about myself, but about him and our family. He opened up freely. I could sense his relief, like a weight being lifted. I never once stole the spotlight. The conversation flowed naturally, like water—uninterrupted. It was a beautiful moment.
By the end, I felt an immense sense of satisfaction for successfully putting my realizations into action. There wasn’t a trace of MCS in that exchange. It felt good to strengthen my bond with my relatives simply by acknowledging them—and not by trying to explain why I don't drink. In the past, I would’ve gone into defensive mode—explaining the science and philosophy behind my choice, trying to look smart and rational while subtly making them seem like drunken idiots. That kind of toxic superiority complex that people sometimes develop when they’re “bettering themselves.” I used to be that guy. But not anymore.
This time, I took the mockery—even the emasculating jokes from my uncle about how a “real man” drinks—and simply smiled. I offered a short apology that I couldn’t drink and left it at that. And because of that humility, I gained something far more valuable: insight into his pain, his struggles, and his humanity.
That, to me, is what being a real man looks like—not whether you drink or not.
I wasn’t required to stay in the drinking circle—and for the first time, I didn’t feel compelled to. The usual urge to linger, to earn laughs or nods, to soak in that unspoken validation... it just wasn’t there anymore. It was strange, but freeing. I began to sense that maybe I wasn’t needed in that space—and instead of feeling excluded, I felt light. For someone who once fed so heavily on approval, this quiet detachment felt like growth.
More importantly, I was starting to appreciate others—not just through the lens of how they saw me, but for who they genuinely were. That alone felt like a turning point. But I suppose my social battery had drained quicker than usual, so I quietly exited the conversation and wandered off to the sea.
I waded into the water, waist-deep, and paused.
Reflection found me again. The silence of the open sea cradled my thoughts. This is liberating, I remember thinking. I had never appreciated the ocean quite like I did in that moment. There, with no distractions, freedom poured its full meaning into me.
I took a deep breath, filled my lungs with the salt-tinged air, and dove in.
What followed was one of the best days of my life. I swam, unbothered, unhurried, unchained. Lap after lap within the allowed area, until exhaustion crept in—but even that felt welcome. I wasn’t swimming to prove anything. I wasn’t swimming away from anything. I had simply fallen in love with the water again.
No alcohol in my system—just the occasional sips of fresh water when I felt thirsty, then right back to swimming. I didn’t even bother with sunblock. The moment had momentum, and I didn’t want to interrupt it. That kind of immersion—body, mind, and soul—felt sacred.
As I swam continuously, a memory from long ago came rushing back: summer of 1998. I was just a boy when a fishing boat, left unanchored, began drifting away. I remember people shouting from the shore, but no one acted. I dove into the sea, fear coursing through me, and swam—hard. The boat kept slipping farther and farther. My muscles screamed. I truly believed I wouldn’t make it. But I kept going—pushed by something more than strength. Willpower. Youthful defiance. Maybe a deep sense of duty.
And somehow, I reached it. Somehow, I pulled that boat back to shore.
That same willpower, buried beneath years of distraction, came alive again that Black Saturday. As I swam with nothing but rhythm and breath, I felt like that boy again—untouched by performance, uncorrupted by ego. Just pure movement. Pure presence.
It was Holy Week, after all—and without planning it, I had found my own kind of spiritual retreat. A return not just to silence, but to self. A sacred pause from the noise I used to chase.
I’ll treasure that moment, and I’ll try to replicate it whenever I can.
No more MCS.
No more narcissistic hunger.
Just presence, peace, and genuine connection with the people I love.
