EVERY gathering of school paper advisers has that one line that reveals more truth than any keynote speech. It usually comes from someone at the back, half-laughing, half-exhaling: “Sir, kapoy na, pero go lang.” People chuckle, but the room understands. It is the kind of tiredness that isn’t loud—just honest. And before we talk about leads and headlines, styles and structures, ethics and deadlines, we have to name this first: advisers are exhausted, and yet, they choose to stay.
That line surfaced again during the 16th Gusting Conference with campus paper advisers from Panay, Negros, and Cebu—held this November 30 at the University of San Agustin, against the backdrop of the Trillion-Peso March 2.0. The no-filter sharing in the room felt heavy and honest, but it also showed the shared tiredness and fire that brought basic ed and college advisers together.
It’s easy to praise that kind of dedication, sometimes too easy. Campus advisers wear a dozen hats and work in the cracks of their day—fixing layouts at dawn, editing drafts between classes, training kids on Saturdays. And now, as if the old tasks weren’t enough, advisers also have to navigate AI tools, fast-moving digital platforms, fake news, and tech rules that change quicker than school policies. It’s one more layer—both a burden and a chance—as advisers help students tell human stories in an age that often rewards speed over sense. But many stay because they’ve lived this life before. The newsroom shaped them, the craft still thrills them, and helping young writers grow feels like something they’re meant to do.
But exhaustion, when carried year after year, changes you. It dulls the thrill that once kept advisers awake with pride. It turns creativity into something you rationalize. It turns passion into something you must protect before it fully burns out. Staying starts to mean navigating unclear policies, shrinking budgets, and school cultures that expect miracles from “ghost” publication offices with broken tools, outdated equipment, or no equipment at all. Still, advisers persist—not for trophies, not for photo-ops, not for the clout, but for the students who trust them and the calling it represents.
For some advisers, staying becomes a quiet rebellion. They teach real journalism even when superficial content is easier. They choose accuracy over popularity, truth over convenience, depth over applause. These gestures aren’t dramatic; they happen in small rooms after dismissal, in chat groups buzzing at midnight, in the careful red marks on a shaky first draft. It is in those small, private moments where the soul of campus journalism is shaped.
Schools are not built by trophies or glossy pages. They’re built by the teacher who prints mock-ups from their own pocket, the mentor who shields a reporter, the adviser who whispers, “Your voice matters.” They grow through quiet wins—a paragraph finally right, an adviser still showing up, a newsroom where students feel safe, a contest win that whispers, none of this was wasted.
But we also need to say what many advisers hesitate to admit: supporting a school paper is not the same as surviving it. Staying should not mean martyrdom. It should not mean normalizing burnout, nor treating advisers as endlessly available. If staying is to matter, it needs real support—clear workload credits, fair incentives, working equipment, and school leaders who value the process, not just the output.
Because campus journalism is not a hobby—it’s a public service. It is not just output–it is quiet but powerful values formation. And when young reporters ask hard questions about lived injustices, bullying, corruption, or misinformation, praising them is the easy part. The harder part is creating systems that protect them and empower advisers to guide them safely. Advisers stand at the fragile intersection between developing student voices and shielding them from a complicated world that isn’t always kind to truth and justice.
And yet, year after year, student publications survive—not because policy is strong, but because advisers—side by side with equally driven editors and staff—refuse to give in to cynicism. Hope takes many forms. Sometimes it is a shy writer learning to craft a straight news lead. Sometimes it is a frustrated broadcaster rewriting a shaky script. Sometimes it is an adviser whispering, “Go at your own pace; your story matters,” even when everything around them says time is running out. Sometimes it’s the content creator fixing a post for the tenth time, the social media admin refreshing the page with a nervous heart, the cartoonist turning a campus ache into satire, the columnist shaping a messy thought into something true, or the photographer crouching in corners just to capture honesty.
All these small acts of courage add up. They become the backbone of future journalists—and future citizens.
Which brings us back to that quiet line: “Kapoy na, pero go lang.” It was never a complaint. It was a compass, reminding advisers that the future of journalism is built slowly—through fairness, clear critical thinking, and the steady shaping of young storytellers
As we move forward, may we honor tired advisers not with applause alone, but with concrete support. A school proves its character not in celebrations, but in how it stands with its people when the workload grows heavy. Staying is noble—but only when the educational institution, the structure, and the community stay with their advisers, too.
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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.
