The buzz of the electric fan hummed steadily in the background as I sat cross-legged on the floor of my room, my laptop warming my legs and the blue glow of the screen reflected in my glasses. It was mid- April 2019, and I had just been officially accepted into the Information Technology program at the University of the Philippines. The email had come in that morning, and after a scream, a happy dance, and a bear hug from Mama, I sat quietly at my desk, rereading it five times.
This was it. The beginning of the future I had deliberately chosen.
If someone had told me years ago that I'd be entering college to study IT, I might have laughed it off. But with the clarity of my second life, I knew exactly where the world was heading. Technology had become more than just a trend; it was the infrastructure of the future. From 2019 onwards, I remembered how apps had transformed industries, how coding became the new literacy, and how freelancers in tech fields were thriving globally. Even here in the Philippines, more tech hubs were opening, remote work was rising, and the demand for skilled developers, data analysts, and cybersecurity experts had exploded.
I chose IT not just because it was practical, but because it offered freedom. Freedom to build, to solve problems, to adapt. Freedom to earn well and help my family. And most importantly, freedom to write my own script.
Writing would always be a part of me. I still kept my notebooks, still submitted short stories to online journals, and still journaled most nights. But I didn't want to live off writing. I wanted it to remain a joy, not a necessity. With tech, I could pay the bills and build a life. With writing, I could feed my soul.
Later that week, I sat with Papa under the mango tree by the side of our newly painted house. He was peeling santol fruit while I tried to explain what a web developer did.
"So... parang gumagawa ka ng website? (...like making website?)"
"Yes, Papa," I said, laughing. "But more than that. I can help businesses, like Mama's herbal soap line, sell products online. Or I can make systems for local farms to track their harvest."
His eyes lit up. "You mean, tech for our crops?"
"Exactly. I even saw a startup online that uses drones to check rice fields. Tech can help agriculture a lot."
Papa nodded approvingly. "Smart choice, anak. Hindi lang para sa sarili mo, kundi para sa komunidad. (Not only for yourself but for the community)"
That night, I opened a new Google Doc titled: "Goals for College."
1. Learn basic web development.
2. Join the IT student organization.
3. Build a capstone project that helps local farmers.
4. Intern with a tech startup by third year.
5. Graduate with honors.
I stared at the list for a while. It felt ambitious, but for the first time, ambition didn't scare me. It excited me.
July came with a whirlwind of packing, goodbyes, and promises to call home every week. I moved into the dorms at UP Los Baños, a campus nestled among trees, hills, and wide open skies. I moved early to adjust to the new environment and also be familiar with how things are. On my first day, I walked past the College of Arts and Sciences building with butterflies in my stomach and a laptop bag slung over my shoulder.
My first programming class was intimidating. Syntax, logic gates, binary—they all felt like a foreign language. But I reminded myself: you've tackled worse. You've navigated heartbreak, regret, and disappointment. This? This is just code.
The professor, a sharp but kind woman named Ms. Tolentino, explained: "Learning programming is like learning how to think. It's solving problems in steps, making systems out of chaos."
That stuck with me.
I made friends quickly. There was Nadine, who dreamed of becoming a game developer; and Elmo, who already freelanced as a junior web designer. We bonded over late-night coding sprints, frustration over semicolons, and caffeine-fueled debugging marathons.
One day, while working on a class project, I proposed a simple app idea to my group: an online directory for local produce in our hometowns. Farmers could upload available products, buyers could browse, and the system would match supply with demand.
Elmo grinned. "That's actually doable. And helpful. Let's prototype it."
We called it "AniConnect."
Though it was just a student project, building AniConnect lit a fire in me. I could combine everything I cared about: my roots, my community, and this new world of technology. It reminded me that progress didn't have to mean leaving the province behind. Sometimes, it meant bringing the future *to* it.
Back at the dorm one evening, I got a call from Raziel. He was now in his second year at De La Salle University (DLSU), and we often swapped stories about college life.
"You're glowing," he said as soon as I picked up.
"I am not."
"You are. I can tell. How's tech life treating you?"
"Honestly? It's hard. But good. Like learning to ride a bike uphill. You know you're going to be sore tomorrow, but you also know it'll take you places."
He laughed. "That's the spirit."
We talked for almost an hour, about our courses, about the future, and about a possible robotics collaboration. He wanted to work on sensors that could monitor soil moisture, and I offered to help design the accompanying software interface.
"Teamwork, as always," he said.
"Like old times."
By September, I had learned to build a basic website from scratch. I gifted one to Mama as a Christmas surprise—a clean, pastel-themed e-commerce page for *Balik Simula*. We uploaded photos of her soaps, oils, and souvenir packages. I even added a blog section where she could share natural remedies and wellness tips.
Her eyes brimmed with tears when she saw it. "Anak, ang ganda. Parang may sarili na tayong tindahan sa siyudad." (Child, it's beautiful. It's like we own a store in the city)
"Better," I said. "Kasi kahit nasa probinsya tayo, kayang-kaya nating makipagsabayan."(Because even if we're in the province, we can still compete.)
That holiday season, I found time to write again. I submitted a piece titled "Harvest and Code" to a local online journal. It was a narrative essay about merging tradition with innovation, and to my surprise, it was accepted. They even featured it on their homepage with an illustration of a girl typing under a mango tree.
I smiled. Maybe I wouldn't be a full-time writer, but I could still leave parts of myself in stories.
I had chosen a path that was stable, in-demand, and full of potential. But more than that, I had chosen with intention.
With every line of code, I was building not just a career, but a bridge—between my past life and this one, between home and the world, between dreams and reality.
And with every story I wrote on the side, I was reminding myself of who I was and who I still hoped to become.
The future was unwritten. But this time, I had the pen *and* the keyboard.
And I was ready to write it all.