Beyond the savior myth

By Herman M. Lagon

You know that moment when you agree with something—and then realize you’re not quite ready to live by it? That was me when Mayor Leni Robredo said we need to move away from the idea of a “savior.” The first instinct is to nod. Of course. That makes sense. But give it a few minutes—or scroll a little further—and you start seeing the comments. And there it is again, almost like muscle memory: Ikaw pa rin.

Not loud. Not aggressive. Just… there. Familiar. Comfortable.

It is strange when you notice it, because it is not really about disagreement. It is about how quickly we return to what feels settled. Not because we cannot think—but because doubt, even in small doses, is harder to carry than we admit.

Maybe that is where this really begins—not with politics, but with how people deal with uncertainty.

Because let us face it. For many, uncertainty is not abstract. It is everyday life. It is lining up for services that should have worked better. It is waiting in a government office where the system depends less on process and more on who you know. It is seeing small improvements and hoping they mean something larger is finally changing. It is watching decisions that feel distant from real needs. It is hearing promises that sound familiar in a way that is not comforting anymore. And in the middle of that, the idea of one person who can “fix things” becomes… appealing. Not perfect. Just easier to hold.

One name. One story. One place to put everything we are tired of carrying.

It simplifies everything. It gives shape to frustration. It tells you that if the right person comes in, things will finally move the way they should. Clean. Direct. Almost cinematic.

But real governance has never moved that way.

Even the most capable leaders—those with track records, discipline, and intent—walk into systems that were already there long before them. Layers of process. Old habits. Compromises that have been normalized over time. You cannot undo that with one election. You cannot outrun it with good intentions alone. Research on institutions has been saying this for years, but you do not even need to read journals to see it. You just need to look at how slowly things change, even when people want them to move faster.

So when Robredo says there is no single savior, it is not a rejection of leadership.  It is a quiet reset of how we understand it.

And maybe that is why it does not sit easily.

Because it takes away something we’ve gotten used to—the idea that hope can sit on one person. When she names others—Hontiveros, Aquino, Pangilinan, Sotto, Belmonte—it doesn’t feel like she’s passing it on. It feels like she’s asking that the weight be shared. “Maraming puwede.” That line lands differently when you let it sit. It does not give you a clear answer. It gives you options. And options require thinking.

Not everyone likes that.

I have seen this play out in small ways, even in class. Ask students who they think can change things, and most will name a person. Push a little further—ask what happens after that person leaves—and the conversation slows down. Not because they cannot answer, but because the question feels unfamiliar. We are used to endings that depend on one character. We are less used to systems that continue regardless of who is in charge.

That is the harder conversation Robredo is opening.

And to be fair, the hesitation people feel is not unreasonable. Trust is not easy to give, especially when it has been misplaced before. It is simpler to invest it in someone who has already proven something. There is comfort in that. But comfort, if we are not careful, turns into dependence. And dependence has a way of shrinking our choices without us noticing.

The viral open letter to her by Atty. Race Del Rosario, RN and the “15,035,773 Kakampinks and counting” says a lot about that tension. It is sincere. You can feel it. The gratitude, the memory of what people believed was possible, even the regret—those are not shallow things. They come from experience. But there are lines in it that quietly reveal something else. “You are still the best.” “We need you.” It is not blind loyalty. But it leans close.

And that is where it becomes worth pausing.

Because maybe the issue is not whether she deserves that trust. She probably does. The question is what happens when all that trust gathers in one place. What gets left out? What other leaders do not get seen because the lens has already narrowed?

This is where the responsibility shifts, a little uncomfortably, back to voters.

Not in a dramatic, “we must do better” way. Just in a practical sense. If leadership is not limited to one person, then choosing becomes more demanding. It means looking at track records, not just speeches. Paying attention beyond election season. Noticing who builds systems quietly, without needing applause. It is less exciting, to be honest. But it is more reliable.

And maybe that is the trade-off.

Less drama. More staying power.

There is also something quietly instructive in how Robredo talks about herself. Saying she may be more effective at the local level isn’t something politicians usually admit. But it does make sense. Leadership isn’t about reaching the highest position—it’s about being useful where you are needed. And often, the most meaningful work happens quietly, away from the noise.

There is a pattern there, if you pay attention: the people most fit for the role are often the ones who hesitate—not because they lack ambition, but because they understand what it asks of them. That kind of thinking rarely trends. But it stays.

For those of us who teach, or mentor, or even just talk to younger people trying to make sense of all this, this moment matters more than it looks. Because how we frame leadership shapes how they will approach it later. If we keep presenting it as something exceptional, tied to rare individuals, then we keep the same cycle alive. But if we start showing it as something shared—something built over time, across different roles—then maybe the expectations begin to shift.

Slowly. Not all at once.

So maybe the real question for 2028 is not who will run. That part will come. The harder question is quieter: whether voters are ready to let go of the need for one name to carry everything. Whether we can hold on to our standards without tying them too tightly to a single person.

That is easier to agree with than to practice.

Because letting go of the idea of a “savior” does not feel like progress at first. It feels like uncertainty again. It asks more from us—not just to hope, but to look more closely, to compare, to stay engaged even when there is no single figure to rally behind.

But maybe that shift does not begin in big decisions. It shows up in smaller ones. In how we talk about candidates, not just admire them. In how we pay attention to what they have actually built, not just what they promise. In how we resist the urge to settle too quickly on what feels familiar.

And maybe that is where this really lands.

Not as a grand realization. Not as something dramatic.

Just as a quiet change in how we think: that the country will not move forward because one person finally steps up—but because more people do—and we finally stop acting like we are waiting for one.

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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.