In the wake of an unthinkable tragedy, a person’s actions are often guided by a fog of raw, unfiltered emotion. For TV host Kim “Kuya Kim” Atienza, the devastating loss of his daughter, Eman Atienza, has been met with a public decision of profound nobility. His announcement that he would be donating all of his daughter’s personal belongings to charity, and even establishing the Emanenza Foundation in her honor, was seen as a beautiful, selfless act—a way to transform his family’s paralyzing pain into a positive force for others.

The public has responded with an outpouring of admiration for this gesture. It is seen as the ultimate act of “letting go,” a way to ensure his daughter’s legacy of kindness lives on. But from this chorus of support, a lone, powerful voice has emerged, not with criticism, but with a desperate, heartbreaking warning.

That voice belongs to veteran actress Elizabeth Oropesa.

Oropesa, a respected figure in the industry, has stepped forward with a public message for Kuya Kim. It is a message that cuts through the noise of public praise with the chilling clarity of lived experience. Her warning: “Don’t do it. Or at least, not yet.”

This is not a public feud. It is not a celebrity spat. It is something far more raw and profound: a solemn plea from one grieving parent to another, a message from a woman who has walked the exact same fiery path and bears the permanent scars of a decision she now “immensely regrets.”

In a stunningly vulnerable admission, Oropesa revealed that she, too, lost a child. And in the immediate, blinding aftermath of that loss, she did the exact same thing Kuya Kim is planning to do. She gave everything away. Every piece of clothing, every memento, every last physical trace. It was a decision made in the depths of sorrow, perhaps in a similar effort to find closure or create meaning from the meaningless.

Today, years later, she calls that decision a catastrophic mistake.

“I understand the grief,” Oropesa explained, her words heavy with a pain that time has clearly not erased. “But I have a warning about what he is doing… After one year, two years, sobra ang pagsisisi ko.” (My regret was immense.)

Oropesa’s message is a terrifying glimpse into the future for any parent navigating this kind of loss. She warns that the “raw emotion” that guides a person’s actions in the beginning is a treacherous navigator. Right now, Kim Atienza is operating from a place of immediate, searing pain, and his decision to donate everything is a reaction to that. But Oropesa, acting as a ghost of Christmas future, is warning him that this raw grief will eventually subside, and what will rush in to fill its place is a different kind of ache: the hollow, desperate longing to have something, anything, physical to hold onto.

“Yung mga bagay na ‘yun, ‘yun na lang ang natitirang pisikal na alaala,” she said. (Those things, those are the only physical memories left.)

Her plea is not for him to hoard his daughter’s belongings or to live in a shrine of the past. It is a simple, practical, and deeply compassionate request for preservation. “Sana itago niya muna. Kahit isang kahon lang,” she pleaded. (I hope he saves some. Even just one box.)

This “one box” is the crux of her warning. It is the compromise between the noble desire to create a legacy and the human need for a tangible connection. Oropesa’s advice is not to let the impulse of the moment rob his future self of a lifeline. She speaks of a day that is inevitably coming, a day when the shock wears off and the finality of the loss settles in, a day when he will “miss her terribly.” On that day, she explains, the foundation, the scholarships, the charitable acts—while all wonderful—will not be what his heart aches for. He will want something to hug.

This public message is a rare moment of celebrity vulnerability, a breaking of the fourth wall that separates public figures from their audience. It is a window into a secret, tragic sorority of parents who have endured the unendurable. Oropesa’s “babala” (warning) is not an accusation. She made it clear this is “hindi pang-aaway, kundi isang payo na puno ng pag-unawa” (not a fight, but advice full of understanding). She is simply seeing a “kapatid” (brother) in pain, walking down the same path that led her to a lifetime of regret, and she is using her platform to call out to him, to beg him to pause.

The story of Kim Atienza’s decision was one of transforming grief into purpose. But Elizabeth Oropesa’s intervention has added a layer of profound, painful complexity. It forces a conversation about the nature of grief and memory. What is the “right” way to grieve? What is the value of the “things” a person leaves behind? In life, we are taught that material possessions are meaningless. But in death, those same possessions become sacred relics, the last physical testament to a life that was lived.

Kuya Kim is now in an impossible position. Does he follow his own heart, which is telling him to turn his daughter’s legacy into a living, breathing force for good? Or does he heed the warning of a woman who has lived his nightmare and is telling him that this path, however noble, leads to a barren future, empty of the very memories he is trying to honor?

Elizabeth Oropesa’s warning is a testament to her own strength—to publicly reopen her deepest wound in the hopes of sparing another from the same fate. It is, perhaps, the single most valuable and courageous gift one grieving parent can give to another.