For the past three years, I’ve practiced what the Japanese call shinrin-yoku or forest bathing — unhurried walks in the woods, simply breathing, listening, and being present. I don’t go to set a personal record or reach a peak. I go to feel human again. Those hours among the trees have done wonders for my personal wellbeing: my thoughts slow down, my heartbeat follows the rhythm of the forest, and my worries shrink to their proper size.

Every time I step into a trail, I’m reminded of how fragile this peace really is — and how directly it depends on the health of our forests. In the Philippines, nowhere is this more true than in the Sierra Madre, our longest mountain range and perhaps our most underappreciated protector. Stretching over 500 kilometers along the eastern side of Luzon, Sierra Madre is more than just a scenic landscape. It is a lifeline.

Sierra Madre is often called the “backbone of Luzon,” but it is also its shield. When powerful typhoons roar in from the Pacific, it is Sierra Madre that first takes the hit, breaking the wind’s force and weakening the storms before they slam into the lowlands. Without this wall of mountains and forests, cities and towns—including Metro Manila—would face even more catastrophic flooding, landslides, and destruction.

Imagine every typhoon season without Sierra Madre standing in the way. The disasters we already fear would be unimaginably worse. In a very real sense, countless Filipino lives and livelihoods are protected because those ridges and trees are still there.

Yet this shield is under constant pressure. Illegal logging strips away tree cover that took decades, even centuries, to grow. Mining operations carve into slopes and poison rivers. Large, poorly planned projects threaten to fragment habitats and push wildlife to the brink. Every forest lost weakens the natural defenses that keep communities safe and ecosystems stable.

My own experience with forest bathing has taught me that protecting places like Sierra Madre is not just an environmental issue — it is a deeply human one. Science already shows that time in nature lowers stress, calms the nervous system, improves focus, and even helps with depression and anxiety. I’ve felt that truth in my own body: the way a walk under tall trees can loosen a tight chest, or how birdsong can silence the endless noise in my head.

When we protect forests, we are also protecting a vital source of mental and emotional healing. We are defending spaces where children can grow up knowing what a clear river looks like, where families can experience the quiet that no shopping mall can provide, and where future generations can discover that nature is not an abstract idea but a presence you can feel on your skin and in your lungs.

This is why the defense of Sierra Madre must become a national priority, not just a niche concern for environmentalists or local communities. The mountain range supplies water to our farms and homes, moderates our climate, and shelters countless species of plants and animals, some found nowhere else on Earth. Indigenous peoples who have cared for these lands for generations depend on it for their culture and survival.

If there is one lesson my years of forest bathing have driven home, it is this: we need to care for the Earth, for our planet, as if our own wellbeing depends on it — because it does. A damaged environment is not just a news headline; it is stress, sickness, and insecurity made visible. A healthy forest, on the other hand, is safety, food, water, and peace of mind.

Protecting Sierra Madre at all cost is not an exaggeration; it is a statement of reality. This ancient range has stood guard over us for centuries, asking for nothing more than to be left standing. The least we can do now is to stand up for it in return — with our voices, our votes, and our everyday choices — so that the shield that protects us continues to protect generations yet to come.