The Basilica Minore del Santo Niño in Cebu City is one of the oldest and most significant places of worship in the Philippines. Every day, thousands of people gather here carrying prayers, gratitude, and hope. Yet while many visitors focus on what happens inside the Basilica, I found myself drawn to the lives unfolding just beyond its walls.
I was born in the Philippines, and I consider myself living proof of miracles. Faith means different things to different people, and whether those miracles come from belief or circumstance is a conversation for another day. What compelled me to photograph this place was not the ceremonies inside the church, but the quiet resilience of the people outside.
Around the Basilica, vendors sell candles, balloons, religious souvenirs, and photographs, hoping to earn enough to support their families before the day ends. For some, that means putting rice on the table. For others, it simply means making it through another day with dignity.
Among them was an elderly woman selling candles beneath the relentless Cebu heat. She greeted every passerby with a smile that never seemed to fade. Despite the hardships she faced, she carried herself with remarkable optimism. Watching her interact with strangers made me reflect on my own struggles. For years, I have battled impostor syndrome, constantly questioning my work and wondering whether I truly belong as a photographer. Yet here was someone carrying burdens far heavier than mine, who still chose kindness, patience, and hope.
Not far away stood an elderly photographer with a camera that had clearly seen decades of use. Parts of it were literally held together with tape. He charged only a few dollars to photograph visitors wanting a simple keepsake of their visit. In an age where photographers often chase the newest cameras, sharpest lenses, and latest technology, he reminded me of something I too easily forget. While I spend time comparing equipment and convincing myself that the next camera might somehow make me better, he simply shows up and creates photographs with what he has. Day after day, he continues his craft, preserving memories for others without waiting for perfect circumstances.
It was in that moment that the title of this series revealed itself.
Held by Tape.
His camera was physically held together by tape, but so much more seemed to be held together by hope. The vendors, the photographer, and the countless workers outside the Basilica all continue to show up each morning, trusting that today might bring enough customers, enough income, and enough opportunity to carry them into tomorrow.
The people outside the Basilica are easy to overlook. Visitors pass them on their way to pray, rarely stopping to consider the lives unfolding beyond the church doors. Yet their stories are inseparable from this place. Their faith is expressed not only through prayer, but through perseverance. Every candle sold, every balloon carried through the crowd, every souvenir offered to a stranger, and every photograph taken becomes its own quiet act of belief.
This series is not about poverty, nor is it about perfection. It is about resilience. It is about dignity found in ordinary work, and about people who continue moving forward despite uncertainty. Their strength reminded me that hope is not always loud. Sometimes it looks like showing up every morning, doing honest work, and refusing to give up.
In many ways, their hope mirrors my own. As they wait for customers, I continue pursuing photography, hoping that one day my work will reach people beyond my own circle. Like the photographer whose camera is held together with tape, I am learning that meaningful work is not created by having the best equipment, but by continuing to create despite doubt.
Outside the Basilica, faith takes many forms. For some, it is a prayer offered before an altar. For others, it is the quiet belief that tomorrow will bring another chance.
Perhaps that is the miracle we all share. Not certainty, but the courage to keep showing up, even when life itself feels held together by tape.
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This really touched me. I think most people would only see the Basilica, but you chose to see the people around it and their stories. The part about the elderly woman and the photographer really stayed with me because it reminded me that hope and perseverance can look very ordinary. Thank you for looking beyond what most people overlook and for sharing these stories with so much honesty and heart.