When I was a kid, I used to be quiet in the group, believing that it would be better for me to be in the silent zone. But when I accepted the role as a young leader and, soon after, as a young journalist, I learned early that speaking up, especially through writing, is the best way to let people see that you are strong enough.

However, it often comes with consequences. You get questioned, doubted, corrected, and dismissed. Sometimes, I was told to stop. Other times, I was told that my words “won’t change anything.” And once again, I listened. I stayed quiet, thinking that silence could protect me from the weight of criticism. But I realized something far more important: silence does not heal the wounds of Inang Bayan. Writing does.

I remember my first story. A simple article about a community issue that most people ignored—the fight of jeepney drivers. When it was published, some people praised it, but others said I was being “too critical.” I was young, unsure, and easily shaken. I wondered if it would be easier to avoid topics that made people uncomfortable.

Since then, I’ve met other young journalists who share similar stories. We are often told to be careful, to tone things down, to avoid “trouble.” But journalism was never meant to be comfortable. It was meant to be honest. And honesty, especially in this country, can feel like an act of rebellion.

I have learned that writing is not merely putting words on a page, it is choosing to confront what others choose to ignore. It is telling the truth even when your voice shakes. It is amplifying stories of people who don’t have microphones, followers, or platforms. It reminds the nation of the realities hidden behind propaganda, staged scenes, and scripted smiles. And it is standing firmly for something bigger than yourself.

There were times I wanted to quit. There were nights when I asked myself if any of this mattered—if writing about injustices, failures, or ignored communities would ever create real change. But every time doubt creeps in, I think of the people whose stories deserve to be heard. The mother who works tirelessly just to make her family eat three times a day. The student who works part-time just to afford school fees. The evacuee who has lost their home for the third time this year. Their lives may not appear on national broadcasts, but they are part of the nation’s heartbeat.

I used to think that staying silent would keep me safe. But now I know that silence only protects the systems that allow suffering to continue. Writing, on the other hand, challenges them. Writing opens wounds not to worsen them, but to finally let them heal.

So I continue. I write not because it is easy, or because it always feels rewarding, but because it is necessary. Because Inang Bayan deserves storytellers who refuse to look away. Because the truth remains worth fighting for.

I write—because to write is to fight.