As we close this school year, I can’t help but recall what happened to one of my students last year.
I became their replacement teacher during the fourth quarter, after a colleague left to work abroad. Every time I checked the attendance or recorded a task, Mona (not her real name) was often absent. A week before the Moving Up ceremony, I finally had the chance to speak with her. But before I could even begin, Mona started to sob. She had just found out that she wouldn’t be part of the ceremony. She wouldn’t be moving up to senior high school.
Mona covered her face—something she often did in class—and tried to cry in silence. But her tears spoke volumes, and I couldn’t help but hold back my own emotions.
How could I comfort her? I didn’t even know how to start the conversation. I felt helpless seeing her go through such pain.
It is every teacher’s dream to see their students at closing ceremonies, wearing wide grins and hopeful eyes, ready to begin another chapter. But the joy we feel when our students succeed is equal to the pain we carry when one of them falls behind.
While we celebrate their victories, I believe our presence is even more important when they are at their lowest.
I held Mona’s hand and gently said, “Life is not a race. Someone may have reached a goal today, but that doesn’t mean you won’t reach yours in time.” It was a short conversation, but listening to her was the least I could do to help ease her pain.
Fast forward to this year: I attended a graduation ceremony at one of Cebu’s universities. I was taken aback by the speech of the student who graduated with the highest honors. She shared how she had once worried she wouldn’t top her class because she had a single grade in the 80s. Though she acknowledged it as part of her learning journey, I couldn’t help but feel uneasy.
I found myself asking, “How are we raising our students today?”
Have we taught them enough—enough to understand that it’s okay to fail?
I used to be a competitive student, too. But over the years, I learned that competing with others will never be enough. It’s a battle you’ll never truly win because there will always be someone better than you.
I remember being interviewed by a panel for an award in high school. One of the panelists told me, “Your credentials are impressive, but what have you done to help others? Have you shared your skills with those who need them, or are you the only one basking in the glory?”
I didn’t know how to respond.
Thankfully, I didn’t win the award. That moment taught me lessons I still carry with me today.
Just days before our 2025 Moving Up Ceremony, Mona came to my office once again. But this time, she wasn’t hiding her face. She stood there, brimming with pride.
“Ma’am,” she shyly said, “mahuman na gyud ko karon sa Grade 10.”
Life is not the same for all of us.
Mona and that high-achieving student may be different in many ways, but their stories are far from over. There is so much more in store for both of them.
As Eleanor Roosevelt once said, “The future belongs to those who believe in the beauty of their dreams.”
Congratulations, Mona.
Thank you for not giving up.