Celestine grew up in the loving arms of her grandparents. They were her whole world—the ones who woke her up every morning, prepared her meals, and applauded even her smallest achievements. At a young age, she made a promise to herself: one day, she would give them the life they never had.
She was full of ambition. Her dreams were high, her plans clear. She wanted to succeed—not only for herself, but for the two people who raised her with unconditional love.
But one year, everything changed.
Her grandfather passed away first. Not long after, her grandmother followed. It felt as though a part of her had been buried with them. The house that once echoed with laughter became painfully silent. The dreams that once gave her strength suddenly felt heavy in her chest.
"Who am I doing this for now?" she often asked herself.
Slowly, her passion faded. She no longer felt the same excitement to achieve her goals. The fire that once pushed her forward seemed to dim. The two people who had been her reason to keep striving were gone.
One evening, as she held an old photograph of the three of them, she remembered her grandmother's words:
"My child, dream not only for us, but for yourself."
In that quiet moment, she understood. Her reason had not disappeared—it had simply changed. She might no longer be able to give her grandparents the life she once promised, but she could still fulfill her dreams as a tribute to their love and sacrifices.
Then I slowly rose again. My ambitions were quieter now, deeper, more meaningful. No longer chased success to prove anything to the world, but to honor the love that shaped to me.
Months passed, and Celestine slowly learned how to live with the silence.
One evening, she sat alone in her old room, holding the framed photo of her and her grandparents.
"I'm tired, Lola," she whispered softly. "I don't know if I still have the strength."
In her mind, she could almost hear her grandmother's gentle voice.
"Anak, when were you ever weak?"
A tear slipped down her cheek. "But you're not here anymore. Who will clap for me now?"
She remembered her grandfather's laugh—deep and warm.
"You don't need to see us to know we're proud."
The next day at work, her friend Mara noticed her quiet mood.
"Celestine are you okay? You've been staring at that screen for ten minutes."
Celestine forced a small smile. "I was just thinking… What if I stop chasing all of this? What if I just live simply?"
Lex tilted her head. "Is that what you really want?"
She paused.
"No," Celestine admitted. "I'm just scared to move forward without them."
That night, she visited her grandparents' resting place. The wind was soft, almost comforting.
"I used to dream for you," she said, her voice shaking. "But now I feel lost."
In the stillness, she remembered her grandmother's words from years ago:
"Dream not only for us, but for yourself."
Celestine closed her eyes.
"Okay," she whispered. "I'll continue. Not because I'm trying to fill the emptiness… but because you taught me how to be brave."
From that day on, I worked with a different kind of strength.
Whenever I achieved something small, I would smile and say quietly, "Lolo, Lola, nakita niyo ba?" (Did you see that?)
And in her heart, she always felt the answer:
"We always do."
Years later, as she stood on a stage receiving an award, she looked up at the ceiling lights.
"This is for you," she murmured.
The applause was loud, but what she felt was something deeper peace.
Because she finally understood:
Even when the people we love are gone,
their voices stay in our courage,
and their love becomes the reason we keep going.