27/03/2026
๐ง๐ต๐ฒ ๐ช๐ผ๐ฟ๐น๐ฑโ๐ ๐๐๐ฏ๐ฏ๐น๐ถ๐ฒ๐๐ ๐๐ถ๐ธ๐ฎ๐
โ๏ธ ๐๐ข ๐ณ๐๐๐๐๐๐๐ ๐ผ. ๐ผ๐๐๐๐รฑ๐
Bubbles are fragile miracles. They shimmer for a moment, catching the light, reflecting whole worlds on their tiny curved surfacesโthen they float, tremble, and sometimes burst without warning. They are delicate, almost weightless, and yet for the brief seconds they exist, they hold rainbows, they shine. And the embodiment of the beauty and grace a bubble carries is ๐ ๐ฟ๐. ๐ฅ๐ผ๐ฐ๐ต๐ฒ๐น ๐๐ฎ๐บ๐ฎ๐น๐ถ.
For almost nine years, Rochel Gamali has served as a division nurse in Daanbantayan I. Officially designated for the division, she chooses to stay at Daanbantayan National High School because more students mean more lives she can reach, more wounds she can clean, more fevers she can ease, more hearts she can calm. Where the crowd is thickest, thatโs where she floats. Where help is most needed, thatโs where she lands. And like a bubble, she glows. But bubbles are also thin. Transparent. Vulnerable.
Late last year, Maโam Rochel began noticing that her hair was falling out more than usual. What started as strands became handfuls, and soon, silence confirmed what the mirror had already whispered โ she has Alopecia areata, an autoimmune condition that causes hair loss. For someone who has been sick since childhood, hospitalized in elementary, and operated on in college, the diagnosis did not shatter her. Pain, to her, was not new. It had long been a companion. Instead of asking, โWhy me?โ she chose a different question.
โ๐๐ฏ๐ด๐ต๐ฆ๐ข๐ฅ, ๐ ๐ต๐ณ๐ช๐ฆ๐ฅ ๐ต๐ฐ ๐ข๐ฏ๐ด๐ธ๐ฆ๐ณ ๐ธ๐ฉ๐ข๐ต ๐ช๐ด ๐ช๐ต, ๐ณ๐ข๐ต๐ฉ๐ฆ๐ณ ๐ต๐ฉ๐ข๐ฏ ๐ธ๐ฉ๐บ ๐ ๐ฉ๐ข๐ท๐ฆ ๐ช๐ต,โ she said. โ๐๐ข๐บ ๐ฌ๐ถ๐ฏ๐จ ๐ช๐ฎ๐ฐ ๐ช-๐ด๐ช๐จ๐ฆ'๐จ ๐ฑ๐ข๐ฏ๐จ๐ถ๐ต๐ข๐ฏ๐ข ๐ด๐ข ๐ช๐ฎ๐ฐ ๐ฌ๐ข๐ถ๐จ๐ข๐ญ๐ช๐ฏ๐จ๐ฐ๐ฏ ๐ฏ๐จ๐ข๐ฏ๐ฐ'๐ฏ๐จ ๐ช๐ฌ๐ข๐ธ, ๐ธ๐ข ๐ฌ๐ข๐บ ๐ข๐ฏ๐ด๐ธ๐ฆ๐ณ ๐ฏ๐จ๐ข ๐ฎ๐ข๐ฌ๐ถ๐ฉ๐ข. ๐๐ฆ๐ณ๐ฐ ๐ฌ๐ถ๐ฏ๐จ ๐ช๐ฎ๐ฐ ๐ฑ๐ข๐ฏ๐จ๐ถ๐ต๐ข๐ฏ๐ข ๐ถ๐ฏ๐ด๐ข ๐ฏ๐ข, ๐ฐ๐จ ๐ฏ๐จ๐ข๐ฏ๐ฐ ๐ฏ๐ข๐ข ๐ฌ๐ข ๐ข๐ฏ๐ข, ๐ต๐ฉ๐ฆ ๐ข๐ฏ๐ด๐ธ๐ฆ๐ณ ๐ธ๐ช๐ญ๐ญ ๐ค๐ฐ๐ฎ๐ฆ ๐ช๐ฎ๐ฎ๐ฆ๐ฅ๐ช๐ข๐ต๐ฆ๐ญ๐บ ๐ช๐ฏ ๐ต๐ฉ๐ฆ ๐ง๐ฐ๐ณ๐ฎ ๐ฐ๐ง ๐ต๐ณ๐ฆ๐ข๐ต๐ฎ๐ฆ๐ฏ๐ต๐ด.โ
When she found out, she didnโt cry. She didnโt get mad. She simply said, โ๐๐ฌ๐ข๐บ. ๐๐ฉ๐ข๐ต ๐ค๐ข๐ฏ ๐ ๐ฅ๐ฐ?โ
That is the thing about bubbles, they donโt fight the windโ they move with it. Maโam Rochel has always been what we call kikay. Since birth, she says with a laugh. She adores dressing up, matching accessories, playing with colors and details. Her joy is loud and sparkly and unapologetic.
At first, she didnโt wear wigs. She faced the world as she was. But eventually, she chose to wear oneโnot for herself, but for her patients. She painted her eyebrows on carefully. She wanted the people she treated to feel comfortable, reassured. In a clinic, where fear is common and vulnerability is exposed, she wanted to be a familiar softness. Even in loss, she thought of others first.
Yet even the bubbliest spirits have moments when the surface trembles. Last December, when her hair had thinned to almost nothing, she found itโ the perfect little Christmas headband. For years, she had searched for that exact accessory. The right sparkle. The right shape. The right magic.And there it was. She stood in the store and cried. When her husband asked why, she answered, half-laughing, half-breaking:
โ๐๐ฉ๐บ ๐ฏ๐ฐ๐ธโฆ ๐ธ๐ฉ๐ฆ๐ฏ ๐ ๐ฅ๐ฐ๐ฏโ๐ต ๐ฉ๐ข๐ท๐ฆ ๐ข๐ฏ๐บ๐ฎ๐ฐ๐ณ๐ฆ ๐ฉ๐ข๐ช๐ณ?โ
It wasnโt about the headband. It was about timing. About the small griefs that no one sees. About loving something so deeply and feeling, for a second, like it slipped too late into your hands.
But true to her nature, she laughed it off. Because bubbles, when they catch the light again, still shine. Instead of dwelling on what she lost, she found something new. Losing her eyebrows pushed her to learn how to draw them. โ๐โ๐ฎ ๐ฆ๐ท๐ฆ๐ฏ ๐จ๐ณ๐ข๐ต๐ฆ๐ง๐ถ๐ญ,โ she said. โ๐๐ฆ๐ค๐ข๐ถ๐ด๐ฆ ๐ฏ๐ฐ๐ธ ๐ ๐ง๐ช๐ฏ๐ข๐ญ๐ญ๐บ ๐ฌ๐ฏ๐ฐ๐ธ ๐ฉ๐ฐ๐ธ ๐ต๐ฐ ๐ฅ๐ฐ ๐ฎ๐บ ๐ฃ๐ณ๐ฐ๐ธ๐ด.โ Gratitude in the face of an autoimmune disease. Laughter in the middle of uncertainty. Service in the presence of struggleโthat is strength.
A bubble reflects everything around it. Look closely, and youโll see the world curved along its surface; The trees, skies, faces, sunlight. Maโam Rochel reflects something too. She reflects resilience. She reflects quiet courage. She reflects the kind of femininity that is soft but unbreakable.
Life, like a bubble, can pop at any minute. Health can change. Hair can fall. Plans can shift. But what makes a bubble beautiful is not how strong it is, itโs how brilliantly it holds the light while it can. Maโam Rochel holds the light. She continues to serve the community with the purest of hearts. She continues to laugh loudly in the clinic halls. She continues to choose optimism not because life is easy, but because she refuses to let darkness dim her shine.
And this Womenโs Month, her message rings clear:
โ๐๐ค ๐๐ก๐ก ๐ฉ๐๐ ๐ฌ๐ค๐ข๐๐ฃ ๐ค๐ช๐ฉ ๐ฉ๐๐๐ง๐, ๐ ๐ฃ๐ค๐ฌ ๐ฉ๐๐๐ฉ ๐ฎ๐ค๐ช ๐๐ก๐ฌ๐๐ฎ๐จ ๐๐๐ฃ. ๐๐ ๐ ๐ข๐๐ฃ ๐๐๐ฃ ๐๐๐ง๐ง๐ฎ ๐ฉ๐๐ ๐ฌ๐๐ค๐ก๐ ๐ฌ๐ค๐ง๐ก๐, ๐ฌ๐ ๐๐๐ฃ ๐๐ค ๐๐ฉ ๐ฉ๐ค๐ค. ๐ฟ๐ค๐ฃโ๐ฉ ๐๐ซ๐๐ง ๐ก๐๐ฉ ๐๐ฃ๐ฎ๐ค๐ฃ๐ ๐ค๐ง ๐๐ฃ๐ฎ๐ฉ๐๐๐ฃ๐ ๐จ๐ฉ๐ค๐ฅ ๐ฎ๐ค๐ช ๐๐ฃ ๐๐๐๐๐๐ซ๐๐ฃ๐ ๐๐ฃ๐ฎ๐ฉ๐๐๐ฃ๐ ๐ฎ๐ค๐ช ๐ฌ๐๐ฃ๐ฉ. ๐ฝ๐๐๐๐ช๐จ๐ ๐ฌ๐ค๐ข๐๐ฃ ๐๐ง๐ ๐ฉ๐๐ ๐จ๐ฉ๐ง๐ค๐ฃ๐๐๐จ๐ฉ.โ
Bubbles may be fragile. They may tremble. They may even burst. But while they are here, oh my are they luminous.
