Grade 10

Malinao School for Philippine Craftsmen

People often ask when a dream starts. Is it when you choose a course? When you pass an exam? When you imagine yourself wearing a uniform you have not yet earned?

For a long time, I did not know how to answer that question. I believed dreams began with certainty, with confidence, clarity, and a plan. I did not realize that some dreams begin quietly, long before we are brave enough to name them.

Mine began at home, beside a sickbed.

My grandmother was ill. The house moved slower then, voices softer, footsteps careful. I watched how sickness changes everything, how it turns ordinary days into long nights filled with worry. Without realizing it, I became her constant companion. I helped her sit up, handed her water, and listened when she spoke, even when her voice was weak. I learned how to notice pain without being told.

I was in Grade 6 when the pandemic came, and suddenly everything felt unbearably slow. Invisible walls rose between people, even between my grandmother and me, though she lived only five minutes away. I could not visit her, could not sit beside her, could not hold her hand. I spent my days answering modules, watching my favorite cartoons, and believing that this was simply a long school break, unaware of how fragile everything truly was.

What I did not know then was that my grandmother was quietly suffering. After she permanently closed her sari-sari store, the place that once gave her purpose and daily conversations now grew silent. The interactions that once filled her days were gone, and loneliness settled in. Looking back, I see the signs I failed to notice. I was so close, yet I failed to see her pain when she needed someone most.

When restrictions eased, I finally got the chance to take good care of her. Every day, after finishing my chores, I would walk by 5 p.m. to visit her. I would sit, chat, and listen to her stories. Before I knew it, I had earned the title “nurse,” even without a license. On days I could not visit, she would jokingly ask, “Where is my nurse today? What could have happened to her?”

Through those quiet moments of care, I discovered my dream: I want to become a nurse. Not because of the white uniforms or titles, but because of the patience, empathy, and love that brought comfort when it was needed most.

And the deeper realization I carry now is that true purpose comes not just from what we achieve, but from how we care for others, from how we choose to show up, and from the small acts of love and compassion that shape who we become.

So I ask you: When did your dream begin?

Because sometimes, a dream does not start with a decision. Sometimes, it starts with love.