The internet has a pattern. Someone gets exposed, receipts pile up, TikTok stitches roll in, and suddenly we all have a new villain of the week. Right now, one of the M2M is Claudine Co, a nepo baby flaunting a lifestyle that, on closer look, is tied to something much bigger: flood control projects under the DPWH, contracts worth billions, and a system of plunder so ordinary it barely shocks us anymore.

And that’s the trap.

We get distracted by the character. In this case, a filthy rich kid who became a symbol of excess instead of the machinery running in the background. Netizens loves a face, a storyline, someone to meme. But what about the paper trails? The officials signing off? The infrastructure that’s supposed to keep us dry but leaves us knee-deep in floodwater every year?

This is how corruption hides in plain sight. It banks on our short attention span. Personalities make headlines, systems do not. It’s easier to laugh at Claudine’s cringe posts than to parse through government procurement contracts. And by the time the noise fades, nothing changes.

We expose. We trend. We forget. And the floodwaters rise again.

But we don’t have to. The cycle can break if we keep the pressure alive. If we keep the story moving even when the algorithm has moved on. If we call out the rot not just in the characters but in the system that creates them.

So, let’s not wait for the next exposé. Let’s not let this die down. Because corruption thrives in silence, and silence is the one thing we can’t afford.

Sometimes, the best way I know how to show affection is to immortalize it in words. This one's for Mina, my life’s great muse.

She asked me to write something that read like an editorial spread. Something she could hang on her wall as she redesigned her home. So I did just that. Because when someone means that much to you, their story deserves to be art. 

MINA SYU: A Study in Style, Control, & Presence

I was guilty too. I cared about my LinkedIn more than a normal person probably should.

Three thousand followers on LinkedIn? That’s not bad at all. I’ve updated my portfolio religiously after every career milestone. I even had my job proudly sitting in my Instagram bio like it was my entire personality. (That's still staying though until I think of a new bio) During hangouts with friends, I secretly hoped someone would ask, “So what do you do now?” so I could give them my elevator pitch like a badge of honor.

And then one day, I woke up and realized I might be suffering from what I now call Career Stockholm Syndrome (I made this up)—that strange psychological state where your identity feels tied up, locked in, and held hostage by your job. (I still made this up)

I didn't even notice how consumed I was by it. But little things added up. I felt anxious when I had “nothing to share” about work. I attached my self-worth to job titles. I used productivity as a way to validate my place in the world. If my career wasn’t peaking, I wasn’t peaking.

Until I wasn’t doing that anymore.

I don’t know what exactly liberated me. Maybe it was burnout. Maybe it was the quiet joy of weekends that didn’t feel like pit stops between workweeks. Maybe it was realizing no one really cared what was on my LinkedIn bio. But suddenly, I began to remember who I was outside of a résumé.

And let me tell you, she’s kind of cool.

I’m a daughter who really loves her mother. A sister. A best friend. An acquaintance who tries to remember birthdays. I’m a woman who found her spark back in writing, a woman who loves staycations. & Firing too! I finished four novels last month after being in a decade-long reading slump. I curate mood playlists for fun. I light incense and candles, not for the scent but because it calms me down. I love fashion, and I also call out fashion. I contact people in random afternoons—not to network, but just to laugh and share memes and talk about life.

I am so many things that cannot be measured by a job description or a KPI.

And here’s the thing: I still care about my career. I still work hard. (I'm still great at it; you can ask my manager. Hello, Mr. Enzo Benzoni.) I still get excited about creative campaigns and getting that “Great job!” feedback from a client. But I no longer center my entire identity around it. 

Because if your job disappeared tomorrow… would you still know who you are?

We live in a world that romanticizes the hustle and fetishizes career milestones. And sure, ambition is beautiful. Purpose is powerful. But you are more than the titles you carry or the salaries you chase.

Take a breath.
Go do something unproductive.
Something soft.
Something pointless but meaningful.

And if anyone asks what you do, you can still tell them.
But make sure you know who you are without it, too.

A Special Thought: When Work Isn’t the Dream Anymore

Recently, I had a conversation with a friend who told me she doesn’t want to work anymore. Not like, “I need a break”—but really, “I think I’m done. I don’t want a career. I don’t want to hustle. I’m not built for it.”

At first, I admired it. There’s something freeing about that level of detachment, especially in a world that glorifies busyness and burnout like medals. If she’s truly happy, secure, and fulfilled—then that’s a kind of freedom I genuinely respect.

But I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t a little… uneasy.

Not because she made a different choice, but because I care. And because this world is not kind to people who opt out without a totally secured, bill gates daughter kind of back up plan. I want her to be safe. To be supported. To have a life that’s not just temporarily peaceful, but sustainably so. The kind of stillness that’s not secretly funded by anxiety.

I don't think I will be in touch with her much anymore. Maybe we see things too differently now. Maybe we both outgrew the version of each other who needed to be understood.

And that’s okay.

To each their own.

But I guess this is my way of saying:
Choosing to disengage from hustle culture is valid. But survival is still real.
Opting out is powerful, but make sure you’re not just opting out of work.
Make sure you’re opting into something else that supports you, whatever that looks like.

Whether you work a 9–5, freelance, rest, raise a child, run a business, write in the dark, or just breathe slowly, I hope you feel secure doing it. Not just spiritually, but economically too.

Because it’s hard to romanticize detachment when bills are due.