Bearing the day, bearing the year

The last day of December is just another day to survive.

The street smelled of salt and ice, mingling with the faint smoke of barbecue from nearby homes. Small waves of heat rose from the pavement. Children ran past, their laughter bouncing off the concrete walls. Somewhere, a rooster crowed, marking the end of the year. Her voice rose above it all: “Isda mo dira! (Fish for sale!)”

Her bucket teetered with the weight of fish, ice rattling against the sides, the briny scent of the sea clinging to her hands. She carried it like she carried the year itself, step by careful step, refusing to stop until the last fish was sold. Dec. 31 is not a pause here—it is a deadline. Even in the last days of the year, work continues. Someone is always cleaning, cooking, or preparing—long before fireworks light up the sky. Families may gather for small feasts, but for many, the end of the year is just another day of survival, a continuation of effort that often goes unnoticed.

The afternoon before New Year’s Eve, I was helping out at our sari-sari store when the moment unfolded.

People came in and out buying ice, soft drinks, and small last-minute items. Then the woman walked in, her bucket of fish heavy in her hands. Her steps were careful, practiced.

Before anything else, she asked for ice.

She poured it into the bucket slowly, making sure each fish was covered. Someone nearby asked how business was going that late in the day. She didn’t look up. She just adjusted the ice and said quietly,

“Mahurot na unta run. (I hope it all sells early).”

It wasn’t optimism. It was a quiet prayer, whispered under her breath, against the weight of hours and work. Her calm determination made me pause, realizing that not all struggles are loud; some are carried silently, yet with equal courage. I wondered how many years she had done this alone. How many days like this had she counted fish while the rest of the town prepared for fireworks. Each step she took seemed to hold both fatigue and unwavering determination.

She stepped back onto the road and lifted her voice again, calling to households along the street.

“Isda mo dira! (Fish for sale!)”

After hearing her inside the store, the call outside felt different. It wasn’t just selling anymore—it was a continuation. A repetition meant to make that quiet hope real before the day ended, before the year turned.

Watching her, I was reminded of how work has always sounded in my life. Adults rarely spoke about dreams when I was growing up. They spoke about finishing. About making sure nothing was wasted. About doing what needed to be done so tomorrow could begin with less weight.

I thought of my own New Year’s afternoons with family, peeling garlic and stirring halaya. My complaints were trivial compared to the effort she carried alone, and yet both moments, in different ways, celebrated devotion and care—one to family, the other to survival.

In Malapatan, scenes like this are easy to overlook because they are ordinary. Fish are sold. Ice is bought. Voices carry through the street. But that afternoon, it stayed with me.

We often describe the new year as a pause—a chance to rest, to reflect, to start fresh. But for her, Dec. 31 was not an ending. It was a deadline. Fish spoils. Ice melts. Unsold goods turn into a loss.

The calendar does not soften that reality.

While some of us count down the seconds to midnight, others count what remains in their buckets. For some, January begins with fireworks and handa (feast). For others, it begins with whatever is left unsold.

She kept walking, calling out to houses, her voice steady even as the afternoon stretched on.

“Isda mo dira! (Fish for sale!)”

I did not see her again that day. I do not know if she sold everything. I do not know how she welcomed the new year.

But her words stayed with me.

It reminded me that hope does not always come in loud resolutions or polished wishes. Sometimes, it is whispered over ice and saltwater, before returning to work. Sometimes, it asks not for abundance, but for enough. Watching her reminded me that ordinary moments can carry extraordinary courage, and that resilience is measured in the quiet persistence of daily life.

And maybe that is the most honest way some people welcome a new year—not with fireworks or promises—but with the hope that what they carry today will be gone by tomorrow.

By the time I left the store, the sky was beginning to darken. Fireworks would soon light up the horizon, but she was still there, walking carefully, selling her fish. The year was ending, but for her, it was just another day of carrying on.

While we were counting down the minutes until midnight, she was counting the seconds until the weight of the year was off her shoulders. In that, I realized something: for some people, survival is the celebration. And that is how resilience should be measured.

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Mark Luther P. Saturion, 17, a student journalist from General Santos City studying at Notre Dame of Dadiangas University.