We have been talking about Ateneo so seriously lately, so maybe it is time to change the mood a little.
Let me share a story instead.
A story for the young dreamers, especially the students in the provinces who may be wondering if a bigger life is possible from where they are. I hope somewhere in my story, you find something useful, something encouraging, or at least something that reminds you that your current place does not have to be your final destination.
This is not about controversy. Not about opinion. But about how a boy from Surigao, raised in a small city where everyone seemed to know everyone, found his way to a university that would change the direction of his life.
I grew up in a place where a family name could follow you before you even had the chance to introduce yourself.
My parents were both teachers at one of the most known private schools in Surigao. My mother taught elementary students. My father taught in high school and was also known as a strict disciplinarian because of his role in cadet training. Wherever I went, people recognized our surname. I was often asked if I was related to Mr. or Mrs. Gastardo.
In some ways, that name helped.
But in many ways, it also became a weight.
I grew up feeling watched.
Part of that pressure came from family history. My grandfather had been a longtime politician — a councilor and later vice mayor in a municipality about thirty minutes away from the city. That kind of public visibility trickled into the family, and especially into my father.
We were always conscious of what people would say.
I heard it often growing up: What will people say?
That question had a way of entering the house before anything else. It shaped behavior, choices, discipline, and even silence. So the pressure was not only about school or surname. It was also about reputation — about carrying a family name that people recognized, judged, and talked about.
There was always a sense that I had to behave properly, not only when my parents were around, but even when they were not. In a small city, privacy was limited and news traveled quickly. If I made a mistake, it could reach my father. Even ordinary moments could somehow find their way back home.
I remember walking with classmates and eating banana cue somewhere we did not usually go. Later, my father asked me what I was doing there. I had not seen him anywhere nearby, but somehow, he knew.
That was the kind of childhood I had.
Mistakes felt dangerous. Freedom felt measured. Carefulness became instinct.
At home, my father was strict. There were painful moments, both physical and emotional, that taught me early how to stay cautious. Outside the home, there was reputation. Between fear at home and expectation outside it, I learned how to move through life quietly, carefully, and with constant awareness.
We were not poor in the sense that we had nothing. We had food. We had fare. We had school. We had clothes.
Even studying in that private school was possible only because my mother taught there. Because she was a teacher, we received a 50% discount on tuition. Without that, we would most likely have gone to public school.
The remaining 50% was deducted from my mother’s salary, which meant there was barely anything left from her pay. She had to take another job at night just to help us get by.
So even in Surigao, even in the school where my parents already worked, we were already stretched. That was why studying somewhere else felt almost impossible. It was never just about tuition. There would be allowance, school expenses, dorm, food, transportation, and all the other costs of living away from home. If we were already at the limit where we were, how could we possibly afford another city?
There was no extra.
There was no real cushion. No luxury. Sometimes we waited for salary. Sometimes even toothpaste, gasul, or small household needs had to be stretched. Life was manageable, but it was always close to the edge of calculation.
Food was always there, but choice was not.
We had meals, but we could not simply ask for what we wanted. Whatever was served was what the budget allowed for the day. If that was the ulam, then that was the ulam. There was no requesting something else, no choosing another option, no buying an alternative just because you preferred it.
Corned beef already felt like luxury to us. Hotdog felt like a sign that maybe salary had arrived. Barbecue felt like a small celebration.
And in school, I saw the difference money made.
Some classmates seemed to have more ease, more confidence, more attention, more choices. I saw how money could make someone shine without trying too hard.
Because my mother was a teacher, even achievement felt complicated. If I did well, I wondered if people would think I was favored. If I did not do well, I wondered if people were trying not to favor me.
So I grew up with self-doubt, insecurity, and the quiet pressure of having to prove myself while also trying not to be judged too much.
Elementary felt tight.
It was also where I felt like a nobody.
I was not an honor student then. I was not someone people expected to rise academically. So when high school came and I suddenly began appearing on the honor list, it felt as if I had come from nowhere.
My elementary classmates were surprised.
Even I was surprised.
I still remember seeing my name on the honor list and feeling almost shocked by it, because I was not used to seeing myself that way. I had spent so much time behind the scenes, unsure of where I stood, that achievement felt unfamiliar at first.
But my new classmates from other places did not know that old version of me.
To them, I had no previous label to overcome.
I had a clean slate.
And maybe that was exactly what I needed.
High school opened the world a little wider.
Suddenly, the environment was bigger. There were more sections, more kinds of students, more stories around me. My classmates came from islands, provinces, public markets, working families, tricycle-driver families, and simpler backgrounds. I began to see that everyone carried something. Everyone had a story. Everyone was trying to find their place.
For the first time, being less wealthy did not automatically make me feel less.
Something in me relaxed enough to grow.
High school gave me space to discover that I was capable. Not just as the son of teachers. Not just as someone carrying a familiar surname. But as myself.
I started to excel. I became an honor student. I became active in student government. Eventually, I graduated salutatorian.
But even success did not mean I was free.
I was known for being smart and active, but I was not part of the cool crowd. I still wanted to experience the normal teenage things other people seemed allowed to enjoy — the trends, the clothes, the hair, the earrings, the parties, the late nights, the swimming trips, the reckless little memories that make youth feel wide and alive.
I even wondered what it would feel like to try the things other teenagers seemed to try so casually — smoking, drinking, testing boundaries, doing something simply because youth made it tempting.
But at home, the rules remained.
The comments remained.
The limits remained.
And my father had been very clear from the beginning: we could not afford for us to study outside Surigao. The only realistic option was the school already there. That was what our family could manage.
So if I wanted a different future, I could not simply ask for one.
Then Manila happened.
I was sent there for a competition, and for the first time, I saw the city not just as a place on television or in stories, but as a possible life. The malls, the movement, the scale, the energy — everything felt bigger than the world I came from.
It opened something in me.
I remember thinking:
I want to study here.
I want to be here.
I want out.
My pocket money was limited, but instead of spending it on pasalubong or small pleasures, I went to National Book Store and bought college entrance exam reviewers. I was only in third year high school, but something in me had already decided.
By fourth year, our school calendar still ran from June to March. So as early as June, I was already reviewing at night for possible college entrance exams.
I did not even know yet if Ateneo would have an exam in our area. I did not know which schools would come to us, or what opportunities would actually appear. All I knew was this: if an opportunity arrived, I wanted to be ready.
Wherever it was, whatever school it was, I wanted to have a chance.
Just not here.
I kept that preparation a secret. I did not tell my classmates that I was studying ahead, revisiting lessons from first year, second year, and third year, and quietly preparing for a future I had not yet announced to anyone.
I took every entrance exam I could. I applied for every scholarship I could find.
I did not want to leave my future to chance.
Because when your circumstances give you only one door, sometimes you have to build another one.
Then came the Ateneo exam.
It was held in the college building of our own school, just in a different building from where we usually stayed. The proctor had come all the way from Cagayan de Oro to administer the test.
More than halfway through the exam, some of the others began joking among themselves. They said the exam was too hard. They laughed about not knowing the answers. They teased each other. Even the proctor eventually joined in the lightness of the moment.
Then, one by one, people started leaving.
I did not want to look like I was showing off. I did not want to draw attention to myself. So I quietly went to the proctor and whispered, asking if I could still finish the exam.
He said yes.
He told me to continue and that he would wait until the allowable time was over.
So I stayed.
I finished it.
I never told my classmates then that, for some reason, that difficult exam felt surprisingly easy for me.
Then came Ateneo.
Interestingly, I did not find out immediately.
I was in Isabela for another competition when I heard that the envelopes from Ateneo had already arrived at school. They said everyone else’s envelope was thin, but mine was thick.
Can you imagine what went through my mind?
Why was mine different?
Why was mine thicker?
Was that a good sign, or was it something else entirely?
Later on, when I finally found out, the answer was clear.
I passed Ateneo.
I was the only one in my batch who did.
And more than that, I received a full scholarship — tuition, dorm, and allowance.
That changed everything.
I still remember running from the other building to my mother’s classroom. We were so happy that we were practically dancing in front of her students.
It was one of those moments when joy became too big to hide.
Ateneo became my ticket out.
It was no longer just a dream, a wish, or a rebellion quietly forming inside me. It became a practical, undeniable opportunity. The financial reason that could have stopped me was gone. The argument that we could not afford Manila no longer applied.
My father could no longer say no.
Not because I fought loudly.
But because I had prepared quietly.
Looking back now, I realize this chapter of my life was never just about academic achievement. It was about survival, discipline, pressure, and the courage to imagine a life beyond what was immediately available.
I was a child who grew up watched, controlled, insecure, and afraid of what people might say.
But I was also a child who studied.
Prepared.
Endured.
And found a door.
That is why I still believe in dreaming, especially for those who feel trapped by money, place, family expectations, or the smallness of what surrounds them.
Dreaming is not always glamorous. Sometimes it looks like reviewing alone. Sometimes it looks like choosing books over souvenirs. Sometimes it looks like preparing before anyone else understands why you are preparing.
But dreams become powerful when they are matched with discipline.
I did not have much freedom then.
So I earned one.
#TheMarkExperience #Ateneo #AteneoDeManila #Scholarship #Surigao #ProvinceToPossibility #DreamBig #StudentLife #LifeStory #PersonalJourney #Education #Inspiration
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