The graduation I have been waiting for

 

Florenz Marcel Q. Encinas

I have been waiting for this graduation, but somehow, I feel I have missed it.

I was supposed to graduate from elementary school in 2020.

Standing on a stage as my name echoes through the gymnasium, wearing a small toga, adjusting a cap that never quite fits me right, as I smile nervously while my parents take pictures of me from the audience. It was supposed to mark the end of my childhood. An official goodbye before stepping into something new.

But it never happened. The world stopped before it even started, as we were locked inside the comfort of our homes because of a pandemic.

Instead, I got a screen in front of me: a slide and a name, then it was gone. Not even a picture was shown. And just like that, it ended. What hurt the most was not the ceremony. But the goodbyes we never had the chance to say.

One day, I was laughing with my classmates, sharing snacks during recess, making school requirements as we complained about it, and making promises that we would see each other again. Then the next day, we were all separated. No hugs, no goodbyes, no closure, no last conversations. We didn’t know that it was the last day we were together as a class.

I remember listening to the graduation song we practiced but never had the chance to perform. A song that was meant to be sung with friends, arms around each other, while voices break in laughter and tears. Sometimes, I sing along, but other times, I get too emotional I could not bring myself to utter the lyrics because I was crying. Crying to the memories we imagined but never had.

However, I moved on. I told myself, it doesn’t matter much because we were just kids trying to make it through; that, maybe, in high school, life would make up for the shortcomings and make it even better.

But high school was not what I expected it to be. It began the same way when the world ended—in silence, through papers, through screens, and in isolation.

Days blurred together in a repetitive pattern. I open my laptop, attend online classes, do my school work, and repeat. The small study corner of our house became my classroom, my cafeteria, my hallway, and my entire academic world. Two years passed like that. While time moved, life felt like it did not.

When face-to-face classes returned, everything felt unfamiliar. Like being dropped into a plot that I never even knew the exposition, because everything felt too alien.

Fast-forward, and it’s 2026.

I’m wearing a graduation gown again. This time it’s real, heavy on my shoulders. My name finally echoed throughout the gymnasium, acknowledging years of hard work. Families stood proud, friends cried, and everyone said their goodbye to the institution that became a home.

But something felt ironic. A weird sensation of contradiction. I’ve been waiting for this graduation for years, but it felt like I already missed it.

Because, deep inside, I’m still the 13-year-old child in 2020 lying in bed with headphones on and singing along to our graduation song, wondering when life would feel right again.

Six years had passed. But, emotionally, a part of me is still there—waiting. Because, for a long time, I thought I wasn’t allowed to feel this way. Maybe because other people suffered more during the pandemic. Other people lost more than I did.

But loss is still a loss. I lost the ending of my childhood. I lost the beginning of my teenage years. I lost two years I will never get back.

So, standing here now, waiting for my name to be called, I finally allow myself to feel everything—the grief, the confusion, the surreal feeling that time rushed forward and stood still at the same time.

But I’ve come to realize that even though time felt stolen, I still grew. I learned how to keep going without motivation. I learned resilience without realizing it. I learned that life doesn’t always follow the timeline we expect and that surviving the unexpected is its own kind of achievement.

So when I finally hear my name echo through the speakers, my chest tightens. My vision blurs. My heart pounds louder than the applause. And as I walk across the stage, I understand the irony of this moment.

I have been waiting for this graduation for years. The one I thought I had already missed. The one I thought time had taken from me forever. But somehow, it no longer feels like I have missed it. Because here I am. Not the way I imagined. Not at the time I expected. But real.

And as I take that final step, I realize that graduation isn’t about perfect timing. It’s about arriving even when time tried to leave you behind. It’s about finally standing on that stage wearing a gown that fits, adjusting a cap that finally sits right, smiling not because everything went according to plan, but because, after years of waiting, I’m finally graduating and somehow, it finally feels like I haven’t missed it at all.