It was September 13, 2025, a Saturday, and even before the morning sun rose fully, I already knew this day would be remembered. I woke up earlier than usual, restless with both nerves and excitement. The air outside was still cool, and there was a stillness that often comes before dawn, but my mind was already racing. This was only my second time setting foot in the university, yet it felt more important than the first. Unlike my first visit, which was mostly about getting familiar with the place and observing quietly, today was the day I would finally meet my classmates. That thought carried both weight and promise. I knew that the surroundings would feel different, that the air itself would carry a new kind of energy, and that the lessons I would hear would not be like the ones I had grown used to in the past. Despite the nervousness, there was more excitement in me than fear.
The bus ride to the campus stretched long, between five to six hours. The rumble of the engine became the background sound of my morning. I shifted in my seat several times, trying to find comfort, but no matter how tiring the ride was, I carried with me a sense of purpose that made the hours feel meaningful. I looked out the window often, watching the landscapes pass by as though the world itself was preparing me for what was ahead. Trees lined the roads, their leaves moving with the early breeze. Small shops stood at the roadside, some just opening their doors for customers. People walked or gathered in groups, their mornings unfolding in ordinary ways, while mine felt extraordinary. Every kilometer we traveled reminded me that this was not just any trip. This was part of a larger journey. Each bump on the road was like a test of endurance, each passing view a reminder that I had chosen this path.
What made me hold on through the long ride was the goal I had set for myself. I wanted to pursue my Master’s degree, to sharpen myself, to widen my understanding, and to grow not just for my career but for my personal fulfillment. That goal required effort, and the effort was shown in sacrifices like this long travel. Yet even in the challenge, I found myself eager, because I knew that what awaited me in the university was worth the time and distance.
When I finally stepped into the campus, I immediately noticed the life all around me. The place seemed alive in a way that carried both seriousness and freedom. Students walked in different directions, some with books clutched tightly, others laughing with friends. Their conversations floated in the air, mixing with the faint sound of footsteps on wide walkways. The food stalls outside the university already smelled of something familiar, a mix of breakfast meals and quick snacks. Classrooms stood in neat rows, silent but filled with stories I had yet to discover. Open spaces gave the air a freshness, as if inviting everyone to breathe and take it all in. I had already seen some of this during my first visit, but today it felt new. There was a sharper awareness in me, and it made me pay more attention to the people and the place. I reminded myself that although I knew no one here yet, this was the space where bonds and connections would soon be formed.
At eight o’clock in the morning, I attended my first class of the day. I entered the room quietly and looked for a seat, not wanting to draw attention to myself. As the session began, I mostly listened. I observed the faces of my classmates, all unfamiliar to me, and while I thought of reaching out and saying something, I chose to stay quiet for now. It felt like dipping my feet into water before swimming. That class became a moment for me to ease in, to warm myself up, and to understand how the flow of the day would go. It was like the opening scene of a long story, one that gave me a chance to get comfortable before the bigger moments. By the time it ended, I felt more ready, no longer weighed down by my nerves.
As ten o’clock approached, my thoughts began to shift to what was coming. ITCC112 subject was next, and while it was just one subject, it was also the time where introductions would finally happen. I knew this would be the moment when the invisible wall between strangers would begin to lower. I felt my heartbeat quicken as I walked toward the classroom. I reminded myself to stay calm, to be open, and to embrace whatever the next hours would bring.
When the session began, our facilitator asked us to introduce ourselves. I listened carefully as each classmate spoke. Their brief background came forward piece by piece, and I began to see who they were. Most of them came from the academe. I could hear it in their tone and the way they spoke about their work. They carried the experience of teaching, of guiding students, of building their careers in schools and universities. Some had been in the academe for years, and their introductions reflected a kind of dedication that came from long service. A few others, though only one, had background in the industry.
When it was my turn, I stood slowly, aware of the attention on me. I said my name, I shared where I was from, and I mentioned my background. I told them about my work in the academe, and also shared that I had part-time experience in the industry. My introduction was short and simple. As I sat down, I felt lighter. I was no longer invisible in the room. I had placed myself in the circle, even if only with a few words.
Then our facilitator began to speak. From the start, I could tell that his style was different. He had a way of mixing humor with serious points, and it kept the room alive. He discussed the course syllabus, explained the learning evidences, and outlined the outputs we were expected to submit. None of it felt heavy. His manner made it easier to follow, and I found myself engaged the whole time. When he talked about important matters, like the Data Privacy Act of 2012, or the need for disclaimers and disclosures, he did so in a way that was clear. Even though these topics could sound technical, he gave them meaning that connected to our lives.
At one point, he laid down a rule that surprised me. He said, with full seriousness, that calling him by his name was a mortal sin, and calling him doctor was a sacrilege sin. He was not joking when he said this. His tone carried weight, and I could feel that he meant it. For me, this was unusual. I had grown up with the practice of always using respectful terms like sir or ma’am, often with “po”, whenever addressing elders or teachers. To me, it was second nature, a habit I had never questioned. Hearing this rule challenged me. It made me realize that I would need to adjust, to try my best to follow what he expected, even though it felt against what I was used to.
Later, he added other lines that caught my attention. He said, “What happens in Vegas, stays in Vegas.” It was his way of reminding us that what we hear in the class should remain within the group, a bond of trust that we were all expected to honor. Then he said something even bolder. “I am a liar. Not everything I say is correct. I am not your teacher. I am your facilitator.” I remember pausing when I heard those words. He was making a strong point, one that turned the usual structure of a classroom upside down. He was not placing himself as the sole authority. He was asking us to question, to think, and to take part in the process of learning instead of just receiving.
As the session neared its end, he gave us an activity. We were handed a problem where we had to connect nine dots using only four strokes. At first, I thought it would be simple. I picked up my pen and tried. My first attempt failed. I tried again, still wrong. I tried several more times, but the answer continued to escape me. Around the room, I saw the same struggle on my classmates’ faces. We were all trying, yet none of us found the solution. Then the facilitator showed us how to do it. The answer seemed clear once he demonstrated it, yet it had not come to any of us before. That was when the lesson struck me. The task was not about the dots. It was about the way we limit ourselves without even realizing it. It was about how we imagine a box and trap ourselves inside it, when the solution requires us to step beyond.
The message stayed with me. Thinking outside the box is not just a phrase, it is a practice, one that asks us to challenge the limits we set in our minds. And when the facilitator added that learning does not happen only inside the classroom, the weight of the lesson grew even more. He was right. Learning comes from everywhere, from mistakes, from experiences, from the willingness to try again and again, and from the openness to see things differently.
As the class wrapped up, I looked around the room once more. What had started as a space of strangers now felt warmer, more open. We had laughed together, struggled together, and listened to lessons that went beyond subjects and outputs. I realized then how different the experience had been from what I had expected. I had imagined something more formal, but instead, I found an environment filled with openness and ideas that challenged me.
When I stepped out of that classroom, I carried with me more than just notes from a syllabus. I carried the memory of introductions, the seriousness of rules that asked me to rethink respect, the bold reminder that facilitators guide rather than dictate, and the lesson of nine dots that reminded me to expand my way of thinking.
The rest of the day moved quietly, but my mind kept returning to those moments. On the long bus ride home, as the sky turned from afternoon light to the dim shades of evening, I thought about how far I had come. The road stretched endlessly again, but I no longer felt only tired. I felt fulfilled. I carried with me a sense of belonging and a memory of the start of something new.
That Saturday had not been about one subject alone. It had been about meeting people, listening to voices different from mine, and finding lessons in unexpected places. I realized that beginnings do not always come with loud celebrations. Sometimes they come in the form of a simple self-introduction, a serious reminder about respect, a playful yet meaningful phrases, or the quiet confusion of trying to solve a puzzle until someone shows you how.
Looking back, I know that day planted seeds. Seeds of confidence, of trust, of openness. Seeds that will grow as I continue my journey in the university. And in those seeds, I saw the true gift of that Saturday. It was a day of learning, but more than that, it was a day of becoming.