FRIGHTENED ARE THE steps nearing the rooms, where names are called and answers are being judged. To most, they’re mountains to conquer. To some, they’re anthills, maybe even playgrounds. As one delves into a moment of uncertainty and trembles in fear of not making it out, soon enough they grow accustomed and numb to the failures and despair. Although, some nights one can’t escape are those that eagerly confront these untouched feelings amidst the rapid pressure for excellence, and barely so for that matter. R.I.P Emily Dickinson, how I wish to be accustomed to the dark.
I have been traveling back and forth, between venues of surety and uncertainty in what the future holds. As the end nears, chances are lessened of advancing to the next year. What started as a blast, a sudden comfort found in endless readings, has now shifted into a challenge of unraveling the desired outcome, an at least good academic performance. Bound by one’s own standards, my self-esteem is surely chained to these, unable to escape nor breathe. Each recitation feels like a trial, each question a verdict passed. The fear is merely in failing—it’s in the slow erosion of belief in oneself. As I walk into classes I once thrived in, in view of the familiar faces and voices I’ve once matched, my vision darkens as the dimness creeps in along with an echo of doubt that never quite leaves.
“God knows I would have given anything to remain unshaken.”
As the cliche goes, one could not be molded if there was no pressure forced against them. But, in these trying times, I could only wish for a breather. A night, not filled with urgency nor tension, not racing against the clock or drowning in unread pages. A moment toned by the reminder that I am more than my performance, that I am not confined within what I have shown in each class I’ve walked into. Every day, I wonder if there really is a passion in what I do, or do I just hold onto these rhythms of deadlines and pattern of recitation as a means of distracting myself from the emotions eager to burst, or is it the fear that keeps me from labeling what I do as with passion? Maybe, it’s the latter. I hope it’s the latter.
God knows I would have given anything to remain unshaken. For so long, I dreamt of stepping into these rooms accompanied by ease, not dread. But, in the journey of finding strength, a thought pleads and convinces that maybe, just maybe, strength doesn’t look like fearlessness. Maybe, it is manifested in the act of showing up, quivering but present. The growth and strength might have been hidden in being accustomed to the dark.
Email me at thebedan_fcreditor@sanbeda.edu.ph