My reclassification journey was one of the most challenging yet faith-affirming experiences of my teaching career. From start to finish, I could truly say that it was not my own strength that carried me through—it was God’s.

Open Ranking

I remember feeling so anxious during the open ranking. Most of my certificates were about mental health, guidance and counseling, and youth leadership. I was worried because they were not directly related to classroom teaching, and I feared they might not be credited. Still, I stood my ground and tried to explain how those trainings shaped me as a teacher—how they helped me connect better with students and support their well-being.

Unfortunately, my first assessor didn’t accept my explanation. I felt defeated and almost lost hope. But then, God intervened. The session with that assessor was unexpectedly cut short, and I was reassigned to another one. This new assessor, together with another reviewer, carefully went through my certificates and decided that my trainings were indeed valuable and relevant. What I expected to earn only 4 points became a perfect 10 points. That moment reminded me that when things don’t go as planned, it’s because God has a better plan waiting.

Teaching Demonstration

My next challenge came during my teaching demonstration. I was down with a high fever caused by tonsillitis, and speaking was painful. To make things worse, I realized I had forgotten to bring the materials I prepared for the student activity. I felt weak, unprepared, and nervous.

But again, God strengthened me. Despite the pain in my throat, I managed to teach with enthusiasm. I felt His presence giving me energy and clarity. Halfway through my lesson, my observer stopped me and said, “You don’t need to continue—I’m already impressed.” He gave me a perfect score. I was speechless, not because of pride, but because I knew it was God who made it possible.

Portfolio Annotations and Behavioral Interview

When it was time for the portfolio annotation and behavioral interview, I noticed many around me were cramming and seemed very tense. But I felt calm. It was as if God was whispering, “You’ve done your part; trust Me with the rest.” I finished my annotations early and confidently.

During my interview, I was blessed with a kind and friendly interviewer. She listened attentively, smiled often, and later told me she was impressed with how I expressed my thoughts. I received another perfect score.

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Looking back, I realize that every step of this journey was guided by God’s hand. When I was weak, He gave me strength. When I was uncertain, He provided clarity. And when I felt discouraged, He reminded me that His timing is always perfect.

My reclassification journey was more than just a professional milestone—it was a testimony of faith. God didn’t just help me pass; He showed me that with Him, even the impossible becomes possible.

When I think of my childhood, I think of her—my grandmother. She was my safe place in a world that sometimes felt too cruel for a child. Whenever my mother’s anger found its way to me, I would run to my grandmother’s arms, trembling and crying. She would hold me close, shielding me as if her embrace could stop all the pain. And in many ways, it did.

She was more than a grandmother; she was my protector, my comfort, and my first glimpse of unconditional love. She cared for me in quiet but powerful ways. Every time she visited our home, she never came empty-handed. Before she left, she would press a small bill into my palm, whispering, “Ayaw ipakita sa mama nimo ha,” her eyes full of love and mischief.

She knew my fondness for animals, so sometimes she would bring me a live bird—a small, fluttering gift that made me feel seen and special. I remember her smile as she handed it to me, her eyes lighting up at my joy. She had so little, yet she gave so much.

When I reached high school, she sold her pig just to buy me new clothes. I didn’t fully understand then what sacrifice meant. Only now do I realize how much she gave up for me—how she chose my happiness over her own comfort.

As the years passed, I grew older and life became heavier. When she fell sick, I wanted to give back even a fraction of what she gave me—but I couldn’t. I had nothing to offer but my presence, and even that felt too little. I watched her grow weaker, and the guilt grew stronger inside me.

Now, I often find myself wishing I could turn back time—to hug her longer, to tell her how much she meant to me, to show her the love she deserved. If only I could go back, I would make sure she knew that everything I am today is because of her.

She may be gone, but her love remains—the kind of love that never fades, the kind that built the person I’ve become.

My grandmother was my protector. My safe haven. My heart’s first home.

One quiet afternoon, I did something unexpected—I set up my camping tent right in the middle of my living room. The green and orange fabric looked almost out of place against the polished floor, the television on the wall, and the stuffed toys nearby. But once I crawled inside, zipped it shut, and lay down with a blanket, I felt something I hadn’t felt in a long time: the kind of safety I knew as a child.

It brought back memories of the forts I used to build with pillows and blankets. Back then, the world outside didn’t matter; inside my little fortress, I was secure. Lying there as an adult, I realized I was doing the same thing—retreating to a small, safe space because life outside sometimes feels too big.

Psychologists actually have a word for this—regression. Anna Freud once described it as a way the mind slips back into earlier stages of life when we’re stressed or overwhelmed. For a long time, I thought of that as weakness. But the longer I stayed in my little tent, the more I understood it differently.

The pediatrician and psychoanalyst Donald Winnicott wrote about “transitional spaces”—those places or objects, like toys or imaginative play, that help us process reality and find comfort. As I lay there, I realized this tent was my transitional space. It wasn’t just about hiding; it was about creating a cocoon where I could breathe again.

And as I reflected more, I remembered reading Patricia Cramer’s work, where she explained that regression doesn’t always have to be destructive. In fact, when it isn’t excessive, it can be a healthy coping mechanism—a pause button that helps us restore balance before moving forward again. That was exactly how it felt. I wasn’t escaping life forever. I was simply giving myself permission to rest.

I smiled in the dim light of the tent. Maybe survival doesn’t always look like conquering mountains or pushing through exhaustion. Sometimes, it looks like curling up in a small space, listening to the quiet, and remembering what it felt like to be safe.

So now, I don’t see regression as weakness. I see it as a gentle return to the things that once gave me comfort. And maybe that’s what we all need sometimes—a reminder that even as adults, we still deserve moments of softness, play, and peace.

Life has always felt like a mountain before me—steep, unyielding, and endless. From childhood, I learned early that each step upward demanded more than strength; it demanded sacrifice. I never dreamt of palaces or golden crowns. Extravagance was never my compass. Instead, I longed only for the dignity of survival, the quiet victory of making it through another day.

Yet, the climb was never gentle. Hunger was a constant companion, doubt lingered like a shadow, and loneliness pressed down heavier than any pack I carried on my back. My journey through school, through work, through life itself, often felt like walking barefoot on jagged stones—painful, slow, and uncertain. And there was a time, a dark time, when the mountain’s weight nearly crushed me. I almost surrendered—not just to exhaustion, but to the silence of an end. I stood at the edge of giving up my very life, ready to let the climb consume me.

But something—perhaps a whisper from within, perhaps the stubborn ember of hope—pulled me back. I tightened my grip, steadied my breath, and rose again. Bruised, yes. Scarred, yes. But still alive.

Now, as I stand on this cliff, watching the sea stretch infinitely before me, I see my journey reflected in its vastness. I may not be rich, not in the way the world measures wealth, but I am rich in endurance, in lessons carved by hardship, in the strength I wrestled from despair. My climb has been solitary, my path narrow and steep. Perhaps if someone had walked beside me, the trail would have been lighter, the air easier to breathe. But life chose to make me climb alone, and I have learned to accept that solitude as both a burden and a gift.

I have reached this point—not the peak, perhaps, but a height I once thought impossible. The mountain behind me is proof that I did not surrender, that I carried myself through storms and shadows. And now, as I gaze ahead, I choose not to look back with bitterness. I choose acceptance. The climb is not over, but I will move forward, step after step, carrying only courage and the quiet knowing that I survived when I almost gave up everything.

This is my story. This is my mountain. And though I am climbing alone, I am still climbing.

The forest floor is soft beneath my feet, a carpet of fallen pine needles that hushes the noise of the world. My small tent leans gently against the wind, a humble shelter, yet it feels sturdier than the concrete walls I once called home. A chair, a table, a few supplies, and a ginger cat curled by my side—that is all I need.

At forty, I have found comfort in solitude. Some would call it loneliness, but I have learned to see it differently. Solitude is not an absence; it is a presence—the presence of peace, of stillness, of listening to my own breath and the rhythm of my own heart.

I came to the woods not just to camp, but to heal. For years, I carried the weight of other people’s expectations, the noise of shallow friendships, and the silent battles of my own mind. Anxiety once gnawed at me like a restless creature; depression whispered that I was not enough. But here, beneath the trees, I find a different truth: the earth does not ask me to be more than I am. It simply lets me be.

The forest teaches me the language of mental health in the gentlest ways. The rustle of leaves reminds me that even when things fall apart, life continues. The steady flow of the river mirrors the importance of letting go, of not holding on too tightly to pain. And the cat at my feet, calm and unbothered, shows me that rest is not laziness—it is survival.

In my younger years, I surrounded myself with many people, mistaking numbers for worth. But mental health has taught me otherwise. Having a few real friends—those who listen, those who understand, those who accept my silences—is worth more than a crowd of voices that echo only when it is convenient. It is better to sit in quiet sincerity with one true soul than to laugh loudly with a hundred who do not see you.

Living alone at forty is not a tragedy. It is a gift. It allows me to slow down, to breathe, to listen to the small, healing things of life. My tent is not just a shelter—it is my cocoon, where I am slowly becoming lighter. My chair, planted on the soil, reminds me to stay grounded. And every sip of coffee I take by the river feels like medicine for a weary heart.

The world outside will always be noisy, but here in solitude, I find the kind of silence that restores me. And perhaps that is the greatest lesson of all: to choose not the life that others expect of me, but the life that keeps me whole.

I have seen God's work as He constantly use people in Praise Cathedral. No matter what the age are or the gender or status in life, God equally open the chance to all His children to be used in the different ministries. I have seen the men and women offered their songs, the youth their dances and the kids with their amusing presentations. Each time I see them perform, these children of God never fail to amaze me. They have always been an instrument of God's plan not only in my life but for the lives of others as well. 

Today is not an ordinary day. Not because my whole family came over to celebrate the holiday with me but because I have learned something important. Something that touches my life and rekindled my spirit. The Kings Kids of Praise Cathedral presented a musical special entitled "Little Drummer Boy". It is a story of young kids and their drummer whose view about music was changed by their teacher. From a complicated note they have transformed music into a simple melody of God's plan.

The story taught me that our talent won't be meaningful if not used to please God. There was a point in my life where I worked hard and yet I failed several times. I asked God why? but I never got an answer, that question lingered into mind until today. Now, I have realized that I have worked hard and used my God given talent only to satisfy my earthly dreams, to please people and be popular. I have worked so much in vain because I have never learned to offer my talent in order to serve my creator. 

Like Shaun the young drummer in the story, I experienced being broke not only once but over and over again.   I have been complaining why... but now I understand. I have to be broken so that God can work in my life. Only when I am weak that I see Him working for me... strengthening me each day. Only when I am broken that I see a new hope and that should have been a signal for me to start over in God's will. But I have been blind, not until today that I fully seen the entire image of His grace. 

Mathew chapter 11 verse 15 says "He who has ears, Let him hear" . Now I understand that not all can hear the music that God plays in our heart. Only those who understand His plan will be able to hear it. I am most glad because I have heard a new song, a music I have never heard before. A song of my love, my romance with the one who molded me from clay and breathe me with a breathe of life. 

I know, it is not only me who have realized these things. I believe that God have also revealed this message to the rest of the congregation. Thank you Kings kids, you have made my Christmas meaningful and blessed.