NOT JUST ANOTHER MONDAY

“I watched it begin again.” – Taylor Swift. The first day of school isn't just about new schedules and classrooms—it's a quiet test of courage. True courage isn’t about being fearless; it’s about standing in your nerves, doubts, and questions, and choosing to walk through the gates anyway. In the unfamiliar halls and uncertain beginnings lies the chance to grow, to connect, and to belong—not by being perfect, but by being real. Every shaky breath, every small act of trying, is a step toward becoming who you’re meant to be.

Written by: Lady Diana Savellano

Layout by: Angel Marigondon

June 10, 2025 | 9:30 AM

The morning air curled softly against my skin like a whisper I couldn’t quite catch—cool and gentle, carrying the faint scent of damp earth mixed with blooming sampaguita. It was the kind of morning that felt like a secret shared between the trees and the breeze, a quiet reminder that the world was waking up outside my window even if I felt stuck. The sunlight stretched its golden fingers across the sky, filtering through the branches and making the leaves glisten like tiny jewels. They swayed with a freedom I longed for, moving with the breeze without hesitation, unafraid of change or what tomorrow might bring. I watched them for a long moment, wishing I could be just like them—bending and flowing with life instead of standing frozen in place. But inside me, a small tremor stirred, a nervous fluttering that echoed in my chest. Today was the day I had been dreading and waiting for—the first day of school.

I moved slowly as I dressed, each motion deliberate, as if rushing might shatter something fragile inside me. The fabric of my uniform was crisp and new, still holding the scent of starch and freshly ironed cotton—the smell of new beginnings. But when I wore it, it felt less like a second skin and more like a costume, a mask I had to put on to hide the uncertainty simmering beneath. Standing in front of the mirror, I studied my reflection—a girl with hair longer than the year before, soft brown strands catching the morning light, eyes wide but clouded with doubt. My lips lifted into a tentative smile, but it was fleeting, a fragile thing that didn’t quite reach my eyes. Who was I supposed to be today? A confident student? A friendly classmate? Someone brave enough to face this new chapter? The mirror held its silence, offering no answers, only the quiet truth of a girl caught between fear and hope.

Outside, the neighborhood was already stirring to life. I heard neighbors exchanging greetings, their voices warm and familiar. Cars rumbled past, their tires humming against the pavement, while a dog barked joyfully in the distance. The sky above was vast and open, painted in soft blues and gentle pinks that promised the day would unfold even if I wasn’t ready. I took a deep breath, feeling the weight of my backpack settle on my shoulders—a heavy bundle of books, notebooks, and unspoken worries. Each step toward the school gates felt like a small victory, a quiet rebellion against the fear trying to hold me back. The gates stood wide open, welcoming me or maybe just watching silently as I stepped inside the world I had been away from for months.

Inside the school, the once-quiet halls burst with sound and energy. Laughter echoed off the walls, footsteps pounded in steady rhythms like the heartbeat of the building itself. The air smelled of polished floors, fresh paper, and the sharp tang of new textbooks waiting to be opened. It should have felt comforting, like coming home. But it didn’t. It felt unfamiliar, like walking through a memory I wasn’t sure still belonged to me. Everywhere I looked, friends reunited with warm hugs and excited chatter, their voices overlapping like a well-rehearsed song. And there I was—somewhere in the middle—present but not quite part of the chorus. The desks were arranged in neat rows, just like last year, but everything felt different. Maybe it was me who had changed. Maybe change had quietly slipped in long before I did.

Orientation began with the usual routines. The principal’s voice echoed over the loudspeaker, and teachers introduced themselves with smiles that didn’t quite reach their eyes. We were told about new rules, schedules that stretched out like unknown maps, upcoming exams, and clubs to join. I listened politely, writing down notes I knew I would forget by next week. My mind was filled with questions I didn’t dare voice. What if I fail this year? What if the friends I trusted last year drift away, replaced by strangers? What if I never find where I belong again? These thoughts circled quietly, like a song stuck on repeat. I didn’t speak them aloud—afraid that making them real would make them heavier.

The day moved in waves—classes, breaks, more introductions. I smiled at classmates, made small talk, and laughed when it seemed appropriate. But beneath the surface, I felt like I was holding my breath, trying not to be noticed. The noise felt too loud, the world too fast, and I was moving through it like a ghost. But then, at lunch, a familiar voice called my name.

 “Hey, Belle! You’re with us, right?”

 I turned, surprised, and saw a few classmates motioning to open seats. I nodded and joined them, laughter passing between us like shared treasure. We talked about teachers, schedules, and how the new math book smelled weird. My laughs were small but real. For the first time today, I wasn’t acting—I was simply part of something. It was enough.

Then came the moment I had been quietly fearing. We were led to the quadrangle, a sea of students swelling with nervous energy. Uniforms crisp, faces a blur of nerves and practiced confidence. The principal stepped onto the stage, microphone in hand, and announced, “We will now sing the MCS Hymn.” My heart skipped. The hymn was just a song—I thought I knew every word. But as the first notes floated through the air, something inside me cracked open. My hands grew cold, my throat tightened. Everyone rose to their feet, but I hesitated, frozen for a beat longer than I should have. Then, slowly, I stood. And I sang.

At first, my voice was fragile, barely a whisper, uncertain and trembling. But around me, other voices joined—soft, steady, some as unsure as mine—and together we rose like a tide. Suddenly, I wasn’t alone. The melody carried memories from years past—times when school was home, when hope was closer, when laughter came easier. The hymn curved beneath me like a bridge, a gentle hand pulling me forward. The words spoke of rising through trials, strength in struggle, and for the first time, I believed them. The second verse came easier, my voice growing stronger, less afraid. These were more than lyrics—they were promises, stitched from hope and courage. Promises that I didn’t have to be perfect, that it was okay to feel lost, and that starting over wasn’t the same as starting from nothing.

When the song ended, applause fluttered softly around us, scattered but sincere. I sat back down, breathing out a breath I hadn’t realized I was holding. The storm inside hadn’t vanished, but it had softened—just enough to let peace slip in. Maybe that’s what courage really is—not the absence of fear, but the choice to keep singing through it.

Walking home later, the sun dipped low and warm, casting long golden shadows on the pavement. The trees still danced in the breeze, their leaves whispering like old friends. Students passed by, chatting and laughing, their joy trailing behind them like colorful ribbons. I smiled and waved—a small gesture carrying a quiet victory.

And then, without thinking, a line from an old song floated into my head: “I watched it begin again.” I used to hum it on tired days, not really knowing why it stuck. But now, I understand. This day—this quiet, messy, brave beginning—wasn’t about starting over from scratch. It was about stepping into the world again, even when you’re scared. Watching life begin again… and choosing to be part of it.

Back home, I slipped out of my uniform and into something soft and familiar. Sitting by the window, I watched the sky deepen into shades of rose and indigo—a quiet promise of tomorrow.

Because today, I wasn’t just an observer. I was seen. And I saw them—nervous, kind, imperfect, real. We were all trying, together. Somewhere in that trying, we found each other.

Tomorrow, we’ll walk in again. Maybe side by side.

In the quiet of my room, I hummed the hymn once more—lightly, without fear. This time, it sounded like more than hope. It sounded like belonging. Like stepping into the beginning of something new. And maybe, just maybe, being brave enough to begin again was the greatest gift I could give myself.