"STARTING OVER AGAIN" BY DACAYANA, SAMANTHA ALEXA N.

"Starting Over Again"

 The wind was colder than ever. Birds weren’t chirping like before. The sun was nowhere to be found. It felt like the world was on pause—grey, still, and unfamiliar. I sat alone at the café, the only sound filling the air was the quiet hum of conversations and the occasional slurp of coffee. Mine sat in front of me, still warm, but I was too anxious to enjoy it. I held it between both hands anyway, as if the warmth could somehow calm the storm brewing inside me. My eyes stared blankly at my laptop screen, and my fingers hovered over the keyboard, pressing each key with a mix of half confidence and half confusion. “Is this correct? Sakto ni ako gibuhat?” I mumbled to myself, trying to block out everything. Every doubt, every fear, every pressure weighed heavily on my chest.

I was writing our Research Paper. Our final task as Grade 10 students. Looking back to August 2024, when we started, it all felt so different. I remember being so full of energy, so full of hope. I was excited, even thrilled, to begin. My heart was filled with love for the process, for the people I was working with, and for the opportunity to create something meaningful. I didn’t just want to finish it—I wanted to do it well. I was ready to face every challenge, every edit, every sleepless night. At least, that’s what I believed at the time.

Days passed. Then weeks. Then months. Revision after revision, print after print, meeting after meeting. It became a cycle—one that, oddly, I started to love. I found joy in the routine: the clacking sound of the keyboard, the late-night chats about formatting, the moments where I would help other groups even when I was drowning in tasks myself. There was something deeply fulfilling about it all. I felt needed. I felt useful. I felt alive. I would carry my laptop everywhere, not worrying about anything the future has for me.

One afternoon, a close friend came up to me while I was, as usual, facing my screen. She looked at me and asked, “Nakapahuway naka, Sam?” And for a moment, I froze. I laughed it off, but the truth was—I didn’t know how to answer. What is rest, really? I hadn’t known it in a while. The spark I once had slowly dimmed, and the cycle I used to love started to feel heavier, longer, colder. The joy began to fade, replaced by quiet exhaustion. But still, I pushed through. I kept telling myself, “This will all be worth it in the end.” I promised that to my groupmates. I promised that to the people I helped. I whispered it to myself in the quietest moments when I was just about to break.

And somehow, I found the spark again. From Spanish lattes to iced matcha, every sip was like a small voice saying, “Keep going, you got this.” I kept fighting, fueled not only by caffeine but by love—for the people around me, for the work we poured ourselves into, and for the version of me that refused to give up.

Then came March 3, 2025. 8:00 a.m. The Day of the Defense. I remember how quiet the world felt again. This time, it wasn’t the cold or the silence that filled me—but nerves. Hope. Desperation. I was silently praying, holding my rosary tightly, whispering, “Lord, please make every drop of sweat, every tear, every restless night… worth it.” I didn’t want anything more than to make it count. Then I heard, “Dacayana’s Group!” My body tensed. My heart raced. This was it. The moment we had been waiting for. I looked at my groupmates and gave them a small nod, trying to hide how terrified I actually was. We stood there and presented everything we worked so hard for. I spoke with conviction, with trembling hands and a hopeful heart. And for a brief moment—I felt something magical. I felt proud. I felt free. I thought to myself, “It’s done. We did it. The war is over.”

But then, the final verdict came. The last teacher looked at us and said two words that would shatter my heart in an instant: Major Revision. Just two words. Thirteen letters. But it felt like a hundred knives to the chest. My smile faded. My breathing slowed. My heart broke—not because we had to revise, but because for a moment, it truly felt like none of it was enough. All the hours, all the drafts, all the sacrifices—it felt like they didn’t matter.

I wanted to cry. I wanted to scream. I wanted to ask, “What more did you want from me?” But I just stood there. Silent. Shaken. And so, so tired.

It felt like everything I had done was wasted. Like I had failed everyone—including myself.

I couldn’t help but wonder as I looked around the room. “Why were the groups I helped winning, while mine was left behind with a major revision?” It didn’t make sense to me. I gave them my time, my guidance, my energy, and they made it. They passed, some even with high remarks. I was genuinely happy for them, but deep down, I felt confused and quietly hurt. I kept asking myself, “Did I give too much and forget to take care of my own?” It felt unfair, like I was the one who handed out the tools but ended up with empty hands.

But later, in the quiet hours after the defense, when the noise settled and I sat again with my coffee, I realized something important, something I think I needed to learn. Maybe all of this wasn’t meant to be perfect. Maybe it wasn’t about proving how good we were or how flawless our work could be. Maybe it was about growing. About being humbled. About facing failure and realizing that it doesn’t define us. I was human after all, not just a mind and a body.

Major revision wasn’t the end. It was the beginning of something better. I began to see the bigger picture. That starting over isn’t a punishment—it’s a privilege. It means we get to do it again, this time with more wisdom, more heart, more strength. Our efforts were not wasted. They were planted. And maybe, just maybe, this was the season where we were learning how to bloom the right way. So yes, it hurt. It drained me. It nearly broke me. But it also shaped me. And now I know—it's okay to feel lost. It's okay to rest. It's okay to begin again. Because even in revision, there is redemption. And even when it doesn’t go how you hoped… You still grew. And that’s something to be proud of.

Looking back at the document..

It felt weird and honestly a little sad opening the same document again, the one I thought we were finally done with. I just sat there staring at the screen, not knowing where to begin. There were comments all over, pointing out things we needed to fix, and even though some of them were small, they still felt heavy. I thought to myself, “We already gave everything… wasn’t that enough?” I felt tired, like all our hard work didn’t matter. But as I kept reading, something started to change in me. I noticed that this time, I actually understood what needed to be fixed. I wasn’t just confused and overwhelmed like I was before. I started to remember everything I had learned during the process—how to make things clearer, how to explain better, how to handle feedback.

It was still hard, and honestly, part of me wanted to just give up and move on, but another part of me said, “No, you’ve come this far.” So I took a deep breath, placed my hands on the keyboard, and began again. And while I was editing, I realized that even though it felt like we were repeating everything, we actually weren’t. We were doing it better. We were doing it smarter. I wasn’t the same person who wrote the first draft months ago. I had grown. I had failed, but I had also learned. And that matters too. Maybe it’s not about finishing fast or getting everything right the first time. Maybe it’s about learning from the things that didn’t work and slowly building something stronger from it. It’s not easy, but it’s worth it. Because this time, I know more. I understand more. And that’s a win in itself.

It is always fine to Start Over Again.