Every choice has a shadow.

Not the kind that follows you around on a sunny day—this one’s quieter, sneakier. It’s the whisper that comes at night when everything else is silent. It lingers in the background like the smell of burnt toast that won’t go away no matter how many scented candles you light. That shadow? It’s called regret.

Regret doesn’t arrive all at once. It creeps in slowly, showing up in the spaces between your thoughts when you least expect it. Maybe it’s a memory that surfaces while you’re waiting at a red light, or a pang in your chest when you hear an old song that reminds you of a choice you didn’t make. Sometimes it’s so faint you can almost pretend it’s not there—almost.

Most of the time, we try to ignore it. We keep ourselves busy so the shadow doesn’t have room to grow. We drown it out with to-do lists, bright screens, and conversations that skim the surface of what really matters. But no matter how loud the world gets, regret waits patiently for the quiet. It thrives in the moments when you’re alone with nothing but your own mind.

We fear regret more than we admit. It’s the reason we hesitate, the reason we cling to comfort instead of stepping into the unknown. It’s why we second-guess ourselves long after the moment to act has passed. Deep down, we know that some doors, once closed, never open again in quite the same way. And that knowledge sits heavy on the heart.

But maybe there’s another way to look at it. Maybe regret isn’t just a punishment for the choices we didn’t get right. Maybe it’s a signal—a sign that we cared enough to want more, to wish we’d been braver or kinder or truer to ourselves. In that sense, the fear of regrets isn’t just something to run from. It’s something to listen to, a quiet invitation to live more deliberately while we still have the chance.

The Weight of Now

Regret doesn’t always shout. Sometimes it just sits in the corner with its arms crossed, watching you as you scroll through life, quietly amused, quietly judgmental, like an unwanted guest you didn’t even realize had a spare key. It doesn’t slam the door or throw a tantrum; it simply leans back, smirks, and eventually shows up whispering, “So… that’s the choice you went with, huh?” And the worst part? You usually don’t notice it right away. 

I didn’t always think like this. When I was younger, life had a simplicity that made decisions feel more like coin tosses than crossroads. The world was fairly and pretty straightforward: you did your homework, tried not to look too awkward in group activities, and prayed your parents won’t have an instinct for peak embarrassment.

Back then, choices were small, bite-sized, and relatively harmless. Decisions? Simple! Do I eat the second serving of spaghetti? Yes. (Always yes.) Do I study for the quiz, or do I watch another episode of whatever cartoon had me hooked? Guess. Do I confess to Mom that I accidentally broke another plate, or do I silently shove the pieces into the garbage and act like the plate had been living with a hidden crack all its life? Some things, my friends, are secrets meant to be carried to the grave.

But then Senior High School rolled around—and it didn’t come quietly. It didn’t knock. It kicked the door down with a clipboard full of existential questions. Suddenly, the stakes didn’t feel like spilled spaghetti sauce or a broken plate. No, these choices came dressed like permanent tattoos on the timeline of your future. It wasn’t just about choosing between chocolate or vanilla, or even which strand to pick: ABM, STEM, HUMSS, GAS—like some strange buffet of letters that somehow determined your entire future. No, the choices now felt eternal. Like the kind of decisions that echo beyond grades, competitions, or college applications.

And here’s the kicker: no one tells you just how permanent those choices feel when you’re 16 and still figuring out how to balance a cafeteria tray without dropping your juice. You’re expected to make life-shaping decisions while you’re still half-convinced you might become a renowned contractor or a professional and chartered public accountant. And sure, adults said things like, “It’s not the end of the world”—but tell that to the 17-year-old who feels like the wrong choice now will domino into eternal failure.

That’s the thing about growing up. The decisions stop being about now, and they start being about later—tomorrow, next year, five or ten years from now. But what no one warns you about is how now feels so much heavier than later. Because when you’re young, every choice feels like the choice. And while some of them really are just detours or speed bumps, others stick with you, quietly waiting in that corner, arms crossed, watching, smirking.

The weight of now isn’t in the decision itself—it’s in the silence afterward. The wondering. The constant second-guessing. It’s in those quiet moments when regret pulls up a chair beside you, taps you on the shoulder, and reminds you, “This is where you are… because of that choice.”

And that’s where humor sneaks in—not because life is funny, but because if you don’t laugh at it, you might just drown in the noise of all your own second thoughts. So you laugh, you shrug, you make the best choice you can with the information you have, and you accept that regret might still be waiting for you in the corner.

Because that’s the truth of it: regret doesn’t disappear, but neither does possibility. And sometimes, the heaviest part of now isn’t the fear of choosing wrong—it’s the courage to keep choosing at all.

Glittering Bait of the World

Let me be brutally honest. The world was never boring to me. It wasn’t some dull, gray landscape where temptation was clearly marked with a neon hazard sign that read: “CAUTION: SIN AHEAD.” If anything, I sometimes wished it had been that obvious. How much easier would life be if bad choices came with a flashing red light and a siren? But no—the world didn’t warn me. It wooed me. It sparkled, it sang, it put on a show.

It wasn’t ugly or repulsive; it was dazzling. It felt like standing in the middle of a carnival where every booth called my name. The voices were sweet, sugar-coated, persuasive, almost tailor-made for me. They didn’t threaten; they enticed. They showed me reels of fame, romance, influence, beauty, and an infinite version of success—like a highlight reel of all the things I secretly wanted but didn’t want to admit out loud.

For me, the world’s offers weren’t abstract. They were concrete. There was the high possibility of winning a university scholarship—an achievement that would’ve made me the star of every family gathering. There was the approval of my teachers and classmates, the kind of warm affirmation that made you feel like you belonged, like you were worth something. Then there were the competitions, accounting mamaw quiz cups, general knowledge and science fairs that dangled trophies and certificates in front of me, with the promise of recognition. On top of that, I started seeing doors opening into social circles that had once slammed shut in my face. And of course, in the back of my mind, there lingered the possibility of romance. Because what teenager doesn’t imagine, at least once, bumping into someone special and starting a story that looks like it belongs in a movie?

In high school, I could feel those doors swinging wide. I remember standing in front of a noticeboard, reading my name on the list of top students, and feeling that rush—like maybe, just maybe, a scholarship could be mine. It wasn’t just about money; it was about being seen, being valued. At family gatherings, I imagined my father boasting, “He’s on scholarship,” while making point that I have a computer-like brain. The thought was intoxicating.

Then there were my teachers. One of them once told me, “You have a gift. Don’t waste it.” I carried that sentence around like a medal. Every nod, every compliment felt like oxygen. Even the applause at math olympiad, or at science fairs, or in English festival of talents gave me a buzz I couldn’t shake. I can still picture myself at one congressional district competition, clutching our school’s very first earned trophy while cameras flashed. For a moment, it felt like the world was clapping just for me.

And let’s not forget the social circles. In primary school, I was the outsider—the kid reading in the corner while everyone else shared inside jokes. By high school, though, the doors to those groups started to creak open. Suddenly, I was invited to sit with people who had once laughed at me from afar. It was a heady feeling, like I’d finally been upgraded from the sidelines to the stage. And my expense? My capacity to share answers in quizzes, in homework, and in group work.

I’ll admit it: there were times when I edged dangerously close to these dreams. They weren’t unrealistic nor fantasies; they were within reach. They felt achievable, almost natural—like the milestones every normal human was supposed to chase. And that was the problem. They didn’t feel like sin. They felt like life.

But somewhere in the middle of all the noise, I’d hear a different sound. It wasn’t loud, and it never fought for my attention. It was quiet, steady, almost easy to ignore. Yet it always asked the same question: “What is the cost?”

My inner self: the Bible-trained conscience.

And that question had a way of breaking the illusion. Because once I asked it, I started to see the strings attached. Behind every party invitation, there was compromise waiting. Behind every little “white lie” I told to fit in, there was a stain—a black mark—on my conscience I couldn’t scrub off. Behind every applause or handshake or certificate, there lingered the risk that I had lost something infinitely more valuable: Jehovah’s approval.

It struck me how clever the world was at disguising the bill. Its offers always came beautifully wrapped, tied with bows, like gifts. But when I peeled back the wrapping, I often found a price tag attached—not in dollars, but in things that mattered more. Things like my integrity. My peace. My faith. My relationship with my God. And I’ll be honest: as a teenager, I wasn’t exactly the best at budgeting. I could spend time, energy, and yes, even values faster than money slipped out of my wallet. That was why that quiet voice mattered so much. It forced me to count the cost.

The Quiet War Within

I found myself at a crossroad.

And no, not the metaphorical kind where two cartoon signs point in opposite directions labeled “Easy” and “Hard.” This one was deeper. More soul-level. A question that struck at the core of my identity and allegiance.

Would I serve Jehovah, or would I follow the world instead?

You don’t find that on any standardized test.

There was no multiple choice. No review materials with a helpful summary at the back. Definitely no cheat sheet taped to the inside of your scientific calculator cover. And there was no “ask the teacher” lifeline this time. The only “teacher” here was life itself—and let me tell you, he grades on a curve no one understands.

At first, I thought I could balance both. Like I could major in “Faith” with a minor in “World”, or vice versa. I tried compartmentalizing—attend meetings and do Bible reading here, but blend in with everyone else there. After all, isn’t that what being young is about? Trying things out, figuring out who you are?

But you can’t exactly halfway serve God. That’s like halfway jumping out of a plane. You’re either in, or you’re screaming mid-air with no parachute.

It didn’t help that the world around me had its own sales pitch. Oh, and it was persuasive. Everywhere I turned, the world was like that overenthusiastic vendor in the mall, trying to spray you with perfume samples you didn’t ask for.

“Come on,” it whispered. “Chase your dreams. Build your brand. Get the bag. Y-O-L-O (You Only Live Once)."

YOLO, indeed.

It promised freedom, success, popularity. Likes, followers, validation. All those sparkly things that glitter… right until you realize they’re fool’s gold. The kind that leaves a stain on your hands and a pit in your stomach.

But the world isn’t stupid. It doesn’t hit you with obvious temptation. No one walks up and says, “Hey! Wanna ruin your spiritual life today?” No, it’s subtle. It makes compromise look like growth. It calls disobedience “authenticity.” It wraps rebellion in self-love and paints over spiritual apathy with bright, inspirational quotes.

And so I stood there—torn. Because one path glittered and buzzed with activity and excitement. The other seemed quieter, slower, filled with sacrifices and self-control and an audience of one: Jehovah.

Guess which one my teenage brain found more exciting?

But that’s the thing about truth. It doesn’t beg for attention. It doesn’t scream over the noise. It waits. Patiently. Like a father outside the party house, car engine quietly running, hoping his kid will come home.

That image hit me one night. I was scrolling through social media, laughing at a meme, when I felt that familiar whisper: the shadow. Regret hadn’t arrived yet—but its cousin, Conviction, knocked gently on the door of my conscience.

And for once, I didn’t swipe it away.

I thought about what I wanted my life to be about. Not just in five years, or ten, or after I land a job, or graduate with honors. I mean really—what would define me? What story would my choices tell?

Would I be someone who lived for the applause of strangers? Or someone who lived for the approval of a God who sees the heart?

One path was wide, popular, and fast-moving. But it was also lined with masks and mirrors and the constant anxiety of not being “enough.” The other was narrower, yes, and at times “lonelier” as it seems—but it was lit by truth and led by peace, not pressure.

So I chose Jehovah.

Not because I’m perfect. (Spoiler: I’m very much not.) Not because I had all the answers. But because I realized that while the world offered noise, Jehovah offered meaning. While the world demanded that I prove myself, Jehovah already knew me—and loved me anyway.

And while the world hands out temporary highs and long-term emptiness, Jehovah offers something deeper: purpose. A life that means something now—and forever.

That choice didn’t instantly make life easier. If anything, some things got harder. People questioned my priorities. Some friends drifted away. And sometimes I still stare down the other path and wonder what “could’ve been.”

But then I remember: Every choice has a shadow.

And I’d rather live with the peace that comes from choosing Jehovah than the regret that comes from chasing everything else.

Because at the end of the day—when the noise fades, the trophies gather dust, and the trends go out of style—only one thing remains.

The answer to the most important question I’ll ever face.

Not “What do you want to be when you grow up?”

But: Who are you serving while you grow?

And if you’re going to have a shadow following you for the rest of your life, let it be one shaped by obedience, not regret.

Risk of Being Hated

Choosing Jehovah didn’t feel like making just a “spiritual decision.” To many people around me, it felt like I was committing social suicide, an inept absurdity. In their eyes, I wasn’t simply changing a few priorities—I was jumping off the cliff of “normal life” without a parachute. And they made sure I knew it.

It started subtly. Invitations thinned out, like rain fading into a drizzle. At first, I thought maybe people were just busy. But then I caught the sideways glances, the raised eyebrows, the questions loaded with judgment. “You? Smart as you are? And you’re choosing to be a fanatic?” I’d laugh nervously, trying to change the subject, but the words stuck like burrs. Others told me, “You’re too young to throw away your future.” And of course, there was the classic: “God won’t care if you go to college or enjoy your youth a little.” That one always sounded suspiciously convenient—as if God had suddenly turned into a lenient uncle handing out permission slips.

Then came the real stingers: “You’re brainwashed.”

It wasn’t just classmates or teachers. Even relatives joined the chorus. These were the same people who once kissed my forehead and proudly called me their little genius. Suddenly, they were shaking their heads, sighing, and whispering the word “sayang.” In Filipino, it means “what a waste.” The word carried a sting that no trophy or recognition could dull. To them, my decision to prioritize Jehovah wasn’t noble or courageous—it was foolish. Wasteful. Tragic, even.

But here’s the thing they didn’t know: I wasn’t making blind choices. I wasn’t some robot following commands without thought. I was already counting the cost. Every single night, I lay awake wrestling with the possibilities—the heartbreak of friendships that would fade, the sting of insults that would inevitably come, the uncomfortable silence from people who once laughed at my jokes. I thought about the dreams I had once built with passion, the ones I had mapped out with timelines and goals: scholarships, awards, circles of influence. I imagined them all crumbling, piece by piece, if I chose Jehovah fully. And honestly? It scared me.

Yet, the strange thing was, even as I stared down all those losses, I found myself leaning toward Jehovah. It wasn’t because I had suddenly developed a masochistic streak. It was because of something simpler, something deeper: Jehovah had never lied to me. The world had a habit of overpromising. It flashed lights, played music, waved its trophies, and then quietly slid a bill across the table. There was always fine print, always a hidden cost. Jehovah, on the other hand, told me the truth upfront. He didn’t sugarcoat the struggles. He didn’t promise popularity, or applause, or ease. He promised something harder but infinitely better: purpose, peace, and everlasting life that actually meant something.

So when people scoffed, “You’re brainwashed,” I sometimes wanted to laugh. If anything, faith was the only thing keeping my brain washed—clean from all the dirt the world was trying to throw in it. And when they told me I wasn’t fun anymore, I reminded myself that fun is overrated anyway. Fun fades the next morning when the celebration’s over. Faith stays.

Yes, it hurt to hear “sayang” from people I loved. Yes, I sometimes wondered what I was missing out on. But every time I weighed the world’s applause against Jehovah’s approval, I realized the math wasn’t even close. And if choosing Him looked like “waste” to others, then maybe they just hadn’t learned how to count the way I had.

A Night at Villaflores

After weighing the cost, I came in a moment I’ll never forget.

It wasn’t in any building or at some grand event. It wasn’t even during a meeting with inspiring music swelling in the background. No—my defining moment happened out in the middle of nowhere, on a night wrapped in stars.

The fields of Villaflores stretched around me like a sleeping giant, quiet and endless. Everything was still and dark except for the silver moonlight that traced the tops of trees and the gentle hum of the wind weaving through the grass. Even the crickets seemed to know they weren’t the main characters that night, because they chirped softly, respectfully.

I hadn’t gone out there to be poetic, though it might sound that way now. I wasn’t staging a dramatic photoshoot with God as my witness. I was there because I desperately needed space. Real space. The kind you can’t get in a house with data connection buzzing, notifications popping, or opinions being flung at you from every direction. I needed a place where nobody was asking me about grades, or gossiping about who liked who, or pressuring me into choices I wasn’t sure I wanted. Just me. And, hopefully, Jehovah.

So I walked. The grass brushed against my ankles with every step, as if it was listening in, too. The breeze tugged at my shirt like it wanted me to keep going, to not turn back. And then I looked up.

The sky didn’t just sit there—it answered me by showing its awe-inspiring wonders. It stretched out so wide, so impossibly high, it was as if it swallowed every single doubt I’d been carrying. I poured my fears into that sky, and somehow, it gave them back to me as tears.

And cry, I did.

Not the polite, single tear you see in movies. No, this was the full, unfiltered version—sniffles, blotchy cheeks, probably terrifying any passing farmer who might have seen me from afar. But they weren’t tears of fear. They weren’t born from pressure. They came from gratitude so overwhelming I couldn’t keep it in anymore.

Because Jehovah had been good to me. In ways I hadn’t even realized until then. Even in the seasons of my life when I didn’t really know His name. Even in those moments when I was off doing things that would have made Him shake His head and maybe even cry Himself—He had been there. Quiet. Patient. Protecting me from disasters I didn’t even see coming, waiting for me to finally notice Him.

The weight of that hit me harder than any lecture ever could. And before I even realized what I was doing, my knees hit the ground. There, in the damp grass, under a sky too wide to measure, I whispered the scariest and most beautiful words I’d ever dared to speak:

“Jehovah… I will give my all to You and serve You. Wholeheartedly. Forever.”

The words felt enormous, as though the fields themselves leaned in to hear. And then, almost comically, a dog barked in the distance, probably unimpressed with my dramatic vow. But even that couldn’t break the moment. If anything, it grounded me. I wasn’t just making some lofty, abstract promise—I was saying something that would ripple through the rest of my life.

And here’s the thing: it terrified me. Saying “forever” isn’t small talk. I can’t even commit to a drama series without wandering off halfway through season two. Yet here I was, promising Jehovah not just a phase of my life, not just the years of my youth, but everything. Wholeheartedly. Forever.

And somehow, instead of suffocating me, that forever filled me with peace.

That night, under those stars, I left the fields of Villaflores knowing my life would never be the same. The world could keep its trophies, its whispers, its fleeting applause. I had given my “yes” to someone who had never lied to me, never abandoned me, and never stopped loving me. And though the promise scared me, it was the first time in my life that “forever” actually felt safe.

No Illusions of Ease

Before you start picturing me as some wide-eyed dreamer, skipping out of that breezy field, let’s get one thing straight. I didn’t stand there under the moonlight, say a dramatic prayer, and then prance home with wildflowers in my hair and angels playing the harp in surround sound. No, friend — real life doesn’t roll like that.

When I walked away from that field — my so-called Villaflores moment — I wasn’t under any sweet illusion that life was about to get easy. I didn’t think Jehovah was going to drop a red carpet at my feet, sprinkle me with confetti, and hand me a “Congratulations! You did the right choice!” gift basket with my favorite chocolate or tinapa inside.

Nope. I knew exactly what I was choosing. Or maybe more honestly — who I was choosing. Because choosing Jehovah isn’t a decision for people who want to coast. It’s a decision for people who want to mean something, even if they get a few bruises along the way.

Choosing Jehovah meant I was choosing meaning over convenience. It meant swapping easy answers for difficult questions that would test my backbone at school, at work, at awkward family dinners where someone inevitably brings up dinosaurs or dating. It meant saying no when my whole body wanted to say yes just to blend in.

I knew I’d be mocked. In fact, I basically scheduled it into my calendar: Monday, 3 PM — be called narrow-minded in philosophy class. Wednesday, 10 AM — politely decline a session or party invite (with potential quatro cantos or red horse bear for added fun) and receive eye rolls so intense they could cause a minor earthquake.

I knew there’d be moments I’d stand alone while the rest of the classroom chuckled at my “ancient, impractical beliefs.” I knew I could be tested and called useless because I didn’t vote in any position in politics, nor share support or disapproval of issues in politics. I do not even sing the national anthem, at least. I knew there’d be whispers behind my back about how “he’s so sheltered” or “he thinks he’s better than us.” The irony, of course, is that the whole time I was thinking, Actually, I’m pretty sure I’m worse than you, that’s why I need Jehovah so much.

I knew I might have to say goodbye to some scholarships and awards I could’ve won easily, simply because the strings attached tugged me places I refused to go. I knew there’d be teachers, instructors, and professors I once idolized who’d look at me like I’d just announced the earth was flat.

Most of all, I knew that some of the people whose nods of approval used to keep me warm at night — classmates, teachers, maybe even relatives — might never really get me again. They’d squint at my choices like I’d written them in a foreign language. They’d smile politely, change the subject, or toss a sarcastic joke my way that stung just a bit more than I’d admit.

But here’s what I also knew — and what still keeps me steady when my old fears knock on my door, carrying a suitcase and hoping to stay the night: none of those things could ever give me what I have now.

I walked out of that field with my shoulders squared and my knees trembling — because I left with peace. Not the peace that comes from everyone clapping for you. Not the peace of a padded bank account or the applause of professors who quote Nietzsche for fun. I left with peace with Jehovah.

And trust me, that’s better than any scholarship, any hollow nod, or any cheap laugh at my expense. That peace is mine now — bruises, awkward silences, lonely moments and all. And I wouldn’t trade it back for all the ease in the world.

The First of a Lifetime of Choices

I suppose if you’d told me ten years ago that I’d be standing here — literally and figuratively — at my own fork in the road, I would have laughed in your face and gone back to pretending I had it all figured out. I was very good at pretending. In my head, forks in the road were for poets, philosophers, and lost backpackers with no GPS signal. Not for someone like me — organized, logical, excellent at spreadsheets, and deeply invested in what other people thought about my spreadsheets.

But life has a way of nudging you right to the edge of a choice you can’t spreadsheet your way out of. My “Villaflores moment” — named for that wide, greenery place where I first realized I couldn’t keep lying to myself — didn’t come in a single flash of brilliance. It came in awkward silences, restless nights, and a growing sense that the person in the mirror had started giving me dirty looks. Maybe yours hasn’t arrived yet. Or maybe you’re standing there now, shuffling your feet, hoping the universe will just decide for you.

I get it. I was terrified too — of losing people who “approved” of me, of letting go of things I’d worked hard to earn, of stepping off the stage where I got my polite applause. It felt like dying. I’d love to say I was brave right away — that I leapt from the cliff edge with my arms spread wide, hair flowing heroically in the wind. But the truth is, I stood there for months, toes curled over the edge, heart pounding, making pro-con lists on the back of receipts.

I came to understand that the world is generous with its gifts, but it never tells you about the invoice that comes later. And its prices are steep. Not in money, but in integrity, peace, and—most dangerously—my relationship with God. As a teenager, I wasn’t exactly good at budgeting. I could waste time, energy, and even values faster than lunch money disappeared at the school cafeteria. That quiet voice saved me from debts I would never have been able to pay back.

Here’s what I learned in all that fearful, sweaty hesitation: you’re not weak for pausing. For doubting. For clutching your comfort with white knuckles. You’re human. But you do become something else entirely when you choose courage anyway — when you unclench your fists, take a breath, and step forward even though your knees are knocking together.

Looking back now, I can smile at how easily swayed I was. A single compliment from a teacher could make my day brighter than a sunrise. One smile from a classmate I admired could throw me into a week-long daydream. That’s how powerful the pull was. It didn’t feel wrong. It felt alive.

But over and over, that question pulled me back: “What is the cost?”

And the truth is, when I finally paused to answer it, the music of the world didn’t sound quite as sweet anymore.

And regrets? Oh, they’re faithful companions. You don’t get to dodge them by standing still. They’ll find you either way — in the dreams you never chased or the dreams that broke your heart. So pick the regrets you can sleep beside without wanting to crawl out of your own skin. Choose the kind that don’t make you feel like you betrayed your own soul for a polite round of applause you didn’t really need.

Because here’s what I hold onto now, when the fear tries to come back and whisper that I should have stayed safe and small: the world might forget my name the moment the echo of my last spreadsheet fades. But Jehovah? He writes it down. He remembers.

So if you’re at your fork in the road, hesitating like I did — know that courage is not the absence of fear, but the decision to walk forward with it rattling in your pocket like loose change.

And when you do take that step — brace yourself. Because what waits on the other side is not just freedom, but the next big question we all drag behind us like a stubborn mule: What will they think? Which brings me to the next chapter: The Weight of Expectations.