THE MOUNTAIN WE BECAME

There I was, hands tightly clasped, whispering silent prayers between sighs. The announcement of winners for the individual categories was dragging on like an eternity, each second stretching the suspense—and my patience. I’ve never been good at waiting. My eyes drifted to my students: some slouched in their seats, fighting off sleep; others glued to their phones, lost in distraction; the rest clinging to a fragile thread of hope, eyes fixed on the stage. The room was heavy with anticipation. And yet, deep down, I felt it—this might not be our moment.

We were all first-timers, venturing into the unfamiliar world of Online and Collaborative Desktop Publishing. With only a spark of experience but a fire of determination, we dove in—eager to learn, willing to try. I’ll admit, I carried doubts—not just about my own abilities, but also about my students’. But as the training sessions unfolded, something changed. I began to see their potential shining through—glimpses of confidence in their eyes, silent messages saying, “We can do this.” They were waiting for me to believe in them, something I hadn’t fully done at the start.

Still, I didn’t give up. Even when I found myself working alone to prepare for the Division Schools Press Conference, I held onto a quiet hope. And that hope carried us through—we made it to the Regional Schools Press Conference. It was a journey of faith, growth, and the power of believing in one another.

I can still remember how we had to wake up early in the morning and gather our things at school before heading to the competition venue. The waiting was exhausting—and it didn’t stop there. Once they entered the room, a new round of waiting began.

I sat there alone, anxiously waiting for them to finish. I felt like a hen guarding her eggs, worried and restless. And when they finally came out of the room, it still wasn’t over. I had to process what had happened inside and be the most supportive adviser I could possibly be.

We carried all our heavy belongings, feeling tired and drained, and then we waited once again—this time for the results.

They kept asking me:

“Ma’am, wala pa?”

“Ma’am, update po…”

“Ma’am, is it still normal that I check the DepEd memo every 30 minutes?”

Their nervous energy added to the pressure, but it was also a reminder of how much they cared. We were all hoping, all waiting—together.

I was in class, about to begin the lesson, when I instinctively checked the DepEd memo for the results. Even the students who were part of the team sat in disbelief. We stared at the screen, trying to process what we saw. It was one of those surreal moments words can’t fully capture. Then came the flood of messages in our group chat—“Is this real?”—followed by a chorus of excitement: “We’re going to the RSPC!”

I felt like I was on cloud nine. Maybe it was luck, maybe it was fate—but deep down, I knew we earned it. Every sleepless night, every ounce of effort… it all led us here.

There were probably questions—why and how. At first, they doubted me. They thought I couldn’t do it, or that we couldn’t do it. And now that we’ve made it, they search for flaws, trying to find holes just to bring us down and dishearten us.

Yes, I’ll admit—they succeeded, at least for a moment. I felt defeated, like I wanted to hide. I even questioned whether I should have taken the lead in the English Club at all. Maybe it was never mine to begin with. It felt like something passed on to me, along with a heavy burden—the pressure to prove myself worthy of it.

Looking back, there were colleagues who claimed they were better than I. Was it because they came first and I came last? Because they had already proven themselves, at least through the achievements they posted on Facebook? Their success seemed to shout how far they had come, while I was only beginning, still trying to find my footing, feeling like I had so much to prove just because I was new.

So I ask myself: Do I need to be like them? Do I have to show off too, just to prove that I’m good, just like them, or maybe even better? Or is it enough to stay quiet and let time take its course?

And so, the preparation for the Regional Schools Press Conference began.

Time was against us. With academic deadlines piling up and extracurricular activities demanding our attention, we were constantly juggling, unsure if we were ready. But one thing we had—that mattered most—was trust. We trusted one another, and that gave us the courage to try again.

The journey wasn’t without hardship. There were moments of doubt and stinging disappointments. We felt overlooked and unsupported. Words were said that wounded us. There were unspoken tears, silent struggles hidden behind our laughter. But instead of breaking us, all of it fueled our fire.

There came a point when I had a conflict with someone who was in charge of another competition category. The disagreement stemmed from differences in decision-making. I couldn’t insist that my ideas were better—I’m still new to this field, while the other person had more experience. So I chose to go along with their suggestions, and I was fine with that.

What hurt the most was that we couldn’t resolve the issue. Since both of our teams were part of a larger team, the tension affected everyone. The budget ended up falling short, and the situation became emotionally draining. I was screaming inside, doing my best to control my emotions and avoid saying anything disrespectful. Instead, I diverted my attention and stayed focused on my own group.

Unfortunately, the conflict continued throughout the competition and had a ripple effect. What was supposed to be a united effort started to feel like a silent competition—not just between teams, but between those guiding them.

Then, the moment came.

There we were, just us, sitting quietly, clinging to hope. When our school’s name—and then our names—were called, we jumped. We cried. We couldn’t believe it. Stepping onto that stage, with tears streaming down our faces and smiles we couldn’t hold back, was the most unforgettable moment of our lives. We had made it—not just to RSPC, but through every challenge that tried to stop us.

There were people who sincerely congratulated us, and others who didn’t. Some still doubted our capabilities. I won’t lie—it stung a little. But giving up on the students I mentor? That was never an option. Not now, not when the journey isn’t over yet. We still had one more challenge ahead: the National Schools Press Conference.

But reality was catching up fast. The school year was drawing to a close, and the students were juggling everything—exams, deadlines, final projects. The competition couldn’t always be the top priority. Fourth-quarter requirements took precedence. During training, some were missing. Holidays and suspended classes further cut into our already limited preparation time. I had my own share of personal and professional commitments, too.

We were all stretched thin. Each of us made sacrifices—time with friends, missed family moments, lost sleep.

There were dramas in between. I had to push, sometimes nag, my students to stay committed to the training. I worried that we hadn’t done enough, that we were underprepared. But I understood—they had academic responsibilities, just as I had my own pile of school work to finish before we could even think about competing.

Everything was piling up. At times, it felt overwhelming—like we were racing against time, wishing for just one moment to pause… and breathe.

And there we were—the heat hit us the moment we arrived. Was it welcoming... or a warning? Sweat trickled down our faces, necks, backs—everywhere. It clung to us like the tension we tried to shake off.

The mood started to shift. The exhaustion crept in. Complaints filled the air. Whining became our background music. The attitude started to eat away at our energy and focus. It wasn’t the best start—not at all.

But beneath it all, there was still a spark. Excitement lingered quietly, like a whisper reminding us why we came. Despite the heat, despite the rocky beginning… we were here. And we were ready to try.

The Collaborative Desktop Publishing group was the first to compete, all things were set, I was there, in between those metal bars of the gate watching them as they walked inside the building with a whisper of prayer that they will make it. Under the heat of the sun I waited a little more until their phones were off and back to the inn with the thought, “Are they okay?” I hope they were.

Then, a message popped up on Messenger—a quiet signal that the competition had ended. I made my way to the school to meet them. As I arrived, I saw their faces—clouded with worry, weighed down by anxiety and uncertainty.

They began to utter a few words, but I gently stopped them.

“Some coaches are waiting too,” I said softly. “Let’s go back to the inn, get some rest, and have lunch. We’ll talk about what happened there.”

I knew there were no perfect words to comfort them, nothing I could say to instantly ease the heaviness they carried. But sometimes, words aren’t what’s needed. Sometimes, just being there—silent, steady, present—is more than enough.

The next day, it was the Online Publishing group’s turn. Compared to the first group, they were noticeably more confident—calmer, more composed. As before, we gathered outside the gate and said a prayer, hands clasped, hearts hopeful.

This time, the waiting felt even longer. Thankfully, I had someone with me to pass the hours, but still—it dragged on endlessly. A few drops of rain began to fall from the sky… a quiet sign, a whisper from above. Then came a light drizzle, as if the sky itself was holding its breath.

We spotted a group of students exiting the building—the same one our eyes had been fixed on for what felt like forever. And finally, there they were—my students. But they were crying. Hard.

Then, as if on cue, the rain poured down in sheets, mirroring the weight of their emotions. The skies wept with them.

My heart sank. I wanted to cry too. I wanted to say something—anything—that could comfort them. But in that moment, words felt small, almost meaningless. It was one of those times when the only thing I could offer… was to be there, quietly, sharing the ache.

Back at the Convention Center, the air was electric—echoing with cheers every time a participant’s name, school, or region was called. The room would erupt with pride as winners stepped onto the stage, faces glowing, hands raised in triumph.

We were all hoping that we, too, would have the chance to step on that stage—holding certificates, carrying the banner, and, if it wasn’t too much to ask, wearing medals. We imagined having our photos taken in that moment of pride. That’s what everyone hopes for: to be recognized and appreciated.

After several trips to the restroom, our moment finally came—unexpected, unannounced.

We sat in silence, holding our breath, holding each other. The cheers around us felt distant, like background noise in a moment that wasn’t ours.

And when our turn finally arrived, it passed so quickly—almost like a blur.

I stayed strong on the outside, whispering words of comfort, but inside, I was breaking. Not for myself—but for my students. I knew how much they had poured into this. The late nights. The skipped breaks. The effort. The hope.

And now—nothing. No place. No recognition.

I wasn’t just sad; I was heartbroken for them. Because they deserved so much more than silence in a room full of applause.

They kept saying sorry, but there was nothing to be sorry for. They gave their best; things just didn’t turn out the way they had hoped.

Their comforting words to one another didn’t quite reach their faces. Behind their smiles were quiet traces of disappointment they tried so hard to hide.

And as we left the venue, weary and heavy-hearted, a memory came rushing back—just a flash, but vivid. That mountain.

We saw it during the RSPC in Mountain Province, as we looked out from the classroom in our billeting school in Guinzadan. We had caught glimpses of it too from the van window on our way to the competition venue in Tadian. Standing alone in the middle of the plain, it had captivated me. It wasn’t part of a range, wasn’t surrounded by other peaks—but it stood tall, proud, and unmistakably present.

That mountain reminded me of us.

We may not have stood on that stage. We may not have had our names called. But like that solitary peak, we stood tall in our own way—quietly, firmly, beautifully.

We’re not part of the usual crowd. Not always seen. Not always celebrated. But in our uniqueness, there is power. In our quiet persistence, there is greatness. Like that mountain, we may not be surrounded by others, but we are grounded, unshaken, and real.

People may look at us and question our place. But we’ll show them: we are meant to be seen, to be remembered, and to inspire—not because we blend in, but because we rise alone and still stand strong.

On our way back home to Baguio, I found myself hoping to see the beautiful Mt. Mogao—not the mountain in its literal form, but a symbolic one, a mountain that would help me reflect. We were surrounded by mountains; after all, the place is called Bantay.

And perhaps, in that moment, we had already become part of those mountains, standing tall through challenges, shaped by the paths we’ve taken. Now, we’re all traversing the same route—no longer climbing, but walking across a plain.

I watched my students sleeping in the back—completely exhausted, their heads leaning in all directions. None of us had gotten proper sleep in days. Even I couldn’t help it; I eventually dozed off too. The competition was over, and we could finally rest.

When we passed by a drive-thru, they were overjoyed.

“Ma’am, is this real?” they asked excitedly.

I knew they were hungry, and their happiness was genuine—I could feel it. Maybe everything had finally sunk in, and a wave of positivity was beginning to emerge. Sometimes, all it takes is a good meal and some sleep to begin processing everything. We all needed that rest, myself included.

When we finally reached Baguio and the students were picked up by their parents, I heard words of gratitude from the families. That moment made me realize: it’s not all about winning the competition. Winning is just a bonus. What truly matters is the experience, the growth, and the memories they gained.

We made sure every student got home safely—those picked up by their parents, and the others we helped get a cab. Afterward, we returned all the materials to the school before heading home ourselves. It was already late in the evening, and we were able to get two cabs to bring us home, too.

Later that evening, the students began sending messages once they got home:

“Nakauwi na po ako, Ma’am.”

“Nakauwi na rin po ako, Ma’am.”

“Nakauwi na ang ferson.”

Those simple messages gave me the assurance I needed—that they were finally home, safe and sound. And with that, I could finally rest, too.

Dr. Roselle G. Aniceto is an English teacher at the University of Baguio Science High School in the Philippines, where she teaches literature. Inspired by the literary texts she shares with her students, she feels motivated to create and share her own work. She also serves as the adviser for the English Club and Debate Club at the school. As part of her mission as a teacher, she also serves as a trainer and resource speaker."