Once upon a time, there was a candle — wax aged, wick thinning, but eyes that never seemed to dim. And in her warm, reverent fire, fueled by love and emboldened by passion, our story began.
“Good morning, class!” she announced, sunny and bright. But she knew all too well that the day was neither good nor was it morning for many of the young flames. And while the cinders chirped their greetings, the candle could see far past their sleepy, stumbling words.
For how could it be the start of a new day when the night’s weariness has not yet worn off — still tugging at the creases of darkened circles and unpressed uniforms?
You see, the candle was no stranger to the sight of weary cinders. She too was one of them, bearing so much light, warmth, and love to those closest to her. But seldom was she asked —
What remains of a candle when it has burned itself out?
She knew the answer. A candle that does not burn is a candle that serves no purpose. So through restless midnights and days that never seemed to end, she burned and burned and burned, trying not to choke on the smoke of sacrifice.
Even decades after, she continues to burn. Many have sung their praises: how she is resilient, inspirational, enduring. But no one dares to admit the feeling that she has quietly carried inside her core —
Regretful.
For in their own flame, candles often forget their own shadows, and how wax weeps as fires flicker.
The candle studied her cinders. In their tired features, she saw that many of them desperately tried to stitch together night and day. Some were brave enough to admit that, shyly asking for consideration when their working shifts become longer and longer.
Many tried to carry everything within themselves.
The candle, seeing all of this and more, shifted.
“Class, I want you all to remember this. Kapag nahihirapan na kayo o gusto niyo ng payo, huwag kayong magdalawang-isip na lumapit sa akin.”
“We all have our own stories, and we all carry our own struggles. But we never have to bear them alone. Kapag nararamdaman niyong nauubos na kayo, palagi akong nandito para makinig.”
The day went on as usual. Her flame, as always, illuminated the minds of the young fires. And as the sun was nearing its fateful slumber, she bid farewell to her cinders. At the corner of her vision, she caught one of them wanting to approach her. The young fire ultimately decided to swallow their words and shuffled out the door.
She expected that. After all, words were incredibly hard to release at times — a two-minute verbal affirmation wasn’t going to change that. But she knew, in the stack of yellow pads in her hands, that she could offer her light to her cinders, one way or another.
Still written on the board was this:
If you could have a conversation with your 13-year-old self, what would you tell them?
In the traces of ballpen ink was the liberation of the weight once borne alone.
And when trusted with so many stories of hope and sacrifice of fires that learn to burn far before they learn how to bear their own pain, even candles cannot help but cry.
Even when the candle knew of the struggles that her cinders faced, reading it all in their rawest forms — a letter addressed to their younger selves — reminded her so much of the darkest nights that she too once endured.
Doubt, uncertainty, and self-repression returned to her that evening like messages encoded in ashes.
But this time, she was the one who held the flame that could maybe, just maybe, reignite the young cinders so close to snuffing out.
Equipped with a green pen and a heart that wanted to burn for flames alike, she began writing.
“Awesome! I hope you reach your dreams…”
“I felt every word poured into this, your work…”
“Sometimes, it’s okay if we don’t have things figured out yet…”
“No matter how unlikely it seems, things will be okay…”
“Your 13-year-old self would be proud of you…”
“One day, we will find our sunshine…”
“Padayon, anak. Kaya natin ‘to.”
Each paper brought back memories — ones that she wasn’t sure she was ready to face again. With each line that she wrote, her handwriting became more and more unsteady.
She was talking to herself too.
And when she finally returned the papers to their owners, something shifted across the flames.
For some, it was the relief of getting a good grade.
But for many, it was the minute but monumental moment of finally being seen.
Even when the class kept their thoughts to themselves, the candle saw it in the gentle sheen of light that hid at the corners of their eyes, and in the heaviness that was ever so slightly released.
I was one of those silent cinders, quietly anticipating the lines of green ink every time our essays were returned. And though my experiences may differ from those of my peers, there was one thing we all shared, tied together in writing:
Someone whose fire and compassion believed in you, even on the days when you struggled to believe in yourself.
As the school year unfurled, the candle continued to share her flame with her cinders. Even in such small ways, the feeling of being seen and listened to was just as impactful, if not more so, than the lessons the candle imparted.
The fire the candle held for her cinders kindled something a bit different for each of us. For some, it was confidence. For others, it was courage.
For me?
It was the assurance that I am capable enough to carve my own path. To follow my heart, even when life seems so heavily against it.
Green ink led me to pursue my happiness.
Green ink reminded me that I was never alone.
And green ink kindled the fire within to never stop writing.
In the last few days of our journeys, we bid our farewells to the candles who lit the path towards our self-discovery and stories. With each stroke of green ink, each fire that burns in compassion, even the softest of cinders grows into its own candle — aflame with the love it holds for the world.
Now, as I stand amidst the graduation stage to deliver my words of gratitude, I begin to remember each note, critique, and message my teachers have crafted for me. Each line preserved in green ink and cursive, each moment that their flames have kindled my own, and each dream that I continue to carry — all of these remind me that I am who I am because I have always been loved by my English teachers.
And perhaps the greatest lesson that they taught me wasn’t in their lesson plans or their lectures. It was the realization that a candle’s life was never just about burning away.
It is a life spent passing one's flame to those who have forgotten they could still burn.
Written by Aaron Dave Mendina, Insight PH
Aaron Dave Mendina, Insight PH is a dedicated campus journalist and contributor. Their insightful writing sparks meaningful conversations and keeps the community informed.
