By Sam Azalae Pepito
When I was a child, I carried a ready-made answer to a question adults loved to ask.
“What do you want to be when you grow up?”
I never paused. I never hesitated: “A civil engineer.”
It came out of my mouth as naturally as saying my name. No matter who asked—relatives, teachers, neighbors—the answer stayed the same. Maybe it was because I had relatives who were engineers. Maybe it was because I could already imagine myself in that world. Or maybe it was because, early on, I believed that building things meant I could also build a place for myself in this world.
In elementary school, I often brought home “Best in Math” ribbons. In junior high, I realized it was more than luck. Numbers felt familiar to me. I wasn’t afraid of them; in fact, I felt at home. I joined contests, sat in the front row during quizzes, and collected medals and certificates that quietly told me I belonged here.
Senior high school felt like confirmation. I took the STEM (Science, Technology, Engineering, and Mathematics) strand, survived calculus and physics, stayed on the principal’s list, and spent long nights with formulas and problem sets. Every recognition felt like a step closer to the person I had been claiming to be for years. College was no longer just a dream. It was a door I was about to open.
I’m almost a civil engineer, almost there.
Or so I thought.
A few weeks before enrollment, my mother talked to me. There was no sermon. No forcing. Just a simple conversation that carried unexpected weight.
“Have you considered accountancy?” she asked.
She mentioned my aunt. Stable job. Comfortable life. Able to travel. No constant worry about money. As she spoke, I realized it wasn’t really about a course. It was about security. About a future where I would not struggle the way she once did.
I didn’t want to agree. I never imagined myself working with financial statements. This was not the answer I had been rehearsing since childhood.
But another question slowly replaced my certainty: Whose dream have I really been chasing?
I have always wanted to make my mother proud. Many of my achievements, even the ones I rarely talk about, were partly for her. So when it came time to choose, I wasn’t just choosing a program. I was choosing between two versions of myself—the child with a dream, and the son who carries gratitude and responsibility.
I chose what she wanted.
Entering the Bachelor of Science in Accountancy (BSA) program was my first real shock. Being “good at math” was not enough. The world I knew disappeared. Variables were replaced by vouchers. Equations by transactions. Logic by layers of rules, standards, and procedures.
In high school, I studied hard, but I also studied with confidence. In accountancy, I studied with fear.
Not because I was stupid. But because I was humbled.
I used to rely on instinct. In BSA, instinct does not save you. You need discipline. You need process. You need to start over even when you feel you should already know better. And that hurts the ego.
I told myself it would be easy. It’s math-heavy after all. I was wrong.
There were nights I stared at the same problem for hours and still did not understand it. Days when I went straight to bed after class, not because my body was tired, but because my heart was. I cried to my parents more than once.
“Ma, I think I might fail.”
Sometimes they would ask, “Do you want to shift?”
And every time, something inside me tightened.
“I don’t want to.”
Not because I love accountancy. Not because this is my dream. But because shifting feels like losing to a decision I agreed to. Losing to the promise I want to keep. Losing to the version of myself who wants to be someone reliable.
So I stay.
Not heroically. Not beautifully. Most days, I stay simply because I’m tired but still breathing.
Here, I learned that sacrifice is not always dramatic. Sometimes it looks like sleepless eyes. Like coffee at dawn. Like walking into class even when you want to turn back.
I used to think success meant being excellent. Now I’m learning that sometimes, success means being resilient.
I cannot say I love this program. But it matters to me. Because it represents a choice I made not only for myself, but for the first person I ever loved in this world.
Still, I wrestle with a question: How far should a child’s duty go?
I care is a moral act, then choosing BSA is my way of caring. But I also wonder—does self-offering have a limit?
I don’t know the answer yet.
What I do know is this: every day I choose to continue, I repeat a promise to myself.
I will finish this degree.
I will take the board exam.
I will pass.
Not because this was my first dream. But because I have learned that dreams can change shape—and still carry meaning.
