I want my parents to boast about me
I have always dreamed of graduating with Latin honors.
Not for happiness, but for something my parents could boast about. I wanted them to say that their son graduated cum laude or magna cum laude. That was always the goal. Maybe I became an achiever because I wanted them to have something to show off—to their friends, neighbors, and most especially, our relatives.
My parents were the reason why I invested so much in my studies. Much as I don’t blame them, a part of me did.
I’ve lived with that since the day I first received a medal. I can’t even remember when that was. But from that day on, I decided to earn more—not to make them proud, but to give them more reasons to boast. There was a strange satisfaction in hearing them talk about my achievements, that mix of embarrassment and pride when they wouldn’t stop telling people about me.
And when I say I lived with that, I mean it literally.
Not a single day passed without me striving to achieve something. No one forced me, but I felt like it was my obligation. I was never told to be at the top of my class, yet I pressured myself as if it was an unspoken rule. Excellence was not just a goal; it became a habit, a requirement.
That went on until high school.
But then college came—and it shattered me.
My dream of graduating with Latin honors died.
Let me explain it simply.
In 2020, during the pandemic, I took physical therapy. I was eager to learn, after all, I had already laid out my plans for med school. I thought I had everything figured out.
But I never really saw beyond—I didn’t anticipate the struggles, the challenges, the doubts that would creep in. The online setup was exhausting, and I could barely grasp the concepts the way I wanted to. I started overthinking, questioning if I could handle the course. I burned out.
I tried to push through, convincing myself that I just needed time. But the feeling of exhaustion never left. There were nights I couldn’t sleep, thinking about whether I had made the right choice. Days passed where I sat in front of my laptop, staring at my notes, feeling nothing but frustration. I wasn’t failing, but I wasn’t excelling either.
That scared me.
For someone who built their entire identity around achievements, mediocrity was terrifying.
I became an irregular student. Then I shifted to a course far different from my first one. I did well in it, but the guilt and disappointment stuck with me like a pungent smell that wouldn’t go away no matter how hard I tried to wash it off.
At the back of my mind, one thought haunted me: There will be nothing left for my parents to boast about.
I avoided family gatherings because I was afraid of the questions.
“Anong course mo na nga ulit?”
“Bakit ka lumipat? Sayang naman.”
Every time someone asked, I felt like I was being reminded of my failure. Of how I had let go of the dream I had carried for so long.
It was painful.
I hated myself. But I never hated my decision.
I hated myself for not fulfilling the promise of my younger self—to be a son that my parents could always be proud of.
But at the same time, I knew I did what I had to do.
I prioritized myself. I made a choice for my well-being. I walked away from something that was no longer making me grow.
And that was something I had never done before.
For years, I thought success was about medals, grades, and recognition. I thought it was about people clapping for me, about my parents telling everyone how proud they were. But success, I realized, was so much more than that.
Success was picking myself up even when I felt lost. Success was making decisions that felt right, even when they were scary. Success was finding the courage to start over, even if it meant not meeting the expectations I once had for myself.
I did not graduate with Latin honors.
But one thing is certain.
My parents will still boast about me.
Why?
Because I did not falter when the world was crumbling and everything felt heavy. I did not stop. I kept going. I persevered even more.
And at the end of the day, that is what truly matters.
Because the truth is, Latin honors would have been nice. It would have been an achievement worth celebrating. But it would never define my worth. It would never define who I am.
I used to think that the only way to make my parents proud was through awards and recognition. But I have come to realize that pride does not always come in the form of a medal.
Sometimes, it comes in the form of resilience.
Of learning to stand tall despite the setbacks.
Of choosing to move forward even when things don’t go as planned.
And maybe—just maybe—that is something far more valuable than any title or distinction.
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Shanell Jay Aguinaldo, 23, is a fresh graduate pursuing his career in Manila.
