Becoming while adrift

By Herman M. Lagon

It was a bright, peaceful morning in Solana, Mandurriao. I sat quietly among proud parents, mentors, and friends, taking it all in. There they were—tomorrow’s healers—my daughter, Parvane Mae, among them, standing tall in white coats, ready to take their oaths after weathering what may have been the most grueling chapter of their lives as post-graduate interns at West Visayas State University Medical Center.

Yes, there was red-and-white happiness in the air, but also a stillness that felt almost sacred. Gazing out at the rows of young men and women, crisp coats pressed and perfectly primped, I didn’t just see graduates. I saw lives on the edge of unfolding—beautiful, unpredictable, and sometimes agonizing.

Forget the degrees for a second. What matters is being there—when your eyes sting from no sleep, when everything feels heavy, and yet your heart refuses to walk away. That’s the real work. The path isn’t tidy or easy. It asks you to give, even when you’re unsure what’s left.

During the hourlong ceremonies, a story told by inspirational speaker Dr. Thessa Mae Ecarma-Villareal stopped me in my meandering tracks. It was about a young boy in a hospital hallway, no longer fighting, who turned to his mother and said, “Pagod na po akong huminga.”

“I’m tired of breathing.”

In those words, I felt the weight of what it truly means to hold someone’s pain—and still stay.

That line fell like silent thunder in the hall. It wasn’t just the cry of a child—it was a mirror reflecting the sacred, fragile work that these young doctors were choosing. In that gentle surrender was a world of meaning.

That story didn’t belong to my daughter—at least not yet “that much”—but I could already picture her in those moments. The ones where exhaustion settles deep, but something in her—a quiet kindness—pushes her to keep showing up. When no clinical training or textbook can fully prepare her, and she’ll have to lead with something deeper: presence, intuition, and heart.

In Hiligaynon, there’s a word—lutaw.

It means adrift. Afloat.

Not sinking, but not anchored either. And I know she’ll have days like that—days where she feels suspended somewhere between exhaustion and purpose, between science and soul.

But that’s where the real becoming happens.

And this becoming, especially in the Ignatian spirit, isn’t just for the self. It’s for those often unseen—the man who walks barefoot through backroads for a free consult, the grandmother who waits quietly in a crowded hall with no one to speak for her, the mother who counts coins and skips meals just to buy half a prescription. When you feel lutaw—neither here nor there—remember: your presence, even when tired and trembling, already carries weight. That’s what justice in medicine looks like. Because to be a doctor is not just to treat. It is to stand with the vulnerable, to hold space for the forgotten, and to become a person for and with others.

If you’re in the business of care—medicine, counseling, nursing, even teaching and mothering—feeling tired doesn’t mean you’ve failed. That heaviness in your chest? That’s your heart doing its job. But even the strongest hearts need rest. So step back, mga anak. Catch your breath. Don’t forget why you started. You’re not meant to be the rock all the time. We’re not made to be invincible. Sometimes the boldest thing we can offer is presence—raw, weary, imperfect, but real.

Ignatian spirituality has whispered this truth to me again and again: that everything belongs. Even the cracks. Even the silence. I used to think healing meant solving problems, tying things up neatly. But more and more, I’ve learned—it’s about simply staying. Being there when it’s hard. Walking with someone even when you’re just as unsure as they are. That’s when healing begins.

And so, to my daughter and to all the graduates on this St. Ignatius Day, July 31, 2025—to WVSU Medicine PGI Batch Adhika 2025, to the doctors already serving, and to those still on the way: may you always make space for your fatigue. Let it teach you. Let it soften you. Let it remind you that your calling isn’t just to treat illness—but to accompany the human spirit. To choose presence over perfection. To walk with, not just work for, the people who need you most.

This milestone you’ve reached? It’s not a finish line. This is where it truly begins—the part no textbook can prepare you for. You’ll face shifts that blur together, decisions that sit heavy on your chest. But in every weary breath, may you discover more of the doctor you’re becoming—and the kind of human your patients will never forget.

So as PGI Graduation Rites Baccalaureate Mass Presider Archbishop Most Reverend Midyphil Bermejo Billones said so simply and powerfully in his Ignatian tone: “Keep going.” Even when you feel lutaw, keep showing up.

Because your kind of heart?

It doesn’t just heal wounds—it restores dignity.

The world is aching for hearts like yours.

You’re welcome. Always.

You’re becoming.

Ite inflammate omnia.

***

Doc H fondly describes himself as a “student of and for life” who, like many others, aspires to a life-giving and why-driven world grounded in social justice and the pursuit of happiness. His views do not necessarily reflect those of the institutions he is employed or connected with.