Entry XIX: A Token of Gratitude
December. I still can't wrap my head around how fast time flew. It feels like just yesterday we were all adjusting to college life—scanning the campus map like tourists, lining up nervously for our ID photos, struggling to remember the names of our professors. Then we blinked, and now we're already at the final stage of our first semester in BSCE 1-Roebling.
I remember the way the midterms caught us all off guard. It felt like a storm we weren't quite prepared for, and yet somehow we weathered it. And now, finals. Finals felt even more intimidating. There was something uniquely exhausting about knowing that all subjects—every quiz, recitation, and sleepless group activity—culminated here. It was all or nothing. But perhaps the most draining of them all was Differential Calculus under Sir Valerio.
Sir Valerio—how could I forget? He wasn't someone you'd call "chill." During the midterms, I remember the tension in the room as he walked in. His voice was sharp and commanding, slicing through the murmur of students still flipping through their notes.167Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡLfFfADFgeH
"Take a seat! Come on, make it fast!" he bellowed.167Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡmBmHDLt09L
Everyone scrambled to their chairs as though a drill sergeant had entered the room.
But the memory that stuck with me the most was that one poor classmate who arrived an hour late, thinking the exam started at 8:00 AM instead of 7:00. Sir Valerio exploded. The student had barely stepped into the room before the lecture began.167Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡfkrjiSZ1dm
"You think this is a game? One hour late for a major exam?" he shouted, his tone filled with disbelief and anger.167Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡ1F59lXO3Mq
The room fell completely silent. All I could do was lower my head and focus on my own paper, hoping to avoid any of that wrath being redirected at me.
But that was then. That was midterms. I told myself I needed to focus on the present.
The second week of December was our final exams week, and it was just as mind-numbing and tedious as I had feared. Subjects piled up like a tower of weights pressing on my mind. I could hardly focus on one without the stress of the next clouding over. As if things couldn't get more chaotic, before they could even send the official exam schedule, we were called into yet another meeting—this time by the College Governor.
I sighed when the message came. Another meeting. Another thing to squeeze into my already overcrowded mind. I didn't say anything, but I felt it—an anxious tightening in my chest, like my brain was being pulled in ten different directions. I'm not sure if it was a healthy dose of responsibility or just my classic overthinking, but the feeling lingered.
In the meeting, the Governor started by acknowledging that we were nearing the end of the semester. He reminded us to give our best for the finals, but what came next caught our attention more. He discussed the upcoming Year-End Celebration.
He mentioned that there wouldn't be any large-scale catering or official food budget, so everyone was expected to bring their own snacks or lunch. The event would be quite special, he added, as it would also honor the recent board passers of Geodetic Engineering. They'd be giving testimonials—words of encouragement, stories from the trenches of board exam preparation, and probably advice we'd pretend not to be intimidated by. It sounded like a wonderful opportunity, but to be honest, all I could think about was how to survive finals week without my brain completely short-circuiting.
Still, duty called. After the meeting, the Governor sent the official message to all College of Engineering officers. I read it carefully and immediately forwarded it to our class group chat, tagging the other officers to help me gather confirmations.167Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡYzSjfZVPro
"Please respond with a 👍 if you can attend," I added.
My fellow officers were quick to assist. We asked everyone who could make it to the Year-End Celebration, but only about 35% of the class confirmed. It was understandable—many of us came from faraway provinces and towns. The long travel times, financial concerns, and even the approaching holidays made it difficult for many to commit. Still, I appreciated those who showed interest. Organizing anything with college students is like herding cats, so even a third of the class attending felt like a small success.
Then came finals week, and I don't think I've ever been that mentally exhausted. I stayed up late reviewing notes, solving problem sets, and helping some classmates revise—despite feeling like I hadn't fully absorbed the material myself. My brain was running on caffeine, prayer, and pure willpower. Every exam felt like a mountain climb, especially Sir Valerio's Differential Calculus final. The paper was thick with mind-twisting problems, graphs, and theoretical applications. Some questions made me question if I was even in the right course.
But finally, when it was all over, we received the results. And to my relief—and genuine amazement—95% of our class passed. Only two classmates didn't make it. I remember just sitting in silence when I heard the news. My chest tightened not with joy, but with a strange, quiet sorrow. I felt bad for the two who dropped. I knew how hard we had all worked, and to come so close and not make it—it must've hurt more than they could even say out loud.
As class mayor, I felt it in my bones. It wasn't just about managing schedules, forwarding announcements, and organizing group chats. It was about knowing the names and faces behind the statistics. It was about feeling proud of 95%, but also heartbroken for the 5%.
Amidst the rush of emotions, I remembered something my mother once told me during a call. She said, "A good leader doesn't wait for applause. He remembers who he's leading, even when things go quiet."
Her words stuck with me. So, with her encouragement, I decided to order gifts for all my classmates. It wasn't something grand—just small tokens of appreciation to thank them for sticking with me, for supporting our class, and for reminding me every day why I wanted to serve them in the first place.
I coordinated with Engr. Cornelio, who had generously agreed to let me collect our classmates' Drawing Plates for final checking. It gave me the perfect opportunity. As they came up to me one by one, handing their plates, I handed them a gift bag in return.
They were surprised.167Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡwgDsBwXbMO
"Really? This is for me?" one said.167Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡxIMM2PHJXu
"Thank you, Mayor!" another grinned.167Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡZuYa0J91OS
Some looked stunned, others smiled shyly. But each 'thank you' warmed my heart. They didn't have to say much. Just seeing their reactions was enough.
Before they left, I greeted each of them with a simple, "Merry Christmas!" I was aware that not everyone in our class shared the same religious beliefs, but I offered the greeting with sincerity and a smile. I said it in the spirit of goodwill and celebration, and I was glad to see that everyone accepted it graciously. Holidays, after all, are for everyone to enjoy—even in different ways.
I stood there, watching them leave one by one, carrying their plates and their small gifts. For a moment, I didn't feel like a tired student in the middle of academic chaos. I felt like someone who had made a difference—even if just a small one.
This role, being class mayor, had demanded so much more than I had anticipated. There were moments I wanted to give up, moments I doubted my value, moments I felt overshadowed by others with fancier titles or louder voices. But in the end, I realized that leadership isn't about control—it's about care. And I cared. Deeply.
December may have arrived quickly, but with it came growth, perspective, and warmth. The kind of warmth that only comes when people around you recognize your heart. And as I closed the chapter on my first semester, I knew one thing for sure—I was ready to carry this heart forward into the next.
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and then Add to home screen.