50 years of grace

By Herman M. Lagon

Fifty is a curious number. Some dread it, as if crossing into half a century means losing relevance, energy, or purpose. Others celebrate it, clinging to the cliché of the “fabulous fifties” as if youth can be stretched with collagen, vitamins, or Zumba classes. For me, fifty is simply a pause under life’s shade, grateful that I am still here, broken but still whole and driven. This transformation is not my doing alone. It is grace, woven through love, friendship, community, struggle, and the ordinary people who kept me on my feet when I faltered.

At the very center of that grace is my mother, Diana. At eighty-one, she remains sharp, strong, and stubbornly caring in ways only mothers can manage. Her love language has never been grand speeches or expensive gifts. It has always been food. A bowl of puchero on a rainy evening, adobo reheated at midnight, or simply the constant question, “Kakaon ka na?” Growing up, I often rolled my eyes at her questions, brushing them off as nagging. Now, I see them for what they really are: small sacraments of daily love. The sociologist Claude Fischer once wrote that the strongest ties are often “mundane acts of care repeated over time.” My mother embodied that truth long before I read it in a book. Having her alive, healthy, and present as I mark my fiftieth year is a birthday gift richer than any wrapped in ribbons.

My daughters, Psyche Mae and Parvane Mae, are another chapter of grace. They remind me that hope is not abstract; it has flesh and bone. Psyche, now teaching children with special needs in the United States, is on its way of becoming a doctor of special education. Parvane, newly minted as a physician, plans to serve as a doctor to the barrios, where systems often abandon the poor. Both of them carry grit and empathy in equal measure. I sometimes joke with them that with daughters like these, I could already die smiling, my life fulfilled. But deep inside, the joke carries truth. Their paths remind me that what endures is not the possessions or accolades we accumulate, but the values and faith we plant. Psychoanalyst Erik Erikson described midlife as a stage of “generativity,” when one seeks to nurture the next generation rather than hoard comfort for oneself. Watching my daughters, I see this generativity embodied. They are who they are because of God’s grace and also because they dared to embrace challenges head-on.

I once treated health as an afterthought. Now at fifty, I see it as stewardship, not vanity. Research links gratitude and healthy living to longer life—and I know only a healthy H can truly serve, teach, and laugh with others. Even the daily walk around campus, the choice of vegetables over processed food, or the discipline to rest and sleep—these small acts of care keep me in the service of, for, and with others.

Before teaching, I spent six years after college in the rough-and-tumble world of cause-oriented groups and the media. Those lean years taught me more than any classroom. Protests in the rain, farmers robbed, workers demanding wages—all showed me that injustice has faces and rough hands. Words only matter when tied to truth and courage.

Later came two decades of Jesuit formation, twenty-one years to be exact, as principal, teacher, and formator. I was not an easy student of life. I was stubborn, restless, and often impertinent. Yet mentors like Fr. Manny Uy, SJ, never gave up on me. Leadership, he taught me, is not perfection but service. It is reflection and discernment, even in the midst of stumbles. My community’s trust shaped me, and together we wove compassion, justice, and magis into our school’s life. I learned that true leadership is not standing apart but walking with others, seeking what is best for all.

Today, my home is ISUFST, one of the most vibrant state universities in the country. It has given me a new lens for seeing social justice—quality, inclusive, and empowering education for families in the peripheries. Here, I found a community that accepts my quirks but also challenges me to further explore, deepen, and create knowledge while speaking with authenticity. Here, I am reminded daily that transformation does not only bloom in elite spaces. It also blossoms in state universities, in the dreams of students who are often the first in their family to finish college. ISUFST has given me the time and space to write, to speak, and to reflect more openly. For this, I am deeply grateful.

This journey was never mine alone. Friends stood firm, students turned from challenge to gratitude, and strangers offered small mercies in strange towns. Indeed, “Walang sinuman ang nabubuhay para sa sarili lamang.” At fifty, this resonates deeply. My life has always been stitched by others’ generosity and patience. Every recognition or role I may claim is also theirs. Gratitude, therefore, is never solitary. It is always shared.

Reaching fifty also brings clarity. What once felt infinite now feels urgent. I choose generativity over stagnation—to guide, to plant, to walk with others. The classrooms may change, but the call to give back endures. Analytical psychologist Carl Jung once said that midlife is when the conscious and unconscious seek integration, when we become more authentic versions of ourselves. At this bend in the road, I hope to embrace authenticity—not by clinging to youth, but by cherishing wisdom.

There is humor in this season too. I now carry reading glasses like an ID of age. Zumba feels like an extreme sport. Younger colleagues tease me that my references are “vintage.” Yet laughter is its own form of health. The race to prove myself has slowed. What remains is freedom: to say no without guilt, yes without hesitation, and thank you without end. The writer Gail Sheehy once called midlife crises “passages,” opportunities to pivot rather than collapse. I choose to see fifty not as a crisis but as a passage, a chance to deepen what matters.

As I move forward, I carry no bucket list, only a grateful heart. These fifty years have not been perfect. They were messy, filled with missteps, struggles, and missed chances. But they were also full of grace, companionship, learning, and growing. I thank my mother, my daughters, my mentors, my colleagues, my friends, and even the nameless faces who left their mark. To the quiet Source that held it all together, I bow. The way forward may be shorter, but it remains a gift. If gratitude continues to be my North Star, then every step I take will still be in abundance. Fifty is not an ending. It is a continuation of the same pilgrimage: walking with others, for others, always toward the greater good.