They say life slows down as you get older, but I’ve found that, for me, it has only become richer, deeper, and somehow more vibrant. I’ve been working for as long as I can remember — waking up early to accompany my Nanay Curing to Divisoria, where, in our little stall, we’d sell shrimps and fish. From that time on, I never stopped working. Work, in one way or another, has shaped me, steadied me, and, eventually, defined me. I never truly stepped away from it — and maybe I never wanted to. Stopping now would feel like letting go of a part of myself. Work is my rhythm, my therapy, and my quiet form of joy.

As a child, I learned early that work was how you contributed, how you kept yourself grounded in this world. I saw that in my mother — the pride she took in what she was doing. I never heard her complain. It was hard work, but I never saw her give up. That lesson never left me. Over time, it became more than a duty — it became who I am. When I wake up and get going, even after all these years, I still feel that small spark inside: the satisfaction of being useful, of creating something, of keeping the wheels turning. People talk about retirement as freedom, but my freedom comes from staying engaged — from knowing my days still have structure and purpose. I think this is why, after leaving public service, I immediately went back to entrepreneurship. I never, for one second, considered retiring. Even today, I feel like it’s 1975 and I’ve just taken out my first bank loan to start a gravel and sand business — the beginning of a journey into a world I truly love.

Today, my daily routine might look strange to some. I usually go to bed around 10 p.m. and wake up at 2 a.m. There’s something sacred about those early hours, when the world is quiet and the house feels suspended in stillness. I can read, work, or think without interruption. Later in the afternoon, I nap. I used to fight naps, thinking they were a sign of slowing down — now I see them for the gift they are. A nap restores me, clears the static in my mind, and gives me the second wind I need to carry through the day. My officers, who I usually meet over the course of the day, know this. They know better than to disturb my nap.

Health has always mattered to me, but at this age, walking has become one of my greatest allies. Ten thousand steps a day — that’s the goal I set for myself. Some days those steps happen in bursts; other days, they stretch into quiet strolls between meetings. Sometimes I ask my officers to walk briskly with me as we discuss part of our meeting agenda. I’m sure some of them find it strange to have their boss giving out instructions while huffing and puffing. Walking keeps me sharp, fills my lungs with fresh air, and keeps my thoughts moving forward. It’s during those walks that I often realize how lucky I am — to still be walking, still be working, still be here.

I don’t measure my life by what I can no longer do, but by what I continue to do — with just as much heart as ever. There’s peace in that recognition. Work isn’t pressure anymore; it’s purpose. I’ve never considered work as, well, work. To me, it’s not a burden but a way of keeping my mind agile and my spirit light. Movement isn’t obligation; it’s gratitude. Rest isn’t indulgence; it’s wisdom. I’ve come to see this chapter of my life not as a winding down, but as a soft unfolding — a quieter, deeper way of living.

At this stage in my life, I’m not done — I’m just more present. Life, in its own unhurried way, has begun again. And there is poetry in this chapter — in the steady pulse of my footsteps, the stillness between naps, the quiet hum of work that gives shape to my days. Life, I’ve learned, doesn’t end when the calendar says it should slow down. For those of us who keep showing up — to our work, our walks, our lives — life begins again.

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