Still, the queen: Kris Aquino on family, faith, motherhood, survival and living life on her own terms

It is easy to naturally assume her cascading health crises were the reasons behind her retreat from the limelight. One could readily believe that a body fighting multiple autoimmune diseases simply required absolute rest. “I have eight autoimmune diseases and six of which are life-threatening,” she explains. But the truth, as always with Kris, is steeped in a far more complex reality.

“It wasn’t that I decided to step back,” Kris revealed, her tone completely devoid of self-pity but razor-sharp with facts. “It was because they were scared to give me a job.” Her forced hiatus was a casualty of a rather hostile political climate. In the dark, vindictive era that succeeded her late brother President Benigno “Noynoy” Aquino III’s administration, associating with the Aquino name became somehow a liability. Companies recoiled in fear of political retribution, effectively sidelining one of the biggest stars the country had ever produced.

“Let’s be honest, they were scared to give me work because at that point, everything that my brother had achieved was being demonised,” she observed with clarity. “It’s only now that people are realising that everything that was being built came from how well Noynoy did as a fiscal manager [when he was the president of the Philippines].”

Fast forward to today, under a different leadership, the pragmatic celebrity gives credit where it is due, as she offers a surprisingly warm, unfiltered assessment of the current administration.

“It’s weird that the one you would expect would be mean to me, the Marcoses—President BBM and the First Lady–have really been so kind,” she discloses, an admission that effortlessly bridges decades of historical chasm. Kris has shared quiet, intimate occasions with the First Lady Liza Araneta-Marcos, discovering a surprising kinship rooted in a shared, deadpan wit. “I personally do not see that hunger for power. No. What I see in her is, ‘I did my job, and I’m still doing the best I can.’ And she is very, very funny. We have the same type of humour!” 

Now, the entertainment industry is once again clamouring for her brilliance. Her recent digital feature for Netflix proved that her star power remains completely untouched by time or absence. When shown the script, she offered suggestions to ensure its rhythm felt genuinely authentic and relatable to her devoted audience. The result was staggering: over 110 million combined views across digital platforms. “So I felt, ‘Oh, you missed me, huh!’” she laughs, her eyes flashing with that familiar spark.

Her approach to her career today, however, is governed by strict discipline and non-negotiable boundaries. She selectively partners only with brands she personally uses and believes in. “In advertising, there are no half-truths,” she states firmly. “You can’t sell what you don’t believe in.”

To understand the depth of Kris’s resilience, one must look to the blood that courses through her veins. She is the unfiltered distillation of two of the country’s most monolithic figures: Senator Benigno “Ninoy” Aquino Jr and President Corazon “Cory” Aquino. From her father, a heroic journalist and martyr, she inherited an impressive intellect and an insatiable hunger for the written word.

“My dad was really a voracious reader,” she recalls. “When he was in jail, he was only allowed out for one hour every day. The rest of the time was solitary confinement. I think it’s safe to say he read a minimum of 3,500 books over seven years and seven months.” Ninoy’s photographic memory lives on in Kris, allowing her to digest an incredible amount of information. Every day, she reads The New York Times, The Wall Street Journal, The Washington Post, The Los Angeles Times and The Economist to ensure she understands every perspective across the global spectrum.

He also gave her the gift of unapologetic confidence, stripped of false modesty. “With my dad, there was no such thing as humility. He called me beautiful,” she smiled. “But he told me it would be much harder for me as a woman to achieve my dreams because of my gender. I really remember this conversation when he said he foresaw that I would be the first female president in the Philippines. Little did he know it would be my mum.”

From the late president Cory, she inherited an exacting demand for excellence. “In my mum’s speeches, you would see her so prim and proper, but she could really throw bombs,” Kris laughs. “And people still think, ‘Oh, she’s so well-bred’ instead of saying ‘She shouldn’t have said that’. With me, they’ll say, ‘Well, that’s her!’” Cory also instilled a militant perfectionism regarding grammar and spelling, a trait Kris applies rigorously to everything she writes. “I know how to write from not just my heart but my soul.”

When asked what she would say to her parents today, the tongue-in-cheek humour dissolved into a melancholic sincerity. She yearns for the restoration of their historical honour. “I can give up the airport [which was named after my father] if it means I can put your faces back on the 500-peso bill,” she declares, referring to the recent manoeuvres surrounding the Ninoy Aquino International Airport. “The place where you died, Dad, it’s not like I’d be excited about that. The yellow 500-peso bill, on the other hand, I try to keep as many as I can, especially the crisp ones, because that’s an honour [for your image to be there]. Hopefully, we reclaim that honour.”

To her father, the eternal champion of free speech, she offers a distinctly modern caveat: “I would tell my dad: ‘Dad, free speech is what you were always talking about’.” She insists that true credibility requires fairness and accountability. “Hindi pwedeng tira ka lang nang tira [You can’t just do things without thinking].”

And to her mother, she simply longs for her to witness the ultimate prize of her life: her sons. “Mum, I miss you every single day because you would have so much fun with Kuya [Josh] and with Bimb,” she shares, her eyes welling. “You used to say I was the female Ninoy? Well, I got cloned, and Bimb is everything that I was not. He’s really a gift from God.”

Kris’s true north has always been her boys, Josh and Bimby (or Bimb as she fondly calls him). Shielding them from the toxic entitlement of fame has been her greatest, most enduring opus. Both young men are universally celebrated among family friends, even their staff for their politeness and warmth; they never fail to say “please” and express sincere gratitude.

At 19 years old and standing almost 6’2”, Bimby has evolved into a charismatic, protective gentle giant who anchors his mother’s turbulent world. “He’s not spoiled, he’s not a gastador [spendthrift],” Kris beamed, noting how he actively discourages her careless spending. Out of his own hard-earned money, Bimby sweetens her quiet nights by paying for the ebooks she reads on her Kindle. “Bimb is the embodiment of all the good qualities of our dad. He’s someone that when you’re old you want to hug; if you’re younger you want to kiss. And he always has kind words to say.”

Bimby is now stepping firmly into his own artistic power. Possessing a soulful singing voice, he has officially signed a recording contract. During the interview, Kris called him over, and without a hint of pretension, Bimby effortlessly serenaded everyone with a live rendition of Maybe This Time, his voice reverberating nicely into the room.

Kris envisions an impactful future for him, even predicting a noble path in the government. “If Bimb goes into public service, I hope he upholds the values that both my mum and my brother held dear. That the money that is given and is paid for taxes... belongs to the people,” she asserts. Kris has painstakingly nurtured his empathy, teaching him that the greatest gift a leader can offer is to genuinely listen so that everyone’s voices feel truly heard.

Kris’s own visions for the country remain razor-sharp and refreshingly pragmatic. She dreams of a Philippine healthcare system mirroring Japan’s co-pay model, where the government shoulders 95 per cent of medical bills, leaving patients to pay a mere 5 per cent. She advocates for the protection of agricultural lands and local farmers.

“Let’s take care of our farmers, the ones providing our food, and come on, let’s take care of our mangoes,” she urges passionately. She demands transparency, proposing that presidential Cabinet meetings and foreign diplomacy briefs be broadcast live on Facebook, and advocates for a gross tax scheme for Filipinos to eradicate systemic corruption and ease the burden on honest taxpayers.

But beneath these grand visions is a woman fighting a harrowing daily war: her active autoimmune diseases. The physical toll completely upends her existence. Deep bone pain can keep her awake for 72 consecutive hours, driving her to the brink of madness, before her exhausted body finally crashes into 18 to 20 hours of restorative sleep. Two devastating bouts of Covid-19 wounded a portion of her lungs and damaged her kidneys.

“Covid part one damaged my lungs; part two, my kidneys. I don’t want a part three. It stops at two,” she states with grim, unshakeable resolve. The reality of her fragile health weighs heavily on her heart as a mother. “It could happen that I just won’t wake up,” she shares with raw vulnerability. “I don’t want my sons to be the ones to discover that their mum is not breathing anymore and all.” It is precisely because of these life-threatening risks that she lives under strict isolation protocols nowadays.

Yet, through this unimaginable trial, she finds miraculous salvation in the millions of Filipinos who have prayed for her. “People I don’t know, people who are just concerned and people who continue to pray. It’s amazing,” she said, visibly moved by the outpouring of humanity. She shares being deeply touched by a poignant letter from a 17-year-old girl (a friend of Bimby) whose family includes Kris in their nightly prayers, promising to continue praying in thanksgiving even after her full recovery. “I’m surviving, and I’m thriving because God wants something more from me to be able to give back to all those people.”

Now entering another season of her life, Kris guards her energy while wholeheartedly embracing the second chance she has been granted. “There was a lot of unfinished business, and if I’m allowed to finish it... then I will make sure it counts and that it matters,” she declares, drawing a poignant parallel to Maybe This Time, the very song Bimby had just sung for her.

The Queen of All Media knows exactly what she is worth, and she knows exactly what she brings to the table. She is not just a survivor; she is an institution. “Do you honestly think I’ll give up the crown?” she challenged, flashing a triumphant, dazzling smile that could light up a city. “No way. It’s gonna be glued to my head!” 

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