A love letter to my Nanay, Lolit Solis

Originally published in Manila Bulletin

On July 3, the world lost Lolit Solis — a sharp-tongued, fearless, legendary columnist and TV personality. To many, she was a firebrand of Philippine showbiz — an industry voice who held power to account, never afraid of a scoop, a scandal, or a showdown. But to me, she was something far quieter, deeper, and more personal: She was my Nanay.

Not a lot of people knew how close we really were. Ours was a quiet kind of love — one not played out on TV or in the papers, but through simple gestures that stitched themselves into my daily life. When I left for the UK to study, she messaged me every single day without fail. Each morning, I’d wake up to the same comforting words: “I love you.”

This wasn’t the Lolit most people knew — the Lolit who broke showbiz stories with unflinching precision, or the fierce matriarch of “StarTalk” and “Scoop,” whose commentary could both enthrone and dethrone. That was her public persona. But behind that, she was also a woman who loved fiercely, who mothered those she took under her wing without ever asking for anything in return.

She was loyal — deeply so — but not blindly. If she thought you did something wrong, she’d call you out instantly. Not to embarrass you, but because she cared too much not to. Her loyalty wasn’t passive; it was active, watchful, and protective. She didn’t sugarcoat the truth. She loved you, but she loved you enough to tell you when you were wrong.

When I first arrived in London, we were still talking constantly. I remember one of our first calls overseas — I nervously told her, “Nay, sa Viber nalang tayo. Mahal po kasi I’m already in London (Nay, let's just use Viber. It's expensive because I'm already in London).” Without missing a beat, she said, “Mayaman ang Nanay mo (Your Nanay is rich).” And that was her — always asserting her love in ways that made you feel seen, valued, and protected.

It’s strange to grieve someone so publicly known, when your grief feels so privately held. Everyone is mourning Lolit Solis the icon, the storyteller, the opinionated insider. And they should. She changed the way we understood showbiz. She cracked the illusion wide open. She had power, and she knew it — but unlike many who fear losing it, she welcomed the end. In one of her final interviews with Rolling Stone Philippines, she said she had begun to accept death. “You just have to say, ‘I’m ready.’” And she was.

But I’m not.

I’m still waking up expecting a message. Still hearing her voice in my head — scolding, laughing, reassuring. Still hoping I’ll get one more, “I love you.”

She wasn’t just a media personality. She was a mother. My Nanay. And I will carry her with me every day — not in headlines or gossip columns, but in the quiet courage she taught me to have, the loyalty she modeled, and the love she never let me forget.

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