PAL RAINE

They say some digital tools come and go—but some, you never forget. For me, Skype was more than just an app. It was a lifeline, a gateway, a quiet yet steady companion during one of the most pivotal times of my life.

I first discovered Skype around 2005, not long after giving birth to my second child in February 2003. By then, I had resigned from my job, taking time off to focus on motherhood. But as every mother who’s also a dreamer knows, there comes a point when you start to seek something more—whether it’s a new purpose, a fresh opportunity, or simply a reconnection to the outside world.

That was my moment. I began exploring online job sites, sending out resumes, and trying to re-enter the workforce—not through the usual walk-ins or classified ads, but through a screen. And Skype was right there, waiting quietly in my taskbar.

I still remember that rush of adrenaline when I got my first job interview via Skype. It was for a BPO company, and the thought of doing an interview from home, in front of my computer, was both nerve-racking and exhilarating. That single Skype call was the bridge between a stay-at-home mom and a working woman reclaiming her space in the world.

From that point on, Skype became my digital stage—a place where interviews happened, team meetings were held, friendships were built, and remote work became not just possible, but powerful. It helped me grow as a freelance writer, collaborating with clients from different corners of the globe, all with a single click. There was something magical about hearing someone’s voice from another time zone, knowing that work and connection could transcend borders.

In the pre-Zoom era, Skype was king. It may not have had the sleek interfaces or virtual backgrounds of today's platforms, but it had something else: impact. For people like me—job seekers, work-from-home moms, writers, dreamers—it offered possibility. A seat at the table, even if the table was virtual.

Now, hearing that Skype is officially retiring this May 2025, I can’t help but feel a little emotional. It’s like saying goodbye to a friend who once saw you at your most unsure, your most hopeful, and your most determined. A friend who helped you rise.

So thank you, Skype. For being part of my journey. For giving me confidence in front of the screen when I had none. For opening doors I never thought existed.

And to all the moms, freelancers, and everyday warriors out there who had their “firsts” with Skype—you know exactly what I mean.

Farewell, old friend. You may be retiring, but your legacy lives on in every opportunity you helped create.

What's Next After Skype?

With Skype’s farewell, users are encouraged to transition to Microsoft Teams, the official successor. Designed for collaboration, Teams offers chat, video conferencing, file sharing, and app integrations—making it an excellent modern replacement for Skype's long-standing functionality.

I’ve been working online for years—building my career as a freelance writer, blogger, and content creator. My income doesn’t come from a fixed office job or a traditional paycheck. Instead, it comes from every article I write, every sponsored post I publish, and every little collaboration I land through hard work and consistency.

As someone who follows the law, I register my work and pay my taxes. I also cover my own health insurance, software subscriptions, website maintenance, and other tools needed to survive in the digital world. I don’t complain—I just get things done.

But now, the implementation of the Digital Services Tax Law in the Philippines adds 12% VAT on top of the services we already pay for—digital platforms, subscriptions, tools, even streaming. The same platforms that are essential for my work and livelihood.

This may sound small to some, but to us in the freelance and digital space, this is a burden. It chips away at our already slim margins. It makes every online transaction heavier. It makes survival even harder for self-employed Filipinos who are just trying to make an honest living online.

This tax feels like it came without warning, without real dialogue, and without any protection for the very people it affects the most.

Where are the benefits? Where is the support for Filipino freelancers, creators, and digital workers?

The digital workforce is no longer small. We are a growing economy within an economy. We are mothers, students, dreamers, hustlers—working behind screens, often alone, but always hoping for something better.

So before new laws are passed or taxes are imposed, I hope the government listens. I hope they see us. Understand us. Protect us.

Because we’re not avoiding responsibility—we’re asking for fairness.

The Digital Services Law in the Philippines refers to recent efforts by the government to impose value-added tax (VAT) on digital and online services, as part of its broader tax reform measures.

While there's no specific law officially named "Digital Services Law", this usually pertains to Republic Act No. 11967, also known as the Expanded VAT on Digital Services, which is part of the Tax Reform for Acceleration and Inclusion (TRAIN) Law and later proposals like the Digital Services Tax Bill.

Key Features:

12% VAT will be imposed on digital services offered by non-resident digital service providers (DSPs), such as:
- Streaming platforms (e.g., Netflix, Spotify)
- Online marketplaces (e.g., Shopee, Lazada)
- Subscription tools and software (e.g., Canva, Google Workspace, Zoom)
- Online advertisements and freelance platforms (e.g., Fiverr, Upwork)
The Bureau of Internal Revenue (BIR) may require foreign digital providers to register and remit VAT if they earn over P3 million annually from Filipino consumers.
It affects Filipino freelancers and digital entrepreneurs because many of the tools and platforms they rely on become more expensive, and even local digital services could be taxed more heavily.

Concerns and Criticism:

No dedicated policies for Filipino freelancers or digital workers.
Higher operational costs for online professionals and small digital businesses.
Lack of support systems, benefits, or infrastructure in exchange for increased taxation.
Seen as a burden rather than a support mechanism for the fast-growing digital economy.

The Digital Services Law (or the VAT on digital services) in the Philippines affects a wide range of individuals and sectors, especially those who rely heavily on online tools, platforms, and services.

Here's a breakdown of who are affected:

1. Freelancers and Online Professionals Writers, VAs, designers, developers, and other gig workers who rely on platforms like Upwork, Fiverr, Canva, Google Workspace, etc.

Their tools become more expensive due to added VAT.

Service fees may go up, reducing net income.

2. Small Digital Entrepreneurs

Those running online shops, digital marketing agencies, or content creation businesses using subscription-based tools and platforms.

Added costs may be passed on to customers or cut into their own profits.

3. Content Creators

YouTubers, TikTokers, vloggers, bloggers who use paid software for editing, design, analytics, etc.

May struggle with maintaining content quality due to budget constraints.

4. General Consumers

People who subscribe to Netflix, Spotify, YouTube Premium, etc., are now paying more because these services are subject to VAT.

5. Educational Institutions and Students

Many schools and students using tools like Zoom, Google Classroom, or Canva Pro are also hit by the additional cost, especially in blended learning.

6. Startups and Tech SMEs

Digital startups often rely on international services and tools during early stages.

Added costs affect innovation and scaling.

7. Overseas Digital Service Providers

International companies now need to register with the BIR and remit VAT if they earn over P3M from Philippine consumers annually.

The Digital Services Law affects anyone who uses or sells online services and tools, with a heavier impact on freelancers, digital workers, and small entrepreneurs—many of whom have little government support despite being taxed more.

Growing up in a Catholic household, Holy Week was not just a break from school—it was sacred. I graduated from a Catholic school and was raised in a home where faith wasn’t just taught, it was lived. My parents were active church servers, and their devotion deeply influenced my own spiritual path. I was taught to believe and follow the Roman Catholic traditions, especially during Holy Week, when everything slowed down for a reason.

Every Good Friday, our family had a standing tradition—Visita Iglesia. We would personally visit seven churches here in Davao City, and my mother, the ever-faithful one, would lead our prayers at each stop. It wasn’t just about visiting the churches—it was a prayerful pilgrimage, a form of reflection, and a quiet offering of time and presence to God. There was a deep sense of purpose in every step we took, from one church to another.

At 12 noon, we would return to our home church where my father, devoted and eloquent, would take his place as one of the speakers for the Seven Last Words of Jesus. My mother and I would sit quietly, listening to each word, absorbing every reflection, every silence in between. By 3PM, the service would end, and we would go back to our usual house chores, but our hearts felt lighter, more renewed.

As I grew older and had children of my own, I found joy in passing on these same traditions. I taught my daughters the meaning of Good Friday, why it mattered, and how it shaped our faith. But the world is not the same as it was when I was a child. Today’s pace, values, and distractions are different—and while I hold these traditions close to my heart, I have learned that I cannot force my children to do the same.

I no longer insist that they come with me for Visita Iglesia or sit through the Seven Last Words in church. Instead, we adapt. I stay home now, listening and watching the live feed of the Seven Last Words on TV. It’s not quite the same as being physically present in church, but the meaning is still there. The message still reaches the heart.

Yes, the world has changed. We may not always make it to the churches physically, but the essence of our faith remains. We still observe the Holy Week, still spend it in reflection, prayer, and stillness—at home.

Traditions evolve, but their spirit lives on. And I am grateful that even in quiet corners of our house, we can still feel the solemnity and love of Good Friday.

Growing up, Maundy Thursday in our family was sacred—not in the extravagant or ceremonial way, but in the quiet, intentional rituals that we kept year after year. We never left the house. It was our little sanctuary where we honored the day with stillness, simplicity, and reflection.

As we observe Maundy Thursday, it’s not only about fasting or solemn reflection—it’s also about remembering the deep humility and love Jesus showed during His final hours. This day marks the Last Supper, when Jesus shared His final meal with His disciples before His crucifixion (Luke 22:7–38). It was during this sacred meal that He instituted the Holy Eucharist, breaking bread and offering wine as symbols of His body and blood.

One of the most touching acts during this night was when Jesus washed the feet of His disciples, teaching them the essence of servant leadership and humility. This act is detailed in John 13:1–17, a powerful reminder of how we should serve one another with love and compassion.

OUR TRADITION

We always began the day with worship songs. The soft melodies would play throughout our home, setting the tone for peace and gratitude. It was our way of welcoming the day and inviting the presence of the Lord into our hearts and space.

Our tradition was simple yet meaningful: a marathon of biblical movies played in the background, the Bible sat open on the table, and we took turns reading a verse or two throughout the day. Our meals were humble—usually fish, vegetables, and bread—signifying the start of our fasting. No meat, no indulgence. Just a day to pause and reflect.

When I moved out and entered college, I brought that tradition with me. Even in the busyness of dorm life and academic pressure, I made space every Maundy Thursday to return to that calm. I added something personal to it—my journal. I would write my thoughts, reflections, and even prayers. It became a sacred space between me and my faith. A quiet tradition that gave me clarity and peace.

Now that I’m a mother of two young adults, I find comfort knowing that the tradition has stayed with me—and somehow, it's evolving too. As I write this, it’s Maundy Thursday once again. The house is calm. My eldest daughter is curled up on the couch watching Kdramas, and my youngest is in her room, typing away on her thesis. She’s graduating this year, and I couldn’t be prouder.

We still follow our simple Lenten food tradition. The smell of grilled fish fills the kitchen, and we have vegetables and bread ready for dinner. The biblical movie marathon is on, quietly playing in the background, almost like a heartbeat reminding us of what this day is about. And yes, worship music still plays in the background—grounding us, lifting us.

While we all do our own thing now, the spirit of Maundy Thursday lives on in our home.

It’s not about being rigid or perfect with our traditions—it’s about remembering. It’s about passing on values of reflection, gratitude, sacrifice, and stillness in a world that never seems to pause.

And as I write in my journal today, I smile knowing that Maundy Thursday will always be my day of grounding, whether as a daughter, a student, or now, a mom.

Have you ever watched a Korean drama where the characters eat noodles with such grace using chopsticks, and then suddenly you find yourself drooling—not just over the food, but over how cool they look doing it? Well, that’s me. Every. Single. Time.

I’ve always admired people who use chopsticks effortlessly. Whether it's a Thai street food scene, a Japanese sushi date, or a late-night Korean ramyeon binge, there’s just something so stylish and refined about eating with chopsticks. I’ve seen my colleagues on social media flaunt their hot ramen bowls, complete with perfectly held chopsticks. Honestly, I used to feel a little... jealous.

A Quick Bite Into Chopstick History

Before I dive into my own story, let’s take a moment to appreciate where these elegant utensils came from.

Chopsticks originated over 5,000 years ago in ancient China. Initially, they were used for cooking rather than eating—think stirring fires or picking food from hot pots.

It wasn’t until around 400 AD that chopsticks became the go-to dining tool, thanks to population growth and the trend of chopping food into smaller pieces to conserve fuel for cooking.

From China, chopsticks spread across Japan, Korea, Vietnam, and Thailand, each country giving them its own cultural twist. For example, Japanese chopsticks are typically shorter and rounder, while Korean ones are made of metal and often paired with a spoon. Thai people traditionally use spoons and forks, but chopsticks are often used when eating Chinese-style noodle dishes.

Today, chopsticks are more than just tools—they are symbols of heritage, etiquette, and even elegance.

Me and My Chopstick Dilemma

Despite how often I eat Asian food—hello, sushi nights and noodle cravings—I never quite mastered the skill of using chopsticks. My first few attempts were disastrous. Noodles slipping, sushi falling apart, rice flinging across the table… it was like a mini battlefield on my plate. I’d often give up and resort to a fork. How unglamorous.

But every time I watched a drama or scrolled through a friend's Instagram story showing off their ramen mastery, that feeling of “I wish I could do that” hit me again.

So, I made a decision: I’m going to learn how to use chopsticks, once and for all.

My Learning Curve (And Wobbly Fingers)

I started practicing at home. At first, I tried with uncooked rice and later moved to slippery stuff like noodles and dumplings. YouTube became my best friend, and I even watched TikToks showing the right way to grip.

Eventually, it clicked—literally and figuratively. Holding chopsticks felt natural, and for the first time, I could finish a meal without switching to a spoon halfway through.

It wasn’t just about eating anymore. It felt like I was finally part of a tradition that spanned centuries and cultures.

Why Learning Chopsticks Felt So Rewarding

Honestly, using chopsticks made me feel more connected—not just to the food I love, but to the stories, cultures, and people behind them. It’s like being invited into a whole new experience. There's beauty in mastering something that once felt out of reach, and now I eat my ramen or pad thai with pride.

So, if you’re someone like me—someone who once envied others skillfully using chopsticks—don't worry. With a little patience, practice, and a few dropped noodles, you’ll get there too.

And trust me, it’s worth it.

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What's Next After Skype?

A Quick Bite Into Chopstick History

Me and My Chopstick Dilemma

My Learning Curve (And Wobbly Fingers)

Why Learning Chopsticks Felt So Rewarding

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