In the office, I've seen this play out time and again.
 
I can remember a time when I was much younger and full of fire, ready to argue my point until the other person saw things my way. I'd enter into debates on small issues with colleagues—how a report was formatted, the wording of an email, or even where to go for lunch. These were minor issues, but I felt compelled to win, to prove that I was right. But as I grew, there came a time when I began to understand that not every battle is worth fighting. One such incident comes into memory with a colleague who was also a close friend. The two of us were working on a project that had a tight deadline, and tempers became short. A disagreement over a minuscule detail escalated into a heated argument. It left both of us frustrated and drained. I let out a sigh in my office and realized how unnecessary the conflict had been. Really, the issue in question wasn't that large in the grand scheme of things, but it cost both of us peace of mind, and most importantly, some of the joy of working together.
 
At home, I've also learned the value of choosing my battles. My daughters are growing up to be their own humans with their opinions and ways of doing things. Of course, I've been tempted to correct them more than a few times or teach them how to do stuff in a way that I would prefer, but, on second thought, I feel it is highly likely that one may really lead by example.
 
When my oldest decided to take a different course in college rather than the one I suggested, I felt the urge to insist that the same course i had was better. But then I paused. Did it really matter? Instead of arguing, I simply told her to decide on her own and let her go her way.
 
I learned that some battles are better left unfought.
 
It does not mean you are weak; it means you hold your peace more valuable than driving an argument. It's recognizing that some fights simply aren't worth the emotional toll. In the office, this means saving your energy for battles that truly matter—the ones that really affect your work, your team, or your principles. With family, this means preserving relationships by letting go of the need to always be right.
 
It's not always easy. There are still moments when I feel the urge to engage, to prove a point. But more and more, in looking at the bigger picture, walking away often proves to be the more powerful and serene option.
 
Life is far too short to spend arguing every point. There's a time to hold your ground and a time to back off and let things be. Picking and choosing your battles carefully, you save your strength for the big ones that truly make a difference. In the end, life will be more peaceful, relationships stronger, and you'll have increased energy to invest in those activities that are truly important. I think it goes this way; The battles worth fighting are those that bring us eventually to peace, not those which take us farther away. And whether it is at work or at home, it's this gentle power in the knowledge of when to walk away.
 
 In silence, we often find the answers we seek, and in walking away, we discover the true path to peace.

In life, we are blessed with people who touch our hearts in ways we never imagined. These individuals become our friends, confidants, and pillars of support. Despite the distance or time spent apart, the bond we share with them remains strong, or so we believe. But sometimes, the harsh reality sets in, and we realize that not everyone who walks beside us truly stands by us.

I have always cherished the friendships I’ve built over the years. Despite the physical distance, I have kept these connections close to my heart. My life, filled with the responsibilities and challenges of being an OFW has often kept me away from these friends. Yet, the memories we shared, the laughter, the tears, and the stories, made me feel that our bond was unbreakable.

There were days when a simple message from them brightened my gloomy days, and nights when their words of encouragement carried me through my struggles. I trusted them with my fears, my dreams, and my vulnerabilities. I believed that they understood me in ways no one else could. They were my safe haven, the ones I could count on, or so I thought.