It’s a relaxed weekday afternoon, just a few days after our school held its first-ever senior high school graduation. I’m hanging out with a friend at Manam, one of the numerous restaurants in SM North that is normally filled with diners, but today is practically empty. We have just finished buying some things for a friend’s despedida before he returns for good to his home province, and now we’re giving into our cravings for crispy sisig and sinigang.
I’ve got the usual Coke Zero, and she’s sipping on iced tea. We lift our drinks in a chill toast.
“Here’s to surviving,” she says with a smile.
“Here’s to the start of school break,” I reply.
We dig into the meal. I never really notice how hungry I am until that first bite hits like a warm hug for your taste buds. It’s exactly what the restaurant offers: comfort food.
Outside, the hustle goes on as usual—people wandering with their shopping bags, vendors calling out deals, escalators buzzing along like always. But the calm inside the restaurant is a stark contrast to the usual rush of SM North, especially just after graduation season. The frenzy of the mall dissolves here, the sound of glasses clinking, and the mellow pop music playlist. It feels like we’ve found a little moment to think things over.
Outside the restaurant, leaning on the railing by the escalators, a student in uniform is scrolling on her phone, maybe waiting to meet a classmate. Maybe it’s the familiarity of that scene, or the way a uniform makes everyone look younger than they are. Whatever that is, suddenly it’s like I’m back at the ceremony.
All the speeches, the camera flashes, the excitement and nerves and quiet little breakdowns—it’s still a blur. But I can still hear Taylor Swift’s “Long Live” playing faintly in my head, merging like an audio crossfade with the instrumental loop from this restaurant.
I turn back to my friend, and she’s already looking at me.
“So are you happy with being a school administrator?” she asks.
I’m sitting on the stage of Word of Hope, a church just across EDSA from SM North. It’s our first senior high school graduation. I still can barely wrap my head around the fact that it’s actually happening.
The lights are bright yet mellow, giving off a cozy vibe for the students in their olive green togas and caps. A few are restless, but most of the others are all smiles. A few people are already getting emotional before the ceremony kicks off. I look over at my sister and parents beside me. They seem chill, but I can sense that this moment is pretty significant for them, too. We finally made it here, together.
A majestic instrumental is playing in the background while I glance up at the upper levels, where parents are filling the seats, as the main auditorium has been filled up. Their necks are stretched and their phones held high, snapping shaky pictures. Some are in semi-formal outfits, while others rock casual dresses, but they all share that same pride. You can sense it in the room: this event is way more than just a diploma that their children will be getting.
For many of our students (or soon-to-be former students), it’s about the validation that they, too, deserve to be in these venues. That they belong in nice auditoriums, in togas, in year-end dances with music and lights and photos they’ll frame. That their stories deserve to be celebrated.
For people with access to resources and a steady support system, events like this tend to be taken for granted. But they’re downright extraordinary for someone who’s just getting their first taste of what’s out there, especially when a vast majority of them came from, well, less-than-ideal backgrounds. Having been given a chance to work with these students allowed me to step into a space where my privilege makes me responsible.
Alex, who used to work with my sister, comes up as the guest speaker. He talks about how his dream of being an accountant didn’t really pan out. He missed the PUP cut, ended up in an economics class just by default, and now, years later, he’s with the Bangko Sentral ng Pilipinas. It wasn’t what he had in mind, but it’s where he ended up. “It’s all part of God’s plan,” he says. His message hits real, no matter your beliefs.
There was a time when I saw myself purely as a creative: a freelance writer, a subtitle editor, a traveler, and so on. I worked on the move, told stories, met deadlines from beaches and cafés. That life was flexible and thrilling. More importantly, it deeply aligned with who I thought I was. But eventually, the momentum slowed. The company I worked for restructured. Freelance work became less stable until it become unsustainable, especially after the pandemic changed the world. And without much warning, I found myself co-handling our family’s school, something I never imagined would be part of my path.
At first, no matter how much reframing I did on the outside, it felt more like a failure than a detour—I had stepped away from what made me feel alive and independent. But over time, I started to really see it differently. Redirection, as Alex said, isn’t about abandoning who you were; it’s about expanding what you’re capable of becoming. Managing a school didn’t erase the storyteller in me. But it added structure, responsibility, and a new kind of purpose. It challenged parts of me that hadn’t been tested before: strategic thinking, community leadership, long-term vision. Heck, I’m now even trying a bit of SEO and basic data analysis.
Failure—or what feels like failure—humbles you. Redirection matures you. Together, they reveal things comfort zones never will. I thought I had lost my freedom, but I gained a deeper understanding of how I could use my creativity beyond writing and photography alone. Now, I still tell stories for the school. I still travel, even if more strategically. And I still dream—only now, those dreams are rooted in something more tangible.
This isn’t the life I pictured for myself two years ago. But the unexpected pivots in life have a way of rounding us out. Embracing failure and redirection doesn’t mean giving up—it just means letting life surprise you.
I see the students walk across the stage, get their diplomas and certificates, and have their medals put on them by their parents, one after another. Their names are introduced, hands are shaken, and pictures are taken. Some students can’t handle their excitement and start jumping up and down as a Taylor Swift song is played. The crowd goes wild for a moment before their teachers calm them down.
That moment, and many others like it, reminds me of why we do this and why it’s worth it.
The plates are mostly clean now, and the mellow buzz of the restaurant wraps around us. I glance at my friend, then at the people walking along outside.
“Sure,” I say after a beat. “I’m happy with where I’m at.”
Later on, we find ourselves standing by the SM North EDSA Carousel Concourse. From here, buses come and go in a steady stream, ferrying passengers to places they need to be—work, home, school, maybe something in between. It’s a space built for movement, for transitions.
I made my response to the question whether I’m happy sound simple, but perhaps it’s really not. I still miss the creative rush. I miss diving into passion projects. I miss traveling on a whim. I miss chasing stories just for the heck of it. Administrative work, especially in a growing school, asks for a lot. My sister might be handling the heavy lifting, but I still pitch in wherever I can. And sometimes, my creative self just sits quietly in the background.
Still, I can’t deny how meaningful this work is. I see students arrive unsure of where they belong. Then slowly, I watch them change. I see them dream bigger, grow braver, start to believe in themselves. That shift is everything.
We’re helping them access possibilities they didn’t even know were there. And while I’m at it, I’m still figuring things out too.
As a freelancer, I had the freedom to roam and to be spontaneous. As a writing tutor, I helped others learn, but from a distance. It was lighter, more agile, and often more creatively fulfilling—but it always felt transient. I was free, but often detached from the arcs of the students’ lives.
As a school administrator, I have a narrower sense of freedom, and the weight of responsibilities is heavier. But the roots we plant run deeper. We’re not just imparting knowledge anymore; we’re also shaping an environment and building something that lasts. You’re dealing with actual lives, daily struggles, and real victories. I feel the cost—but also the reward—of being present in someone’s transformation.
It’s not necessarily better or worse; it’s just a different kind of meaningful. I traded flexibility for legacy. And while my reach as a freelancer may have been wide, the impact with the school now is profoundly personal.
I watch the buses glide by, people boarding and disembarking, everyone the main character in their own little story. Life doesn’t stop. It just keeps going, shifting, rerouting. And somehow, we keep finding our place in the middle of it.
The future’s a bit blurry. I’m not sure when I’ll dive back into creative work full-time—or if I will. But for now, maybe I’m exactly where I need to be.
The Tourist Gaze 