I was ten years old when I vowed never to sing again.

My elementary school held a Mr. and Ms. pageant every year. Teachers picked representatives — usually the kids with high marks. (Because academic performance and stage presence are definitely the same thing. /s) I was a top-notcher back then, so I got picked.

For the talent portion, I chose “Ikaw Nga” by South Border — a song that starts chill in the mid-notes, climbs through the pre-chorus, then floats into a falsetto chorus. I started strong. Teachers vibing. Students nodding. Then came the pre-chorus. My voice cracked so bad my adviser stopped the minus one mid-performance.

I walked off stage and decided: never again.

Fast forward to high school. There was a rule: join varsity, rondalla, or chorale, and you’re exempt from PE with an automatic A. I was terrible at anything physical, so varsity was out. I tried rondalla — rejected. Hands too slow, they said. ( ͡° ͜ʖ ͡°)

So there I was — caught between my disgust for PE and my fear of singing. I said fuck it and auditioned for the choir.

I got in. Tenor 2. The group won competitions. I made friends — Daryl, Duran, Harvey — and we formed a band called Sileph. (Our first MV is still on YouTube. The quality is terrible and we were absolutely unhinged. I love it.)

More importantly, the fear was gone.

In college, I wanted to get serious. Singing lessons were expensive, so my parents said no. Then my mom found an article in the newspaper about Musikabataan — a scholarship from the music school of Ryan Cayabyab, the GOAT of Filipino music. I auditioned. Got in. Spent two years of weekends learning how to find my voice and actually sing.

To keep myself in school and help my mom, I took every gig I could. Weddings. Casinos. Corporate events. Voice overs and jingles — I became the voice behind hymns and ads for Resorts World Manila, Jollibee, Samsung, Grab, and others. I competed at Sing@Ning and placed 1st runner up. I was one of 60 artists selected for Elements Music Camp, learning from legends like Gary Granada and Gary Valenciano. I joined Part Four, an acapella group that went on to host Akapela Open — the first contemporary acapella competition in the Philippines. I joined the Ninoy and Cory Aquino Foundation, performing for communities the world often overlooks.

Then the boys and I revived Sileph — now called Room for Cielo. We entered Alab: The Independent Musician Rising Awards with a self-produced track. We won the whole thing. The band took off. We toured the Philippines. Did TV and radio. Shared stages with our idols. And we performed at UP Fair — my university’s biggest musical event.

UP Fair was surreal. I’m usually nervous on stage, but that night I felt nothing but presence. I made the crowd sing. Made them wave. Made them rave. One of my teachers from Musikabataan once told me: practice until the performance is second nature — when your body knows what to do, your mind is free to play. That night, I finally understood what she meant.

Then the pandemic hit. Gigs disappeared. And I developed spasmodic dysphonia — a condition that made my voice crack randomly on notes I used to breeze through. The instrument I’d spent years rebuilding was betraying me again.

After the pandemic, I leaned into software engineering. I didn’t push to get back on stage — not with my voice the way it was.

But my friends keep telling me I still got it. I worked with a vocal coach named Lionel, who said something that brought me back: Don’t overthink. Your body is intelligent enough to know what to do. You just have to practice until it becomes second nature again.

Two teachers. Years apart. Same lesson.

In the few performances I’ve done since, I catch glimpses of who I was up there.

I think it’s still not over for me. Not yet.

Got an event or a project? I promise I’ve improved since that pageant. Hit me up.