In December, the streets grow brighter. But inside some homes, the shadows grow longer. Ours is one of them. Three chairs. Two plates. One empty space at the table. That space belongs to my mother. The Christmas lights outside our window flicker like tired stars. The electric fan hums even in the cold. On the table sits a pot of sweet spaghetti, reheated, like every memory we keep warming just to feel something familiar again. “Do you think Mama will still come home?” my little sister, Lila, asks quietly as she wraps fried chicken in paper so it won’t “get cold on the way.” I don’t answer. Because even hope has learned how to shiver. My mother has been an OFW for three years. Three Christmases without her. At first, there were video calls, her smile stretched thin by exhaustion, her voice trying to sound close even from thousands of miles away. Then there were only voice messages. Then short chats. Then the silence started to sound permanent. Inside my wallet, I keep our last family photo. The three of us under paper stars she hung herself. She painted the biggest one gold. “So even if life is poor,” she said, “it should still shine.” Now the gold has faded. It is December 24. Fireworks crack somewhere in the distance. Inside our house, silence explodes instead. My father eats slowly, mechanically. Lila barely touches her food. I keep chewing even when my mouth no longer knows what it’s swallowing. Then my phone vibrates. One message. From my mother. “I can’t come home this year. I’m sorry.” No explanation. No promise. No “next time.” I stare at the screen, waiting for another line to appear, as if grief might correct itself if I wait long enough. Nothing follows.

The fireworks outside grow louder, as if the world is celebrating something I was never invited to. “Is she coming?” Lila asks, carrying all her faith in a single question. I show her the message.

She doesn’t cry. My father doesn’t move. And I, somehow, I don’t break either. We simply go quiet in the way people do when they’ve run out of ways to be strong. I step outside. The neighborhood is alive with laughter. Children run with new toys in their hands. Someone shouts, “Our whole family is complete tonight!” I look at the sky. A firework blooms, bright, loud, beautiful, then disappears in less than a second. Like promises. When I return inside, the empty chair is still there. We never remove it. As if doing so would admit that the waiting might never end. We do not say “Merry Christmas” to one another. It feels wrong to celebrate when someone is sacrificing a life far away just so we can survive here. Midnight arrives. No embraces. No cheers. Just two plates on the table and one chair with nothing but air sitting on it.

Outside, joy keeps multiplying. Inside, the waiting remains unchanged, and under all the Christmas lights glowing in the streets, one truth refuses to shine: Not every mother can come home for Christmas.

A hundred chances carried through my days,

For every scent of yours made my heart race.

I loved you quietly in subtle ways,

Though you belonged to her before my eyes.

At work, in jokes, in moments side by side,

I hid the ache beneath each laugh we shared.

The stories of your love cut deep inside,

Yet still I stayed, because I always cared.

I watch you – softly, like a distant star

A light that shines but never touches mine.

I let my broken heart wander too far,

For loving you felt both vile and divine.

And though a hundred chances eased my pain,

It still hurts – yet I’d choose you all again. 

Eight years -

that is how long I have walked the halls of PUP San Pedro Campus,

not just as a director, but as a witness

to the quiet miracles that happen

when empathy, patience, and resilience

are the only luxuries you can afford.

In this campus,

where resources are few

and budgets stretch thinner than morning light,

I learned that leadership is not measured

by the size of the funds we receive,

but by the size of the heart, we give.

Empathy -

it was my first language here.

To listen to students whose dreams

are bigger than their means…

to understand teachers who create brilliance

out of borrowed tools and aging facilities…

to feel the pulse of a campus

that survives not because it has much,

but because it refuses to give up.

Patience -

it became my daily companion.

Waiting for approvals,

for projects to push through,

for improvements that come slowly,

like small blessings scattered through the year.

I learned to breathe through delays,

to calm storms before they reach the gates,

and to trust that even slow progress

is still progress.

And resilience -

this campus taught me that better than any seminar.

Because when the funds are little

and the needs are many,

you do not break -

you build.

You innovate.

You knock on doors,

forge partnerships,

stretch every peso

until it transforms into opportunities

for students who deserve more

than what the budget allows.

Eight years…

I have seen this campus grow

not through grand buildings,

but through the quiet rising of spirits.

Through teachers who give more than they are paid for.

Through staff who serve beyond their schedules.

Through students who shine

despite the limits placed before them.

And in every challenge,

every sleepless night,

every decision held carefully in the palm of responsibility—

I discovered a truth:

That PUP San Pedro Campus

may have little,

but it gives much.

It may lack in resources,

but never in heart.

It may struggle in funding,

but never in purpose.

My eight years here

are not just years of leadership -

they are years of becoming.

And as I look at the campus now,

I know this with certainty:

I have not just served this place.

It has shaped me, strengthened me,

and taught me to lead

with compassion, courage,

and unwavering hope.

I used to think I had to figure it all out

like truth was a puzzle

and I was always missing the last piece.

I’d stay up late,

asking questions that never answered back.

But truth isn’t hiding.

It’s just quiet.

It waits in the pause

between one breath and the next,

in the way sunlight hits the floor

when no one’s looking.

I used to hold on tight

to what I thought was right—

rules, pride, the need to be sure.

But all that weight?

It didn’t keep me steady.

It just made me tired.

So I let go.

Not all at once.

Just enough to breathe again.

To walk without dragging the world behind me.

Now, I don’t need to be loud.

I don’t need to be right.

I just need to be here.

And when the day ends,

and everything goes still,

I’m okay with the quiet.

Because peace doesn’t need to prove itself.

It just stays.

Abstract

Self-esteem plays a critical role in shaping students’ engagement and achievement in mathematics, influencing how they interpret challenges, respond to errors, and persist in learning tasks. As the broader foundation for mathematics self-efficacy, self-esteem strongly predicts performance, sometimes more significantly than prior knowledge or general cognitive ability (Zakariya, 2022). However, its impact does not operate independently; mathematics anxiety has been shown to moderate the relationship between self-esteem and achievement, highlighting the interplay of emotional and cognitive factors in mathematics learning (Peteros et al., 2025). Supportive classroom environments that emphasize growth, effort, and constructive feedback contribute to the development of healthier mathematical self-esteem and increased willingness to take academic risks (Berlin & Cohen, 2020). Thus, mathematics instruction must explicitly address both the emotional and psychological dimensions of learning to foster confident, resilient students who view mathematical ability as developable rather than fixed.

Raising Confidence: The Role of Self-Esteem in Mathematics Education

Cesar G. Espinosa, Instructor 1

BiPSU-Biliran Campus

Mathematics education involves more than the acquisition of procedural skills and conceptual understanding; it also encompasses psychological dimensions that profoundly shape learners’ engagement and achievement. Among these factors, self-esteem—defined as an individual’s overall evaluation of self-worth in academic contexts—plays a central role in determining how students approach mathematical learning. The development of positive self-esteem in mathematics does not merely influence performance in school but contributes to the formation of enduring attitudes toward problem solving and analytical reasoning throughout life.

Self-esteem is closely related to mathematics self-efficacy, or learners’ beliefs in their capacity to successfully perform mathematical tasks. Research consistently demonstrates that self-efficacy is a stronger predictor of achievement than prior knowledge, general intelligence, or the presence of mathematics anxiety (Zakariya, 2022). Self-esteem provides the broader personal foundation upon which self-efficacy is built. Students who hold favorable beliefs about their capabilities are more likely to persist through difficulties, interpret errors as opportunities for learning, and maintain motivation in challenging situations.

However, the relationship between self-esteem and mathematics achievement is neither linear nor isolated. It is mediated by emotional factors, particularly mathematics anxiety. Peteros et al. (2025) found that mathematics anxiety moderates the impact of self-esteem on academic outcomes among Filipino learners, suggesting that self-esteem exerts a stronger effect when emotional responses to mathematics are also addressed. This highlights the necessity of understanding cognitive, emotional, and motivational processes as interconnected rather than independent contributors to learning.

The classroom environment is instrumental in shaping students’ self-esteem in mathematics. Emotionally supportive learning contexts—characterized by meaningful teacher-student interactions, clear and high expectations accompanied by appropriate guidance, and acknowledgment of effort and progress—create spaces where students feel secure in engaging with complex material (Berlin & Cohen, 2020). When mathematical ability is framed as developable rather than innate, learners become more willing to take risks, ask questions, and revise misconceptions.

Mathematics anxiety poses one of the most significant barriers to healthy mathematical self-esteem. Defined as feelings of tension or apprehension when engaging in mathematical tasks, anxiety may impair working memory and hinder performance (Ramirez et al., 2018). The cyclical nature of this relationship is well documented: low self-esteem can heighten susceptibility to anxiety, while anxiety may further undermine confidence. Effective mathematics instruction must therefore address emotional responses alongside content mastery.

The implications for educational practice are considerable. Teachers should adopt instructional strategies that promote a growth-oriented view of mathematical competence, design assessments that emphasize development rather than comparison, and integrate reflective practices that help students recognize progress in their learning. Likewise, teacher preparation programs must prioritize training in affective, not only cognitive, dimensions of mathematics education (Schukajlow et al., 2023).

Thus, fostering positive self-esteem in mathematics instruction is essential to supporting students’ academic performance and long-term engagement with the discipline. By recognizing the integral role of psychological factors and designing learning environments that affirm students’ capacity to grow, educators can help learners develop confidence, resilience, and a more enduring appreciation for mathematics.

References

Berlin, R., & Cohen, J. (2020). The convergence of emotionally supportive learning environments and college and career ready mathematical engagement in upper elementary classrooms. AERA Open, 6(3), 1–20. https://doi.org/10.1177/2332858420948773 

Peteros, E. D., Tandoc, L. B., Palapar, M. H., Adlaw, R. C., & Fuentes, C. M. (2025). Mathematics anxiety as a moderator between self-esteem and mathematics achievement among Filipino Grade 8 students. STEM Education, 5(5), 933–953. https://doi.org/10.3934/steme.2025041 

Ramirez, G., Shaw, S. T., & Maloney, E. A. (2018). Math anxiety: Past research, promising interventions, and a new interpretation framework. Educational Psychologist, 53(3), 145–164. https://doi.org/10.1080/00461520.2018.1447384 

Schukajlow, S., Rakoczy, K., & Pekrun, R. (2023). Emotions and motivation in mathematics education: Where we are today and where we need to go. ZDM Mathematics Education, 55(2), 249–267. https://doi.org/10.1007/s11858-022-01463-2 

Zakariya, Y. F. (2022). Improving students' mathematics self-efficacy: A systematic review of intervention studies. Frontiers in Psychology, 13, Article 986622. https://doi.org/10.3389/fpsyg.2022.986622 

One summer, at the foot of Mount Mayon, near a river that sang softly through the blooming rice fields, there lived an old lady beetle. Aling Uwang wasn’t the fastest, the strongest or the flashiest insect in the barangay- but everyone would agree without contest that she was the wisest. Her little nipa hut always smelled of freshly harvested produce and warm ginger tea. Every morning, as the sun peeked in between the mountains like a sleepy carabao rising from the mud, Aling Uwang would brew herself a cup of kapeng barako just before the sun shines in her windows.

It wasn’t just an ordinary coffee - it’s a strong coffee bean that she had traded with a traveling monkey from a far away land of Batangas. Each bean was grounded with care, as though each one held a secret of hers. Its aroma alone could calm an angry goat. And yet, strangely enough, no one had ever seen her drink her coffee while it was hot.

One morning, Totoy Lizard passed by her hut, and sniffed her brewed coffee in the air.

“Aling Uwang, aba! You brewed your coffee again…. And will let it go cold, surely. It’s either you’re very forgetful already or maybe you’re just spending so much time praying that you forgot your coffee, ano? I can’t tell which one.” he said.

“Maybe both,” Aling Uwang answered while at the same time carefully pulling bunot from the coconut husk she picked from her usual morning walk to weave a new broom. Totoy snorted. “If I brewed something that fragrant, I would drink it before the first steam even left the cup! Or atleast cover it to guard from those stag beetles that keep making cannonballs into mugs!”

Just as he passed by the hut, Neneng Fruit Bat came in fluttering.

“Aling Uwang, help! This is so urgent!”, she shouted breathlessly. “I dreamed that I lost my wings, but also…... .were they still there really? What does that even mean? Are my dreams backwards?” 

Without a word, Aling Uwang set her coffee in her papag and followed Neneng.

“There goes the coffee…. Again.” Totoy exclaimed while rolling his eyes.

And so it went everyday. Every morning, Aling Uwang would carefully brew herself a cup of coffee - only to be called away - sometimes to help Lolo Pagong who can’t get up after meditating in full lotus position under the coconut tree, to console Kalaw, the Hornbill, after drowning his own reflection in the water, or to nurse a baby mudfish back to sleep after searching where his dreams went when he woke up that morning. Each time, she will leave her coffee sitting cool without minding it at all.

Eventually, the whole barangay began to notice this. One afternoon, all the animals gathered around an old balete tree. Manang Owl, the keeper of all banana leaves scrolls wondered.

“There must be a meaning in this ritual that she’s doing.” she said.

“Why would you make a coffee if you will never drink it anyway? It’s a waste!” shouted Totoy. “And to mind that it's the real kind, not those 3-in-1 nonsense. That's good caffeine right there ha!” he added.

Lolo Pagong blinked slowly. “In the cooling …. .of the cup….. There is warming …. . of the heart.” And then he fell asleep mid-sentence, which in the old turtle teachings, means he had finished speaking wisely.

One morning, Neneng Fruit Bat gathered all the courage to ask Aling Uwang.

“Aling Uwang, why do you always let your coffee sit cold?”

Aling Uwang chuckled, it sounded like rain drops in her nipa roof.

“Do you want a short answer to that or a long one?” she asked.

“Both,” said Neneng. “But not the version that gets confusing at the end hah?”

Aling Uwang smiled. “The short answer? Because … others are thirsty in a way that they don’t know.”

“And the long one?” asked Neneng excitedly.

The old beetle looked across the blooming rice fields. And released a sigh.

“I used to think peace meant sitting alone in my papag with hot coffee at hand and no interruptions. But over time, as I listened to Dodong Duck crying by the sapa, to the arguments of fireflies over whose light was the brightest, even to Totoy’s everyday whining when he passed by my hut - I learned that awakening doesn’t come from retreat from all these. Each time someone knocks on my door or shouts my name from a far, they are not an interruption. It is an invitation.

Over time her nipa hut became something like a monastery - one filled with chit chat and stories, not silence. Neighbors came not just for advice, but to sit in the papag with her. She never gave lectures, but just simply listened deeply. Her presence is enough.

Totoy Lizard, while still half curious and half moved, started bringing his half-eaten rice puto. Neneng Fruit Bat started keeping journals but kept misplacing them. Lolo Pagong would meditate outside her hut, would still complain about his aching knee after - but at peace. And though she never drank her coffee warmly, Aling Uwang never showed disappointment.

Then one day, no one came.

No bat with backward dreams. No beetles in her uncovered mug. Not even a single goat asking why the sun enters in that direction but exits in that other direction. The barangay was silent. 

Aling Uwang sat in her papag observing the neighborhood. The coffee stayed warm and for the first time in many summers, she took a sip of her steaming coffee.

It was …. Delicious. But also, strangely …. a little lonely.

Halfway through the cup, there was a rustle from her backyard. Dodong Duck peeked in.

“Ummm.. so sorry Aling Uwang. I know now is your coffee time but I have a question. Is it possible to feel sad and happy…. .at the same time? Ehhh… Because I think I just … did.”

Aling Uwang smiled and gently placed the mug down.

“Tell me everything.” she said.

Later, when the coffee was cooled again, she poured the rest of it into the soil outside her window.

“This cup has served enough.” she said while smiling contently.

Now, in that little barangay at the foot of Mount Mayon, elders would gather and tell this story to children.

“Why is Aling Uwang’s coffee always cold? They would ask.

And the children would giggle saying: “Because she warms everyone else first!”

“But isn’t she missing something?” some ask.

The wise ones reply: “In giving, she’s filled. In serving, she sips the true brew and in quite ways the world has taken a sip too.”

Some say Aling Uwang once tried an iced coffee, trying to test if the universe would notice. It didn’t. But the beetles were thrilled - it was a new swimming pool, they thought.

As for Totoy Lizard, he gave up criticizing and now brings his warm yema balls. 

“If you can’t beat it”, he mumbled, “bring snacks instead.”

Epilogue:

Carved on a manga tree outside her old nipa hut are these words:

“All things arise, all things fade.

Even heat cannot be held.

This too is a teaching.

From a cup of coffee, or not.”

Sa iisang silid-aralan unang nagtagpo sina Rhea at Shen, magkatabing upuan at magkatabing pangarap. Si Shen ang palaging handang makinig samantalang si Rhea naman ang laging may kwento, may tawa, at may lakas ng loob na nakahahawa ng iba. Sa tuwing may problema ang isa, sapat na ang simpleng “Nandito lang ako” upang gumaan ang mundo.

Lumipas ang mga taon na magkasama sila sa lahat, sa mga tagumpay at kabiguan, sa mga lihim na isinusulat sa likod ng notebook, at sa mga pangarap na sabay nilang binuo. Nang magtapos sila ng kolehiyo, nangako silang hindi magkakalayo, kahit pa iba na ang landas na tatahakin.

Isang araw, napansin ni Shen na madalas mapagod si Rhea. Ang dati’y masiglang kaibigan ay naging tahimik, ang tawa’y napalitan ng pilit na ngiti. “Okay lang ako,” palaging sagot ni Rhea, hanggang sa dumating ang araw na hindi na niya kayang tumayo nang mag-isa.

Malubha ang sakit, isang sakit na dahan-dahang kumakain sa lakas at oras. Sa ospital, magkahawak-kamay silang dalawa. Binabasa ni Shen ang paboritong libro ni Rhea, kahit alam niyang nakapikit lang ito’t nakikinig. Sa pagitan ng bawat pahina, naroon ang takot na ayaw niyang aminin.

“Salamat sa lahat,” mahinang bulong ni Rhea isang gabi.

Ngumiti si Shen, pinigilan ang luha at sinabing. “Marami pa tayong plano.”

Ngunit may mga pangarap na hindi na maaabot pa bukas.

Kinabukasan, nagising ang mundo na wala na si Rhea.

Sa burol, hawak ni Shen ang lumang notebook nila, puno ng pangarap na sila ang nagsulat. Masakit, oo, ngunit may iniwang liwanag ang pagkawala. Ito ang alaala ng isang pagkakaibigang hindi makakalimutan. 

At sa bawat araw na lilipas, dala ni Shen ang pangakong mabubuhay siya nang buo, para sa kanilang dalawa.

With gentle words and patient hands, 

A teacher sows where hope still stands.

In minds that seek, in hearts that yearn,

A blazing trail, a flame will burn.  

Each lesson shared with patient care,

Inspires the heart to dream and dare.

To reach beyond, to touch the skies,

Where wisdom blooms and hopes arise.

For every doubt, they give their care,

For every wound, they are always there.

They see the whole, not just the parts,

Guiding minds and touching hearts.

Beyond the scores, beyond the grades,

Their kindness plants the seeds of grace.

Not just in books, but life imparts,

Guiding minds and touching hearts.

Their words ignite a lasting flame,

That whispers hope and call each name.

A flame that never will depart,

Forever glowing in the heart.

Though years may pass and seasons change,

Their teachings reach beyond all range.

In every life their care imparts, 

Guiding minds and touching hearts. 

Mahal magpaaral sa DepEd

Simula pa lamang ng taon, brigada nariyan na

Pintura, walis, sabon, dust pan

Kumakaway listahan ng bayarin at donasyon

Mahal magpaaral sa DepEd

Kung PTA officer ka, mas mataas ang ambag

Parang kasalanan mo pang with high honors ang anak

Sa Christmas party, dapat mas marami ang dadalhin sa hapag

Mahal magpaaral sa DepEd

Kung nanalo ang anak sa contest, magpapakain ka

Mas maganda raw ang buhay mo kaysa sa iba

Kaya mas mahal ang ibibigay na kontribusyon

Mahal magpaaral sa DepEd

Kukunin ang anak mong kandidato sa money contest

Kung ayaw mo, mag-pledge ka ng malaki-laki

Magbebenta ka pa ng ticket na pagkakapal-kapal

Mahal magpaaral sa DepEd

Dahil guro ka sa unibersidad, mas mataas ng ambag

“Share your blessings” linyahan sa meeting

Top 1 ang anak, magdonate ng pambili ng kung anu-ano

Mahal magpaaral sa DepEd

Nauubos ang pera, nabubutas nag bulsa

Ngunit ito’y para sa bata

Gagawin dahil mahal natin sila

Noong bata pa’y puno ng sigla,

Ngayong ina na, parang puso’y mabigat na.

Ang dating pagkasabik, saan na nagpunta?

Napalitan na ng mga tungkulin para sa pamilya.

Wala na ang sayaw ng batang sabik,

Ngunit ang ligaya’y dumarating nang tahimik—

Hindi na sa mga dekorasyon o pailaw,

Kundi sa mga regalong inihahanda para sa bata.

Sa Shopee at Lazada nakakakita ng sigla;

Anong saya sa pagpili ng mga damit at laruan

Para sa mga batang paslit

Na sa Pasko’y sabik na sabik

Hindi na gaanong maliwanag ang Christmas tree,

Ngunit regalo sa ilalim dito’y nagpapakulay

Malutong na tawanan at malalawak na ngiti—

Dito ko nakita ang bagong anyo ng Pasko.

At marahil, kaya iba na ang dating ngayon,

Dati’y mga magulang at kapatid ang kasalo.

Noon, ang sarap makatanggap ng regalo—

Aginaldong bigay ng mga ninang at ninong.

Ngayon, asawa at anak na ang kapiling;

Mas masaya na tayo sa pagbibigay.

Pusong puno sa kanilang mga ngiti,

At sa kislap sa mata ng mga anak.

Totoo pala, pag nagiing magulang ka na

Iba na ang dating ng Pasko sa puso at diwa

Ang kasiyahan mo ay makita silang masaya

Puso’y napupuno sa kanilang yakap at ngiti

We only had six days in Vigan, but somehow it felt like enough to remind us why we keep coming back. Vigan will always be special to me—it’s where I was born, even if we didn’t grow up here, even if life has carried us elsewhere. There’s a sense of belonging that doesn’t fade, no matter how brief the visit.

Christmas Eve was pure joy. We were with my mother, her siblings, and their families. The house buzzed with laughter, stories, and music. The children ran everywhere, their voices overlapping, picking up the regional accent of their cousins as if it had always been theirs. Bagnet, longganisa, and sinanglaw filled the table, each bite tasting of home and history. We sang carols, played games, shared jokes, and just soaked in the warmth of being together. I tried to memorize every second—the smiles, the little ones’ curiosity, the way the lights glimmered against the walls. These are the moments I carry with me.

The next days were a mix of adventure. Baluarte greeted us with wide spaces and wonder. The children ran freely, chasing peacocks, laughing without a care. At Onederland, beside the Capitol, they posed with Disney characters, faces glowing with excitement, convinced that magic was real. When night fell, we watched the dancing fountain. The lights and water moved together like a celebration, as if the city itself was welcoming us back.

One morning, we had breakfast by the sea. The salty air, the simple food, the sound of waves—it was peaceful, a gentle start to the day. Another day, Pinsal Falls called us. The rushing water reminded us that sometimes the best rest is standing still, letting nature move at its own pace, letting the moment soak in fully. The kids splashed and played, squealing with delight, and for a while, the world outside seemed to vanish.

We tried to go to Sabang Boardwalk, eager to see how it had grown since our last visit. But the road was packed. A U-turn ended the trip before it even began. My heart sank a little—it had changed so much. Still, along the way, giant Christmas trees glowed, and we stopped to take pictures, letting the moment be enough. Life has a way of giving us what it can, and we took it happily.

On our last night, we walked the cobblestones of Calle Crisologo. The old houses watched quietly, lamps glowing softly, time slowing with every step. Later, at Vigan Plaza, we rode a calesa. The horse’s steady rhythm made us pause, teaching us how to linger, even if just for a little while.

The final day was for pasalubong. Bags grew heavier, hearts heavier, because leaving is always the hardest part. Six days flew by, but they reminded us why we come back. Vigan doesn’t ask us to stay forever—it just waits, patient and familiar. And I will always return. Always.

I thought I would spend the sembreak with

Slow mornings and afternoons,

Laying on my bed the whole day

Playing with the kids

But the days passed like a lightning strike

Test papers and submission waiting to be checked,

Clearances need to be signed

Capstone manuscripts waiting to be critiqued

All of these pulled me back to the faculty office

My semestral break wasn’t really a break

With all my designations in the college

ISO audit  preparation

Pre-deployment orientation seminar speakership

Pinning and Send-off ceremonies preparation

The semestral break was never a break

It was something meant to break my goals and my plans

The rest and me-time I promised myself

The date I scheduled with the kids

The me-time I set for myself

I went to school my my colleagues had their break

Until I never noticed how time flew away

The break was almost done and all left to do was look at the calendar

I asked myself - What have I accomplished for myself?

Where have my plans gone?

And just like that, weekend rests as usual

Just a quick visit home then back to school again

No pause, no catch of breath.

Only the quiet acceptance that another semester is about to start

And the break as come to an end

But somewhere inside me, I kept a satisfaction

I have accomplished so much for the college

Shared my knowledge to the interns

Organized the send-off ceremony

And paneled for the presentation

I may never had a break but

One day, I will claim it.

Next sem perhaps?

During the summer break?

Not now, but someday

Christmas in Vigan has always been close to my heart—it’s where I was born, where my family roots run deep. But this year, I noticed something that made me pause.

In Gonzaga, Christmas is alive with caroling. Children and adults form groups, singing and sometimes even dancing, visiting homes to entertain. The more entertaining their performance, the more pamasko they receive. It’s a tradition full of joy, connection, and creativity—a celebration shared between people.

In Vigan, though, things have changed. Caroling no longer fills the streets. People might visit in groups or individually, but the lively songs and dances are gone. And here’s what shocked me the most: when I greeted people with a simple “Merry Christmas,” they often responded with, “Ikaw nga dapat ang magbigay ng pamasko sa aing, ikaw ang may trabaho.” 

What? It was just a greeting. Apparently, “Merry Christmas” is now understood as a request for gifts, not just a friendly hello.

I couldn’t help but laugh and feel a little culture-shocked. In my mind, a greeting is a greeting—it’s a simple, warm way to acknowledge someone, to say hi instead of just “kumusta.” But here, it seemed that every greeting carried an unspoken expectation. Even the act of wishing someone well could be misinterpreted as a way of asking for something.

It made me realize how much traditions shape the way people connect. Caroling in Gonzaga is about entertainment, fun, and community. In Vigan, the absence of that tradition has shifted interactions into something transactional. The joy and shared excitement are missing, replaced by polite smiles and cautious words.

Still, I hope the spirit isn’t completely gone. Maybe someday, children will sing in the streets again, laughter filling the night, reminding everyone that Christmas is about sharing joy and love, not just gifts. For me, it was a small, humorous shock—but also a reminder of how culture and tradition shape even the simplest human interactions.

This Christmas, I laughed at the misunderstanding, remembered the songs of my childhood, and thought about how fragile, yet precious, traditions can be.