via Alleya Krisha Naveros
Every book I open, every page I write on, carries a cost my parents silently paid. While I sat in classrooms learning lessons, they were outside working long hours just to make sure I never ran out of paper or ink. My education was never free—it was purchased with their sweat and love.
My stepfather’s tired eyes and my mother’s careful budgeting tell the story behind my schooling. Each coin they saved, every comfort they let go of, became the foundation of my studies. When others saw me as just another ninth grader, I knew I was the living proof of their daily sacrifices.
Teachers taught me academics, but my parents taught me endurance. They showed me that true success is not measured by medals or grades alone, but by the grit and persistence it took to reach them. For every achievement I claim, I know there are countless struggles they bore quietly at home.
Behind every medal and every recognition is a story untold—of parents who worked overtime, who walked miles to save fare, who skipped meals so their child wouldn’t. They are the invisible heroes, their names missing from certificates, but their fingerprints marked on every milestone.
As I continue my Junior High School journey, I realize every step forward is never mine alone. It belongs to my stepfather and my mother, who gave more than money—they gave pieces of themselves. To all children like me, may we never forget to honor those sacrifices, not just in words but in how we live our lives.
The price of my education was never written on receipts, but on calloused hands and selfless hearts. And when the day comes that I stand on stage with my diploma, I know it will not be a solo triumph—it will be a testament to the love and sacrifices that carried me there.
