"THE THINGS I COULDN'T SAY" BY PADEL, ZOE ALTHEA M.

"The Things I Couldn’t Say"

True clarity often emerges in moments we fear we have nothing to say.

The Division Schools Press Conference (DSPC) is a competition that gathers student journalists across the division, and our team represented the University of San Jose–Recoletos in the English TV Broadcasting category. All lies bare exactly what I experienced during that event in my senior year. We weren’t just there to participate; we were aiming for something more—perhaps a place on the podium. Yet, as it often does, reality chose to test us.

Before the broadcast even began, technical malfunctions started to chip away at our confidence: our camera wouldn’t function, and our SD cards corrupted. Stress began to creep in like water seeping through cracks. But in that moment, something greater emerged—our ability to adapt. We didn’t let panic win. We communicated, recalibrated, and kept going. That’s when I realized: our drive wasn’t just about placing in the top ranks. It was about showing who we were when things didn’t go as planned.

Still, as we fixed what was seen, I silently battled what wasn’t. My voice. As the team’s anchor, speaking wasn’t just part of the role—it was the heart of it. My voice was my goal, and—on that day—my fear. Watching my teammates revise scripts and practice their spiels, I stood in the background, quietly repeating to myself, “Makaya ra ni nako later.” I was terrified—but I kept it hidden. I smiled. I nodded. I said nothing.

That “later” faded as we neared showtime. We had one last vocal run-through before going live. I opened my mouth to speak, and nothing came out. Just air and panic. My teammates moved quickly. But I stood still, paralyzed—not by what was happening around me, but by the weight of what I thought I was about to lose. I felt useless. What is the use of an anchor who can’t even speak? …Then the countdown began.

Five… I closed my eyes and whispered a desperate prayer. “Lord, I know I’ve prepared. I know we’ve worked hard. Please… not for me, but for the team. Just let me speak.”

Four… I could feel the eyes of our team on us from behind the camera, waiting, hoping. I had never felt so exposed and so powerless.

3…2…1. The red light blinked on. Live.

My co-anchor began. His voice—clear, calm, confident—cut through the thick air. And then, as if the universe was holding its breath, my cue came. I opened my mouth. It wasn’t as strong. It wasn’t as perfect. But it came. Line by line, breath by breath—I spoke. What started as a tremble slowly turned into composure. Each syllable was a mountain I had to climb, but I kept climbing. I felt the weight lift, not all at once, but slowly, and when it was all over, we exhaled the breath we didn’t realize we had been holding.

Later that day, the results came in: Second Place Overall. Multiple medals. Victory. Yet as the applause echoed and the weight of the medal settled around my neck, I understood that the truest victory was not measured in accolades, but in the quiet triumph of rising when I could have faltered—of reclaiming a voice when silence seemed certain.

With hindsight, I see how clouded my initial understanding had been. At the moment, I allowed fear to convince me that my value was conditional, tied solely to whether or not I could perform. That perspective was narrow and emotionally driven, shaped by panic and insecurity. Only when I took a step back, do I see the bigger picture: the people who supported me, the preparation we all gave, and the courage to stay present even when I didn’t feel capable. I realized that what I once saw as a breakdown was a breakthrough.

This experience taught me the complex interplay between opinion and truth. I once thought that losing my voice meant losing my place. That if I were scared, I would be incapable. That if I faltered, I was finished. But those were emotional assumptions—temporary, reactive, and false. The truth, revealed through reflection, was that my worth was not tied to a single function, but to my presence, effort, and will to keep going. Truth requires a pause. It asks us to listen, not only outwardly, but inwardly—to question the assumptions we carry and the noise we mistake for certainty.

This experience reminded me that growth seldom arrives with comfort. It begins, instead, in the places we resist: in silence, uncertainty, and vulnerability. I entered DSPC with the desire to use my voice, yet I left with something far greater—a deeper understanding of what it means to have one. A voice not simply of sound, but of being. Not defined by clarity or strength, but by intention, resolve, and faith.

Because what I could not say revealed what I truly needed to understand.