by: Ma. Patrice L. Manzo
Lately, I’ve been taking quiet moments to reflect on how my journey as a new teacher is unfolding. Beginning my path here at Bataan National High School – Senior High School has been nothing short of transformative. It has been a whirlwind of emotions—excitement, anxiety, pride, and above all, a profound sense of self-discovery. Each day feels like both a gift and a test, a moment to be grateful for and a challenge to rise to. I’ve been entrusted with the incredible privilege of teaching both Grade 11 and Grade 12 students from a variety of strands. It’s an opportunity that many would dream of, and I don’t take it for granted. But I’d be lying if I said it hasn’t also felt overwhelming at times.
Every time I walk into the classroom, there’s a flicker of disbelief. It still feels a little surreal. Not too long ago, I was the one sitting in a student’s chair, quietly listening, taking notes, dreaming of what could be. Now, I find myself standing at the front—trying to inspire, trying to lead, trying to be someone my students can learn from. It’s a beautiful shift, one I’ve worked hard for, but also one that carries a weight I hadn’t fully anticipated. There’s a quiet pressure in knowing you’re shaping young minds, that what you say and do might leave an imprint that lasts far beyond a school year.
As someone who is still young, still learning, still growing, I find myself frequently asking: Am I doing this right? Are my students truly learning? Am I making even a small difference in their lives? These questions echo in my mind during quiet moments after class, and sometimes even louder in the middle of a lesson. But over time, I’ve come to see that perhaps this uncertainty isn’t something to fear. Maybe it’s part of what makes teaching so deeply human.
Teaching, I’ve realized, isn’t about having all the answers. It’s not about being flawless or always getting things right. It’s about being present—truly present. It’s about being real, showing up with your whole self, and being willing to grow through both triumphs and missteps. I’m not just leading my students; in many ways, I’m learning alongside them. As they navigate their own paths, discovering who they are and who they want to become, I’m right there with them, taking my own steps forward, one at a time.
Every class I teach presents new challenges and new opportunities. Each student is unique, bringing with them a different set of strengths, struggles, and stories. Teaching students from various strands has taught me to adapt—to stretch my creativity, my patience, and even my capacity to understand. It’s not always easy. There are moments when I question whether I’m reaching them, whether I’m speaking in a way that connects. But in those same moments, I’ve discovered something unexpected: teaching is just as much about listening as it is about speaking. It’s about paying attention, not just to the answers they give, but to the silences in between.
Over time, this practice has softened me. It’s taught me compassion, empathy, and a kind of strength I didn’t know I had. When you see your students for who they truly are—not just learners, but individuals with their own battles and dreams—you can’t help but grow in ways that textbooks could never teach you. Every interaction, every challenge, every breakthrough shapes me into the kind of teacher—and person—I aspire to become.
I’ve never been one to chase the spotlight. I don’t need to be the most praised or the loudest voice in the room. What I long for is something quieter, but just as powerful—a chance to make a lasting, heartfelt impact. I want to be the kind of teacher who makes students feel seen, heard, and safe. The kind who leaves a quiet legacy, not through awards or recognition, but through kindness, presence, and sincerity. I want to grow slowly, like a flower that blooms not for applause, but to bring beauty and light to the space it inhabits.
And recently, I’ve begun to treasure the quiet victories. The ones that go unnoticed by most, but mean the world to me: a student finally grasping a difficult concept after days of struggle, a quiet “thank you” murmured on their way out the door, a once-silent voice now speaking with confidence during discussions. These are not grand, sweeping achievements, but they are profound in their own right. They are reminders that what I do matters, even when no one else sees it.
Being a teacher, I’ve learned, isn’t about standing above others. It’s about walking beside them. It’s about being a steady presence in a world that often feels uncertain. Sometimes it means holding space for a student who just needs someone to listen. Sometimes it means adjusting your lesson plan because the energy in the room tells you something deeper is needed. It means showing up, day after day, with a heart willing to give—even when it’s tired.
This journey has taught me that success in teaching isn’t always measurable. It isn’t just about grades or outcomes or performance metrics. Sometimes, success looks like trust. It looks like a student choosing to open up, to try again, to believe in themselves. And sometimes, success is simply in the showing up—being present, offering what you can, and knowing that your consistency alone may be the light someone else needs.
I’m still new to this. Still unsure. Still learning every single day. But I’m here. I show up with an open heart, a willing spirit, and the hope that each day brings another chance to do a little better, to reach a little farther, and to love a little deeper. I’m learning from my students just as much as they’re learning from me. And in that shared journey, there’s a kind of quiet magic—one that doesn’t shout, but whispers its truth in soft, powerful ways.
We’re all blooming—together. Slowly, imperfectly, quietly. And in our own way.
And honestly, I think there’s something deeply, profoundly beautiful in that.
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Bughaw Review 
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