I WAS given just a weekend to rest after retiring from Ateneo de Iloilo. My body welcomed it; my mind refused to. The calendar cleared, yet instead of relief, I felt oddly misplaced. Almost right away, I found myself starting anew at Iloilo State College of Fisheries (ISCOF), now Iloilo State University of Fisheries Science and Technology (ISUFST), in mid-2022.
The pandemic was receding, though its residue lingered in classrooms and routines. I arrived in the fields of Brgy. Tiwi, Barotac Nuevo already aware that institutions are never perfect—only beautiful and broken at once. Three years later, ISUFST celebrates its universityhood, and I mark my third year here as well.
The first surprises were not grand. It was the air, for one, the kind of fresh air that makes you realize how much daily traffic noise becomes part of your bloodstream for 47 years. It was the absence of the city’s constant hurry, and the small mercy of being able to arrive somewhere without feeling like you fought your way there. Then came the prices of everyday things, which still feel kinder compared to the usual city squeeze.
But the real hook was human: the easy smiles, the warm greetings, the unforced helpfulness. In ISUFST, you meet students who carry both ambition and constraint in the same backpack. Many come from families that stretch small incomes like thread. And in classrooms and meetings, I found that many colleagues and students quietly ask the same questions I do—about fairness, access, power, and who systems are really built for.
Those conversations are rarely loud, but they are honest, turning teaching from mere instruction into shared reckoning. Students keep showing up, trying again, and reminding you how much potential can grow even without the comfort of full resources. It helps that many here understand education is never neutral—it always carries consequences, especially for the poor, the unseen, and those who come next.
I do not romanticize this. ISUFST, like any state university, has cracks. Processes can overwhelm purpose. Urgency can drown in procedure. Some still mistake visibility for value, and traditional ways of guarding space die hard. Transition does not clean the slate; it rearranges it. Some people adapt. Others dig in.
Still, those imperfections common to all SUCs were not enough to cancel the grace of being here. If anything, they made the experience more honest. I came from six years in the media and 21 years in Ateneo, and that season gave me a sturdy set of instincts: ask why before asking how, keep the work grounded in formation, and take excellence seriously without turning it into arrogance. That past did not make me superior; it simply gave me a lens. This chapter has taught me to stay present without assuming it must last forever.
In ISUFST, the lens had to adjust. I could not expect the same systems, the same culture, the same rhythm. I had to learn new ways of doing things, and more importantly, new ways of being patient without becoming numb. In the middle of that adjustment, I felt what I can only describe as a steady hand nudging me forward. Not thunder, not drama, just a quiet sense that I was being placed where I needed to learn something and serve others again.
That adjustment was eased by something I did not expect: familiar faces. Former colleagues from Ateneo, schoolmates from La Salle, DOST scholar-peers from WVSU, and fellow alumni from UP now walk the same corridors with me in ISUFST. We rarely talk about the past, but a shared sense of rigor, care, and conscience quietly carries over. It feels less like starting over and more like continuing a conversation.
I have come to appreciate the practical blessings of government service, without pretending it is perfect. Job stability matters in an economy where even good professionals can feel easily replaced. Benefits matter not as privilege, but as quiet protection for families who also grow sick and old. There are bonuses and trainings, yes, but what stays with me more is the culture of public service—people who keep showing up, staying late for students, doing research and extension work, and pushing for quality even when resources are thin.
That culture is never abstract. It is shaped, slowly and often quietly, by leadership that knows when to step in and when to trust people to do their work. I am grateful for the steadiness of ISUFST under President Nordy D. Siason Jr., not because everything is perfect, but because there has been room to work, to try, to correct, to innovate, to find ways, and to serve without constant noise. In an institution where transitions can harden into turf wars—shaped by entrenched attachments and habits that have outlived their usefulness—that kind of space matters more than speeches.
My roles have been both a gift and a test. Being Director of the Public Affairs, Marketing, and Media Communications Office (PAMMCO) and chief information officer (CIO) means you are paid to notice, to listen, and to tell stories responsibly. It also means you are constantly walking a line: celebrate what deserves celebration, not echo it blindly. Write with pride, but never at the cost of truth. I value the job because it sits at the intersection of my odd mix: math, physics, counseling, journalism, and creative work.
Some days, I teach calculus and physics, do formation work, wrestle with research, and join wellness conversations in communities—then write about a student who is the first in their family to reach college. It has also meant allowing small pauses—eat-outs, night-outs, movie binges, short travels, moments of reset, and continued self-learning—so the work does not empty the person doing it. It is a rare arrangement, and I do not take it for granted. It feels like a season of being allowed to be fully myself, even while still learning how government systems breathe.
It helps that ISUFST knows who it is. As the country’s first and only fisheries university, its work naturally leans toward integrity and social justice, especially in communities where science meets survival—coastal livelihoods, food security, climate risk, and sustainability. Its 68-year history gives it weight, and its university status was earned through grit, compliance, and patience.
Even the logo feels right to me: a fish carrying science, technology, and care for the future, a quiet sign that the institution is willing to evolve, even when change is untidy. The past three years have been busy in the best way—compliance, accreditation, rankings, and the daily work of proving that a university can be grounded and globally relevant. Awards are not the soul of education, but they are mirrors. And when a university serving mostly marginalized families earns recognition, it gently pushes back against the worn-down belief that excellence only lives in louder, city campuses.
Even so, I keep my gratitude prudent. I have learned that appreciation does not mean pretending everything is fine. It means naming what is good without denying what is broken. Some days, the paperwork, the politics, or the confusion of seniority with wisdom can wear you down. But you also learn you are not trapped. Life moves doors on its own terms. I do not know what comes next, but I know these three years were a gift—a productive season that kept pulling me back to justice and equity, even in ordinary tests.
As ISUFST marks its third year as a university, I find myself grateful for the grace of staying present. Not famous, not flawless—just present. For the people who lightened the work, the students who gave it meaning, and the unseen hand that placed me here when I thought my best work might be behind me, I remain thankful. Whatever chapter comes next, the lesson stays the same: serve where you are planted, speak truth with care, and stay open to the next tide.
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Doc H fondly describes himself as a “student of and for life” who, like many others, aspires to a life-giving and why-driven world grounded in social justice and the pursuit of happiness. His views do not necessarily reflect those of the institutions he is employed or connected with.
