Why your life doesn't have to be perfect

"Iba kang mag-isip (You think differently)."

I've heard this so many times from so many people over the years. They say this for a variety of reasons and reactions. From delight to dismay. From admiration to exasperation. From acceptance to rejection.

And I don't blame them. I've known since I was a kid that I'm different. I didn't know why. All I knew is that I wanted to be normal. I wanted a normal childhood. A normal home. A normal life.

But the thing is, I really thought differently. At home. In school. I never felt like I belonged. Not even with my family.

"Why do you have to be so different? Why can't you just be like your sisters?"

I remember getting asked that a lot by my parents. Who seemed to think I just wanted to be unhappy. Just wanted to make things harder for them. They all fit in because they thought and acted like normal people and so were, presumably, happy. I was the black sheep.

Things changed for me, though, when I entered high school. I realised a bigger world was just out there, waiting for me. Literally bigger, because I studied in a small Catholic parochial school during grade school. So I was awed when I first entered the campus of University of Santo Tomas High School.

I was also happy when I made my first high school friend that day. He was the first person who talked to me. We were seat mates because the seating arrangement was in alphabetical order.

The moment I saw him, I was impressed by how cool he was. While the rest of us were in our school uniform, he went to class in civilian clothes. His fashion taste was impeccable. I was particularly awestruck because he was wearing Reeboks long before it reached our shores. And impressed that he was a New Yorker. The Big Apple.

Most importantly, he was the first to teach me the true meaning of friendship. The first friend I made in school is still my best friend since high school.

Becoming his friend made me realise that the world was so much bigger, brimming with potential, bursting with excitement. So many new experiences that I never imagined were within my reach, since our family wasn't exactly poor, but wasn't exactly well off, either.

I honestly thought back then that some things were too good for me.

But here I was, thanks to my friend, getting exposed to what I considered the finer things in life. Japanese restaurants, steak houses, pop culture, art.

Whenever he returned from New York , he would bring me back something he knew I liked. One core memory: I was overjoyed when he gave me a "She's So Unusual" cassette, because I was obsessed with Cyndi Lauper. Though admittedly I was a bit confused because it was the first time I had seen a cassette tape that wasn't made in the Philippines. I found myself wondering why the sides didn't have the usual paper labels on which the song titles were printed.

Then my world truly expanded when I went to college. Again, literally, because the University of the Philippines Diliman campus is huge. There, I was exposed to different people from all walks of life, with different life experiences, and different points of view.

The turning point in college for me was when I decided to join the literary org, UP Tinta. I'm honestly not sure why I decided to go for it. They first caught my attention because whenever I would pass their tambayan (hangout), some of them would be singing Broadway songs.

I was intimidated because they all looked like rich kids – and actually were. Still, somehow I mustered the courage to go to their tambayan and apply for membership. Even though I felt like I didn't belong. That I would have nothing in common with these rich kids who were so sophisticated and clearly appreciated literature, music, art, and culture.

It got worse. I found out that many of them had parents who were famous, or were related to someone famous, or were themselves famous. Even among the applicants in my batch. I felt everyone was so much better than I was. Their parents were somebody. They were somebody.

Who was I? Who were my parents? What was I supposed to bring to the table? Me, the bitter, self-conscious and rebellious product of a broken home who lived in a humble abode?

Someone who always wanted to be elsewhere because he never felt like he belonged anywhere? Someone who wanted to escape the life that he and his sisters had to live because of the choices their parents made?

Somehow, however, these sophisticated people accepted me. Of course, I never showed outwardly how intimidated I was. Since childhood, I have always been able to activate what later in life I would refer to as "stage Joey" (like when I'm going on stage as a speaker at some event) or "performance Joey". Sure, inside I might be a mess, but you would never know it once I turn on that switch.

I'm glad I made the leap of faith and joined UP Tinta – my only org in college. I made good friends and great memories. In fact, two of my best friends since college are my UP Tinta batch mates. I'm also proud that five UP Tinta members, including yours truly, have won Palanca Awards – the most prestigious literary competition in the Philippines.

College is where I stopped thinking I had to be normal. But it also began my quest to do the opposite: to live an extraordinary life. Because I now knew that I was just as good as, or even better, than people with higher social status. The ones who had better backgrounds and more resources. The ones who didn't have an unfortunate past and a depressing present that they were trying to escape.

When I started working, my belief that I could – and should – live an extraordinary life was further reinforced.

"Iba kang mag-isip" turned out to be one of my biggest assets, if I harnessed it properly. Because I thought of and did things differently, I could offer fresh ideas and novel solutions. I developed a passion for innovation. My motto became: nothing is impossible.

My need to be a pioneer, my seemingly endless desire to break new ground and make history, was partly because of my thirst for new knowledge and exciting experiences, my belief in the life-changing power of science and technology, and my conviction that those of us who are privileged to be among the digital haves have a responsibility to help the digital have-nots.

But I'm not going to lie. It was also partly to prove the skeptics wrong. To shut up the people who said something couldn't be done – or at least not by someone like me. Wait, what's my motto again? Oh yeah, nothing is impossible.

I developed a reputation as a can-do guy. The one who sounds like he's just making crazy promises and launching projects that were doomed to failure, but somehow gets the job done.

I think the About the Author page gives an idea of the kind of extraordinary life I tried to pursue.

Which finally brings us to why I decided to create A Life More Ordinary.

The title of my blog is of course a play on Danny Boyle's 1997 British romantic black comedy "A Life Less Ordinary", which starred Ewan McGregor and Cameron Diaz.

It was a box office failure and received mixed reviews, but I remember being entertained. Or maybe my memory is playing tricks on me, particularly since I have chemo brain. At any rate, I've always loved the movie title. In fact, it's why I chose A Life Less Analog as the title of my previous column.

But why A Life More Ordinary?

It's what I've learned because of a lot of hard lessons and repeated reminders over the years, while I was trying to pursue an extraordinary life. Even then, I had to grow a lot older, maybe somewhat wiser, to finally understand.

In fact, it was only after I started this cancer journey, when I was diagnosed on 17 July 2023, that I can honestly say I’ve learned the lessons life has been teaching me.

What inspired me to launch this blog is a very simple truth, but one that I had to learn the hard way.

An ordinary life is better and more meaningful than the extraordinary one we think we should have.

It's only human to want to be normal, just like I desperately wanted to be when I was growing up. Just as it's only human to want to be special, which in my case was from college until recently.

The problem, however, is when we think – or are repeatedly told – that only an extraordinary life is worth living.

It's the message society bombards us with all the time. Upward mobility. The next big thing. The latest and greatest.

For instance, upgrade to the new iPhone. Upgrade to a bigger home. Upgrade to a better car model. Upgrade to a better you.

This endless call to upgrade our lives and lifestyles means we will never be satisfied. We might fool ourselves into thinking that if only we had this or that, then our life will be perfect. But perfection will never be within reach. It will always be in an imagined future.

And then maybe after years of pursuing, or, in my case, decades, we finally realise that we have wasted so much time and energy chasing this perfect future. Instead of living in the moment, enjoying simple joys, being with the people we love, and doing what really matters to us and gives our life meaning.

What I've learned, particularly because of the pandemic that changed the world, and this cancer that changed my life overnight, is to appreciate the ordinary life.

It's like a great weight has been lifted from me.

I don't have to prove anything to myself. I don't have to prove anything to others. I can focus on my wife and daughter, spend more quality time with them, and do everything I can to become a better husband and father.

I don't need to worry about FOMO. Living with cancer has made me realise what I truly value. What sparks joy. What gives meaning to my life.

And they didn’t turn out to be grand accomplishments and big-ticket items. The things I once thought I needed to be happy, but actually just wanted.

Not all the success I have achieved matters if I fail as a husband and father.

Sure, the ordinary life isn't a perfect one. It's not meant to be.

Then again, who said we need a perfect life to be happy?