Explained PH wasn’t my big break– it was my becoming

I was just fifteen when I started questioning whether I had anything real to offer. I wasn’t confident. I didn’t think I was talented. Everyone else my age seemed to have already figured out what they were good at—and I was still stuck wondering if I even had a place to begin.

But through all that doubt, I noticed one thing: I kept coming back to writing. No matter how lost I felt, I’d find myself trying to put things into words—feelings, moments, thoughts I didn’t know how to say out loud. I didn’t fully understand it then, but now I see it clearly: writing was never just a skill I liked. It was a space I kept returning to when nothing else made sense.

Before that, writing felt like a cycle of uncertainty. I tried so many things, hoping one of them would help me find myself. But I always circled back to words. I didn’t have awards or achievements to show for it. And when I was chosen to be a news writer for our school’s Filipino publication, I didn’t think it was because of skill—I thought it was because of my last name. My brothers had already made their names in campus journalism. I felt like I was just a shadow, expected to follow a path I hadn’t even chosen for myself.

So when I applied to Explained PH, it was more of a quiet hope than a confident step. I’d been admiring them from a distance for years—their clarity, their courage, the way they made difficult topics easier to understand. I saw them as people who were already there, while I was still stuck figuring things out. Still, something in me whispered, Just try.

I didn’t expect anything. And when days passed with no reply, I told myself it was okay. I wasn’t really expecting to be chosen anyway.

But every morning, I still checked my inbox.

And then one day—it was there.

We are pleased to formally welcome you to Explained PH’s volunteer network.

It didn’t feel real. I kept rereading it, waiting for it to disappear. I didn’t feel ready. I didn’t feel qualified. But for the first time, I was being given a chance—not because of a name, not because of who came before me, but because of something I did. Something I sent in. Something I wrote.

But slowly, that started to change—not because I suddenly got better, but because the people I worked with saw me as more than a role or a name on a roster. They made space for me. They listened to me. They laughed with me. They welcomed me not just as a writer, but as a person still growing.

And that changed everything.

Because when people choose to see you before you're at your best, it gives you the courage to grow into who you’re becoming. Not out of fear. But out of love—for the craft, for the team, and for the version of yourself that’s finally starting to believe.

And somewhere in that warmth, I found pieces of myself again.

I wasn’t just learning how to write better. I was learning how to believe better. And when I eventually became Editor-in-Chief of our school publication, I brought that love with me. I led with the same patience, the same gentle strength that they showed me.

I saw our writers win, and every time they did, it felt like my heart was cheering. Because I knew what it felt like to be unsure. And I knew what it meant to have someone believe in you before you could believe in yourself.

That’s what they did for me.

And through that, I learned that journalism isn’t just about headlines or perfect grammar. It’s about courage. It’s about asking hard questions. It’s about telling stories that need to be heard. But more than that—it’s about people. About the ones who lift you up when you can’t stand on your own. About the ones who turn a team into a family.

Looking back now, I realize this JOURNey was never just about the stories I wrote. It was about the people who helped rewrite mine.

I thought I joined as just another name in the list, the youngest volunteer, unsure and invisible. But they saw me. They believed in me. And they held space for me until I could believe in myself too.

Explained PH gave me more than just a platform. It gave me a family. A reason to keep going. A reminder that even when I feel small, my voice still matters.

And if I could go back to that scared, unsure version of myself—the girl who almost didn’t apply—I’d hold her hand and say:

“This decision will lead you to something that will challenge you, strengthen you, and make you realize you were always meant for more.”

Because it did—and it became a part of who I am, forever shaping the way I see myself and the world around me.