"The Leaps We Make" - written for a composition class at Ateneo

According to Chinese astrology, a number of things should be true about me and everyone else born the tenth of February. Being ruled by the number one (1+0 = 1), we are supposedly very competitive and driven to excel. Our abstract thinking and acceptance seeking can be hindrances to personal growth and success, but we are natural leaders—highly empathic and charismatic, idealistic and possessive of strong social consciousness. While there’s more to be said about February 10, the above is enough proof of how accurate things as fixed and ancient as the stars seem to be, at least about me.

But I’m not too surprised because, by the sheer volume of experiences and clubs I’ve racked up, I’m bound to fit into some stereotypes. In high school, I was almost all of them: the good girl and the party girl, the dork as well as the dancer, an athlete, student leader, social worker and liberal thinker, momentarily even Bohemian. I wasn’t particularly trying to do a lot, but doing as much as I could felt natural to me. I loved to learn and try new things, and if I could do them well, then why not? It was a demanding lifestyle, but I was happy that way. I was happier before I felt the pressure, before I could see the expectations mounting clearly from all around me, but I was happy still. I continued as before, and come senior year, being my involved self paid off.

In August of last year, I left home to begin what would be four glorious years at the University of Pennsylvania. This was literally my childhood dream come true. Stepping onto campus for the first time, I felt like the doors of an exciting, exclusive world had swung wide open to receive me. I was so excited, positively bursting with optimism, energy, and the big ideas in my pockets. I entered the Ivy League feeling ready for anything; I especially enjoyed the prospect of starting over, making my way where nobody knew me, and building from scratch.

Freshman year was everything I’d imagined and more. All lights were green in this academic paradise: I had access to mind-blowing professors, the most impressive peers, beautiful surroundings, and unbelievable resources. Moreover, it was possibly the best time in modern history to be in Philadelphia, with the Phillies winning the World Series and Barack Obama being sworn in just a train ride away. While the circumstances alone were dreamlike, the best part was that I had the complete freedom to explore it all as I wished. Being young, of course I took advantage of this freedom to do some crazy things; but I also did a lot more good than anyone expected, and for the opportunity to do that I am thankful. The way I chose to spend my time at Penn, not only soaking in the sun but creating positive change, really defined the year, for me and, I would like to believe, also for the people I encountered. By nurturing different sides of me, being open to new things, and constantly pushing myself to excel, I truly believe I made my presence there a good one.

As amazing as my experience was, though, there was a sense of unease that I couldn’t shake. On the surface I was all smiles, confident and resilient, but in my mind were questions I couldn’t answer, and I was so bothered because I knew that I had to. At the core of my silent meltdown was this frustration: For all my energy and resources at the ready, I had no clear direction. I was always working hard, trying every good thing I could think of in order to maximize the Ivy experience and make myself worth my parents’ investment, but where was I going with all my activities? “Far,” said everyone else, “you’re doing so well!” But what, really, was I trying to accomplish? I had a job, I was in student government, I had advocacies and sports; there were plenty of directions I could have gone from there, but none of them seemed right to me. What was I looking for? I knew why I was there, at least; I left Manila because Penn was my best option, because it would give me the best education I need to prepare me for the future. But what future was this, for which I was leaving the family and the country I love, and spending millions of my parents’ savings? My brain spewed out options that would make most mouths water, but a feeling inside me kept me from nodding at any of them. Now I realize my heart was trying to tell me something, but my task-oriented brain couldn’t separate what I wanted from what I thought made sense. I had on my shoulders a skewed sense of responsibility, converting my refusal to disappoint into undue pressure. Since I didn’t have an answer, I did the only good thing I knew—I worked even harder. In fact, I worked myself ragged, and naturally all this did was make my dilemma worse.

When I look back now on how confused I was then, I laugh at how suddenly, how wonderfully simply things changed. A week into my summer break, after finally having had time to rest and think and soak in the Manila air, as my mom reminded me of the state I was in when she picked me up at the airport, I realized how foolish I had been. Effective education isn’t some formula made up of activities and positions to be optimized in a specific way. And, for crying out loud, children aren’t robots whose futures are calculated and programmed. Our preparation and development should be tailored to our own individual strengths, passions, choices, and ambitions. There is no fool-proof path, not even if it’s ranked in magazines and covered in Ivy—the right program depends on how each person learns best, and what he needs to develop or discover at particular times in his life. After jam-packing my year, I finally figured out that the best thing I could have done was to know myself and choose wisely the things that I would love to do and do well.

The questions remained, but this time I knew how to face them. On an unusually quiet afternoon, about four months ago, I took a cup of coffee in my hand and looked at the facts: I was set to spend four years in an American institution, when every purpose and idea I have is for the Philippines. The things I think I want to do, the people I know I want to affect, the connections, conditions, and resources that would make the beginnings smoother, the kind of guidance I still look for—all of those things are here. And though it would also be possible to soul-search, experiment, and materialize my ideas at Penn, to do it on home soil would mean so much more to me. With a sigh, I concluded that studying a subject is best done at the best schools, but finding one’s purpose is done by following the heart. And because my heart, my dreams, my past, and my future are all in the Philippines, on that unusually pensive afternoon, I asked myself if this is where my present should be as well.

Now, I am in one of the weirdest positions a student can have—enrolled in Ateneo on a leave of absence from Penn, with full disclosure to both schools that it is sort of an experiment—and I am certain that it was the right move to make. With everything that’s happened since I came home and everything that is yet to come, I am so glad to be in this country. It was and still is a scary step to take, considering what I’m giving up and how unorthodox this choice is, but traveling this road might be what I need at this time in my life. I believe in this decision, against the judgment and the whispers of so, so many people, and because I’m only doing what I think is right, I have faith that everything will fall into place. If it turns out I’m wrong, then I can accept that; but at least I will have stood for something, taken an important risk, and done as I knew best. Besides, I’m young; and the Ivy League isn’t going anywhere. Whether it’s next year or five years from now, once I’ve decided what’s worth the investment in studies—once I know what I’m looking for—I’ll go back.  But for now: introspection and exploration, family and friends, and a chance to know and mend my wounded country.

I wonder if the stars saw this coming.