written last November 2022
I’ve always fallen in love with teaching. It was a passion. I lived teaching. I breathed teaching. I knew what to do. I was eager to do it. I could even daresay I was good at it. I enjoyed each task that was assigned to me. Waking up in the wee hours of the morning to prepare for the classes ahead, to the working lunches when I had to make my lesson plans while munching over the sandwich. Each afternoon was either filled with laughter, listening through the silence, or holdin and crying with my fellow teachers over the mountain of to-do lists that never seem to end. I carried each day of teaching with me with a smile, even on the days I found quite grueling. I didn’t mind the long nights. I didn’t complain about what little salary I received despite the sleepless nights I had for my students. I was happy with what was happening inside and outside of the classroom.
I also knew passion would only drive me for so long. I was not naive, not completely, no. I knew passion would soon run out if I kept relying on its fuel. I was well aware of my shortcomings, and my mind was on high alert of the risks of burnout. But I didn’t mind it. After all, teaching is not just my passion, it was also a calling, or so I told myself. That no matter how demanding it would get, I could always take a break, and come back when I was ready.
But what caught me off guard was the gradual shifts.
At first, I was skeptical of the whole thing. After all, I spent four years in university, trying to be a master of the craft of education, early childhood education at that. I memorized the theories, pursued every project with vigor, and tried to be the best teacher and educator I could be despite the hindrances that stood in the way. But the pandemic came. The shift went from enjoying every moment to just trying to make it through the day. My breaths have changed from gasping from laughter to gasping from a panic attack. The change was slow, gradual, and unnoticeable. And slowly, my passion has too.
And when I finally realized it, when the dawning finally caught up to me, it shook me off guard. And it threw me into another cycle of questioning myself. I found myself falling for another craft, one I darenot say, because if I do, the higher powers might wake up. The universe might take this curiosity away, and we all know the number of cats that were silenced because of their curiosity. Because for me, this wasn’t a passion or a simple hobby I could take part in during the weekends, it was something I saw myself doing every day. This craft, or this hobby, could no longer stay as just something I want to do on the weekends. It deviated from the very path I thought I should be on. And of course, I was fearful. Of the unknown, of starting over again. Of the universe disapproving my decision, of the gods shaking their heads as I leave my calling. Of thinking I’m even capable of doing the great shift.
What started as a way to educate myself, as a means to quiet the questions curiosity has arisen, became a passion of wanting to help others as well. It became a realization — this could help me in my way of living, it can be a means of income.
And so, though fearful, and uncertain, I’m hopeful that when passion drifts away, it will tell me to follow its steps. And when passion tells me to jump, I do so, even when the universe has to push me to do it. And when I do follow its steps, I’m praying it will open up to bigger possibilities, more daunting dreams. And to a better version of myself.
