During weekdays, I call people “Sir” and “Ma’am.”
On weekends, I become “Sir” too,
when students call me “Prof.”
That still feels special.
There are many things people don’t talk about when it comes to teaching.
The random “Good morning, Sir” that lifts your mood.
The quiet satisfaction of being part of someone’s journey.
Those are some of the perks.
They make the long hours feel worth it.
But they don’t always talk about the weight.
About the nights spent staring at ungraded papers,
wondering if it even matters.
About worrying over a student who stopped showing up.
About questioning yourself
when assignments keep going missing.
They don’t tell you that the job doesn’t end when the bell rings.
Because the truth is,
their stories follow you home.
There was one semester I almost quit.
The pay was low.
The noise was high.
And the fire that once fueled me felt dim.
Every class felt heavier than the last.
I thought maybe I was done.
Then one afternoon,
as I packed my things,
I found a small folded note on my desk.
It said:
“Sir, thank you for believing in me.
No one ever did.”
That line hit harder than any lecture I had ever given.
It reminded me why I started.
Teaching is not just a profession.
It is an act of faith.
You show up even when you are tired.
You plant seeds you may never see grow.
You hold space for students carrying more than they should.
That note saved my fire.
I know I am not the best professor.
Far from it.
But if I can reach even five percent of my students,
if I can change five lives out of a hundred for the better,
that is not nothing.
That is purpose.
And yes, sometimes I read notes that say,
“Prof, I love you”
(or “crush po kita,” as they’d say).
I guess that counts as bonus points. *wink*