When Cebu was hit by the 6.9-magnitude earthquake, everything around me stopped. For a moment, I thought of Alice falling into Wonderland, only this time it was real. The walls rattled, the floor swayed, and my heartbeat tried to outrun the noise. Honestly, my first instinct was to look and check for my family. After the shaking stopped, I quickly grabbed my phone. Messages kept popping up one after another: group chats from work, texts from friends, calls from relatives. That night, my phone wouldn’t stop buzzing. Everyone was asking, “Are you okay?” and “Na-feel nimo ang linog?”
In the middle of it all, my thoughts drifted to my students. Were they safe? Were their parents’ home? I even forgot about the unfinished tasks I was supposed to follow up on. The quake itself lasted only seconds, yet the small aftershocks that came later reminded me that a teacher’s duty doesn’t end when classes do.
A few days later, classes went online again. The words asynchronous and synchronous sounded too familiar, bringing back memories of the pandemic. Once more, we sat behind screens, adjusting lessons and silently praying for a stable internet signal. But this time it wasn’t just about lesson objectives or learning outcomes. It felt more like learning how to breathe again slowly, together.
That week, I opened my laptop not only to upload lessons but to check on my students. The list of names on my class record stopped being a checklist; it became a roll call of reassurance. Instead of typing, “Have you submitted your assignment?” I wrote, “Kumusta naman mo?” Most replied that they were fine. A few sent heart emojis, small but sincere ways of saying they were still here, still safe, still trying.
Teaching after a disaster feels heavier. There’s the pressure to finish the syllabus, to meet competencies, and to keep moving even when everyone’s tired. Yet every uploaded task carries a quiet worry. What if another quake happens while we’re in class? Will my students still manage to focus? Will I? Sometimes I catch myself staring at the screen, thinking not about grammar lessons but about the faces hiding behind those little icons.
During our asynchronous day, I reviewed their submissions. I felt proud, but also uneasy. What were they feeling as they were doing these activities? Were they nervous? Were they using schoolwork to calm themselves down? Can they really focus? One student messaged, “Miss, I’m okay. My family’s just been paranoid lately.” That single line stayed with me. It reminded me that resilience isn’t written in any syllabus or school memo. It lives in every small kindness, every adjusted deadline, every message that says, “Take care first.”
As we prepare to return to face-to-face classes, I hold on to that truth. Like what Catriona Gray once said, “There is always a silver lining.” The earthquake may have cracked walls and ceilings, but it opened our hearts. It reminded me that teaching isn’t only about checking papers, it’s about checking on people. The strongest structures we build aren’t always made of cement or steel. Sometimes they’re made of compassion, patience, and shared courage.
Moments like these remind me that teachers are more than keepers of knowledge. We are quiet anchors who try to steady our students when the world feels unsteady. Even when fear creeps in, we still show up. Maybe that’s the truest lesson of all: when the classroom shook, we learned to stand together.
*Asst. Prof. Andjenette D. Santillan teaches English at UP High School Cebu and in the Master of Education Program. She believes that teaching is an act of care as much as it is of learning.