Before the kickoff concert earlier this year, I was nothing more than a casual listener, someone who had absolutely no idea who SB19 was, let alone a local artist named Ken Suson or his solo persona, Felip.
It sounds unbelievable to some, but it’s my truth. I don’t watch television. I rarely scroll through PH- based platforms. My playlists have always leaned heavily toward foreign genres like metal, alternative, punk, indie, and R&B. I work from home, I don’t commute, and whenever I step outside, I retreat into the comfort of my earphones. As an introvert who prefers staying in my own world, the chances of me stumbling upon a local act like SB19 were practically nonexistent.
But life has a strange way of placing the right sound in your path when you need it most.
During the last quarter of 2024, a song slipped into my daily mix. It was raw, gritty, and bold enough to stop me mid-task. My first thought was, “Who is this? This sound is insane. There’s no way this is local.” I saved it immediately without even checking the artist.
Weeks passed before I realized that the voice, I kept returning to belonged to Felip. And by then, it didn’t matter who he was. What mattered was how his music quietly stitched me back together during one of the most emotionally and mentally draining seasons of my life.
His voice cut through the noise I couldn’t name.
His lyrics held emotions I didn’t know how to articulate.
His message carried a rare kind of authenticity: uncompromising, fearless, and unfiltered.
I didn’t become a fan because of his fame or the group he came from.
I became a fan because his artistry found me at a time when I felt unseen.
The Search I Never Planned
Despite how deeply his music resonated with me, I never searched for Felip’s face. I didn’t look him up, didn’t watch his interviews, didn’t even try to know the person behind the voice.
Not until the second week of May 2025.
By then, I had taken a career break, a necessary pause after a series of painful losses and heartbreaks. During that pause, music became one of the few constants I held onto. Within a span of three months, I had to grieve the deaths of my two great grandmothers and two grandmothers, endure a sudden career shift, survive betrayal from someone I trusted, and face the devastation of being cheated on and
ghosted by an ex. Everything piled up until I reached a point where I genuinely questioned whether I could keep going.
And in one of my most vulnerable nights, a night when I almost gave up on myself, a Felip song played. The first track of his that ever landed in my playlist months prior was Fake Faces, but that night, it was ACHE that found me. His voice, steady yet hurting, held me still. The song’s raw honesty pulled me back from the edge and reminded me that pain can still transform into something meaningful.
Two weeks before the SAW kickoff concert, in the midst of trying to heal, I finally searched for him and, through him, discovered his group. That curiosity led me first to his Instagram, and eventually to the Felip Superior website. The same website that opened the rabbit hole into Felip’s artistry for me is now the space where I get to share how he shaped one of the most difficult chapters of my life.
A Connection That Chose Me
What followed after the kickoff concert was simply a confirmation: Felip wasn’t just an artist I listened to. He became an artist I believed in, someone whose art felt intentional. His creativity, his discipline, his grit, and the way he refuses to compromise his identity pulled me deeper into his world.
Loving Felip’s music stopped being just about the songs a long time ago. It became about the sense of safety his voice brought me, the quiet strength his art reminded me I still had, and the steady light I found in his message during a time when everything felt too heavy. It didn’t erase the pain, but it made the weight easier to carry. It reminded me that resilience can be soft, silent, and personal.
That’s why my gratitude for him runs deep. Not because he knew what I was going through, but because his art met me exactly where I was. What’s meaningful to me is that I resonated with him even before I knew anything about who he was — before I learned he was Filipino, before I knew he was part of a group, before I saw his face or understood the story behind the name “Felip.” Something in his music felt familiar long before the details ever did.
And when I eventually learned more about him, the connection made even more sense. We share the same love for music and taught ourselves how to play instruments before adult life pulled me in a different direction. We’re introverts comfortable in our own spaces, we love to sketch or doodle when alone, we have a deep love for our families, we fight our battles quietly and privately, and we both have that undeniable love for cars.
Those small similarities made his music feel even more personal, not because we are the same, but because his sincerity reflects a truth, I recognize in myself. I didn’t expect to become a fan. But sometimes, the best connections are the ones you never planned.
The Impact I Carry Forward
He doesn’t know me, but his music reached me.
He didn’t speak to me directly, yet something in his words made me feel understood.
He didn’t save me, but he helped me find the strength to save myself.
And that is something I will always hold with gratitude.
Felip is more than an artist I admire.
He is a reminder that connection doesn’t need explanations, timing, or logic.
Sometimes, it simply happens — quietly, naturally, and exactly when you need it most.
Even in the moments when life feels loud or lonely, his music reminds me that something honest and comforting can still find its way in. And that kind of impact stays with you, long after the song ends.