What I learned about pride, pain, and a faith that doesn’t depend on people.
“Perfect.”
That word has never sat well with me.
Someone once commented on my stories,
“You have a perfect family.”
And instead of feeling flattered…
I felt uncomfortable. Almost unsettled.
Because I know the truth.
Social media can make things look whole, happy, and flawless.
But what you see is only a glimpse. A moment. A highlight.
Not the struggles.
Not the healing.
Not the quiet battles no one else sees.
I don’t have a perfect life.
I don’t have a perfect family.
I don’t have a perfect relationship.
What I have… is grace.
A constant awareness of the parts of me that still need healing.
The parts I am trying to surrender, day by day.
The parts I bring to God, again and again.
Because no one is perfect.
Only God is.
We have all fallen short of His glory.
Last Sunday was Pentecost.
And as I sat in church, listening to the homily about how we should live our lives and treat others…
My heart felt heavy.
Because the priest celebrating the Mass was the same priest who once made me feel so small.
I remember that night so clearly.
My uncle was dying.
I was desperate to find a priest to administer the Anointing of the Sick.
I went to the church I had known since I was young.
The place that always felt like home.
When I approached him, he asked if I had tried another parish.
And I said, almost pleading,
“Father, I’m already here.”
He agreed to go.
But then I had to say something that, at the time, felt heavier than it should have:
“Father, I’m sorry… I don’t have a car. Is it okay if we take a jeepney?”
I still remember the sigh.
The drop of his shoulders.
The disappointment on his face.
In that moment, I felt so small.
So insignificant.
So ashamed.
As if not having a car made me less worthy.
As if desperation had conditions.
But we rode in his car.
And as I sat in the passenger seat,
my mind was loud.
“Just leave.”
“Get out.”
“Don’t tolerate this.”
My pride was screaming.
But I swallowed it.
Because in that moment,
it was no longer about me.
It was about my uncle.
And I made a decision—
not for my pride,
but for love.
“At least this is the last thing I can do for him before he goes.”
So I stayed.
Carrying not just fear and grief…
but the quiet weight of choosing humility when it hurts.
So imagine sitting in that same church, three months later,
hearing him preach about kindness, about how we should treat others.
And quietly, in my heart, I asked:
“How did you do that, Father?”
But just as quickly, another voice whispered:
“Who are you to judge?”
You are not perfect either.
And that stopped me.
Because it’s true.
I, too, have failed.
I, too, have had moments I am not proud of.
I, too, need grace.
So I prayed:
“Lord, help me forgive.”
Because forgiveness is easy to talk about…
until it’s the people who hurt you deeply.
Even the ones you expected more from.
Even the ones placed on a pedestal.
And that’s when I understood Pentecost more deeply.
We cannot do this on our own.
Not forgiveness.
Not healing.
Not becoming who we are called to be.
We need the Holy Spirit.
To renew our minds.
To soften our hearts.
To give us the strength to love when it’s hard.
And I realized something else.
Faith should never be dependent on a person.
Not on a priest.
Not on a community.
Not even on a church.
Because people will fail.
But God never does.
So I will continue to go to Mass.
Not because people are perfect.
But because my faith is in God.
And I know that while we are all bound to fall short,
it is by grace—
and by the power of the Holy Spirit—
that we rise again.
So when I post,
it is not to show a perfect life.
It is to document grace.
To capture moments my children and I can look back on and be thankful for.
Not because everything was easy…
but because God was present.
In the middle of it all.
Mentors are not perfect.
Priests are not perfect.
People are not perfect.
Only God is.
So I choose not to put anyone on a pedestal.
And instead, I hold on to this prayer:
Lord, let my life be a quiet pursuit of sanctity.
Doing simple things with great love.
Choosing grace, again and again.
Because in the end,
that is the goal.
Not perfection.
But holiness.
Hey there.
If you’ve ever felt small…
If you’ve ever been hurt by someone you expected more from…
If you’ve ever questioned your faith because of people…
I see you.
But don’t let people be the reason you walk away from God.
Come back.
Stay.
Keep going.
Not because everything makes sense.
But because He is still God.
And He is still good.
We’re all just trying.
Falling short.
Learning to love better.
Learning to forgive deeper.
One prayer at a time.
One surrender at a time.
By grace. Always by grace.
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