"Never share your triumphs with those who never respected your trials. Some only appear for the applause, but never for the preparation."

_Ayna Denisse Mestio Moncenilla, LPT (2025)

That quote somehow rings in my mind.
They’ll show up when the confetti falls.
They’ll post the pictures, tag you with words like “so proud,”
as if they were part of every sleepless night, every bruised knuckle,
every moment you wanted to give up but didn’t.
They’ll stand there smiling in the light,
yet they were nowhere to be found in the dark.

They didn’t hear the silence after every rejection.
They didn’t feel the ache in your bones from grinding day after day with nothing to show for it.
They didn’t watch you pour every ounce of yourself into something that the world kept telling you was impossible.

People love the victory lap,
but they won’t walk with you on the uphill climb.
They’ll sip champagne at your celebration,
but they weren’t there when you drank bitterness and swallowed your pride.
They’ll cheer when you’re crowned,
but they never stood beside you when you were crawling.

And that’s the thing — they can’t respect your triumph if they never respected your trials.
They can’t value the crown if they never carried the weight of it. The truth is, some people aren’t in your life to support you — they’re just waiting for the moment they can be associated with your success.

But my victories are not party favors to hand out to the undeserving.
My success is not a photo opportunity for those who never showed up when it counted.
If you didn’t sweat with me, cry with me, or sacrifice with me — you don’t get to stand next to me when I win.

So no, I won’t water down the meaning of what I’ve earned by sharing it with those who only appeared for the applause.
My story belongs to those who stayed through every chapter — not just the happy ending.

Another memory that still clings to me is the day I told my father I wanted to join the AFP.
I expected encouragement, maybe even just a small sign of belief. Instead, I was met with criticism.
He looked at me and said I could never make it — because I was poor in math.

That moment taught me something: not everyone you expect to believe in you will actually believe in you.
And sometimes, the people closest to you are the quickest to plant doubt in your heart.

So now, I’ve learned to keep my plans close to my chest. I don’t announce my dreams.
I don’t give people the opportunity to dissect them before they even begin.
I will disappear for a while if I have to. Work in silence.
Return when I’m ready.
Not for validation, not for approval — but simply because I choose to.

And yes, I will forgive them for what they said, for what they did during my toughest times.
But I will never forget.
Forgetting means erasing the lesson,
and I owe it to myself to remember.
Not to hold a grudge, but to hold on to the strength it gave me.

I learned that silence is power.
That not everyone deserves a front-row seat to my journey.
That the fewer people who know my plans, the fewer opinions I have to fight against.
I learned that it’s better to surprise them with results than to give them the chance to **** my motivation before I’ve even begun.

I learned that some people would measure you by your weaknesses, not your potential — and that’s fine.
Let them.
Their disbelief is not my burden.
Their doubt is not my truth.

I learned that disappearing is not running away.
It’s regrouping, refocusing, and rebuilding without the noise.
And when I come back, it will be on my terms, at my own pace, with proof in my hands and pride in my chest.

I learned that forgiveness is for my peace,
but memory is for my growth.
I can release the bitterness without erasing the lesson.
I can move forward without giving them the privilege of forgetting what they once said.

And most of all, I learned that I don’t need their applause to keep going.
My drive has nothing to do with their approval — it’s built on the fire they once tried to put out.

I learned that my own family could take advantage of my wins — proudly telling other people about my achievements in public,
as if they were always behind me,
yet criticizing me in private when no one else could hear.
I learned that some people are more concerned with how your success reflects on them than how it truly feels for you to earn it.

I learned that a license, no matter how hard you worked for it, is not a golden guarantee of a job.
No. For me, it’s not a finish line — it’s only a ticket.
A ticket to knock on the next door,
to apply for another career, to open another path.

I learned that life doesn’t reward you just for passing. It rewards you for persevering.
And sometimes, the very people who celebrate you in front of others will be the same ones who try to chip away at your confidence when the crowd is gone.

That’s why I’ve stopped telling everyone my plans.
I don’t need their premature opinions or their silent sabotage.
I’ll speak when I’m ready.
I’ll show them when it’s done.
And they can tell the world about me again — but this time, they’ll have nothing to do with the victory they’re bragging about.

This experience somehow humbles me.
It reminds me that no matter how much doubt or criticism comes my way,
I am still standing — and that’s enough reason to be grateful.
I’m grateful for the lesson I learned along the way,
even if it came wrapped in pain.

On this bumpy road, I have met all kinds of people.
Some quietly waiting for me to fail,
others hoping I’ll make a mistake just so they can say they were right.
I’ve met the insecure ones — the ones who try to dim someone else’s light because they’re afraid to ignite their own.

But I’ve also learned this: it’s not my job to fight them, prove them wrong, or carry the weight of their insecurities.
Let God deal with them.
He sees their hearts and mine.
And I am secured, safe, and unshaken in my Creator’s presence.

I move forward not with bitterness, but with peace.
Not with vengeance, but with the quiet confidence that no matter who’s watching,
I walk this path with God beside me — and that is more than enough.