I grew up surrounded by the quiet hum of the earth, in a small, close-knit farming barangay in Pozorrubio, Pangasinan where my grandparents and uncles worked the land with steady, weathered hands. From my earliest memories , the fields stretched wide and golden beneath the sun, and the rhythm of the seasons dictated the pace of our days. From them, I learned the language of the soil — how to plant, nurture, and harvest not only crops, but also patience, perseverance, and respect for nature.
Not far from our home flowed the Angalakan River, a lifeline
for our community. Its cool, rushing waters served as both utility and
sanctuary — a place where we bathed under open skies, washed our clothes, and
gathered fresh shellfish along its banks. It was a place of sustenance and
connection, where the simple act of being together wove bonds stronger than
words.
In our barangay,
everyone knew one another. Neighbors shared their harvests without hesitation
and came together in times of need. During weddings and other milestones, the
entire community seemed to move as one — preparing food, lending hands, and
celebrating with a unity that made joy feel multiplied. Those moments taught me
that belonging was not merely about where you lived, but about how you lived
with others.
Yet life in our community was far from easy. Many fathers,
including my own, sought employment abroad as construction workers in Saudi
Arabia, leaving their families for years at a time in search of better
opportunities. They earned little by global standards, but their sacrifices
were enough to send children to school — sometimes even through college. I was
one of the daughters of an Overseas Filipino Worker. My father’s absence was
deeply felt, especially during school events when I wished he could be there.
My mother shouldered the daily challenges of raising six children, making ends
meet however she could. While our backyard provided us with vegetables,
chickens, and goats, I often longed for the small luxuries other children
enjoyed — a new school bag, colorful notebooks, or a fresh set of crayons.
Despite these limitations, my childhood was shaped by a
sense of purpose. I excelled in school, consistently making it to the honor roll. Teachers
recognized my aptitude for numbers, and my family’s faith in my abilities
became my quiet source of strength.
When the time came to choose a university, I faced a pivotal
decision. I had passed the entrance examinations for both Saint Louis
University in Baguio City — my dream school — and the University of the
Philippines through the UPCAT. While SLU offered a nurturing environment, its
tuition was beyond my family’s means. My brother encouraged me to consider UP,
the nation’s premier state university, renowned for gathering the most
promising students from across the country. After much deliberation, I chose UP,
stepping into a future I could not yet fully imagine.
I enrolled in the Bachelor of Science in Geodetic
Engineering program, knowing little about the field but drawn to the title
“engineer.” Coming from a quiet rural upbringing, the transition to city life
was overwhelming. My first year tested me in unexpected ways. The greatest
shock came in my Math 17 class — Algebra and Trigonometry. I had always
believed I was good with numbers, yet I nearly failed the subject in my first
semester. It was a humbling moment that challenged my self-perception. But
rather than succumb to discouragement, I resolved to persevere. I studied late
into the night, sought help from peers, and learned to embrace the discipline
required to meet UP’s rigorous standards. That early struggle became a turning
point, teaching me that resilience is not forged in moments of ease, but in the
quiet, determined effort to rise each time we falter.
In 2007, just months before my university graduation, my family faced a
loss that would change us forever. My brother Edgar — the most gentle and
soft-spoken among us six siblings — passed away in his sleep at the age of
twenty-seven. He had been especially devoted to our mother, caring for her with
quiet patience and tenderness. His sudden passing left us shocked and
shattered.
What deepened the heartbreak was the family he left behind:
two young children, only four and three years old at the time, and a wife with
no job or financial support. I struggled to understand how life could be so
cruel, taking him so soon and leaving his children without a father’s presence.
In my grief, I wrestled with questions of faith, anger toward our Creator, and
the unanswerable “why” of it all.
I did not know how to comfort my sister-in-law or reassure
my niece and nephew
that life would somehow be all right. How could I tell them this was part of
God’s plan when I could not believe it myself? At that moment, the future felt
unbearably uncertain. Yet even amid the sorrow, our family found ourselves
drawing closer together, determined to support kuya Edgar’s children in every way we
could. His loss left an emptiness that will never be filled, but it also
deepened my sense of responsibility — to live not only for my own dreams, but
for the people whose dreams were cut short.
Looking back, the journey from the riverbanks of the
Angalakan to the lecture halls of the University of the Philippines — and
through the valleys of personal loss — has shaped not only my career path, but
also my life’s values. I carry with me the lessons of my childhood: the
strength of community, the quiet dignity of sacrifice, and the enduring power
of perseverance. Above all, I have learned that even in life’s most painful
seasons, there are seeds of purpose waiting to be nurtured, and it is our task
to help them grow.
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