Our family’s experiences since the beginning of 2026 have been filled with both spiritual fulfillment and personal milestones. But this month, March, makes me pause a little longer. It invites me to look back and really measure how far we have come in just three months. Time has clearly moved. We have changed, and the things that once felt difficult to begin have now, somehow, reached their closing chapter.
March is ending in eight days. For years, I never really paid attention to endings. They came and went without much thought, but this time feels different. This March carries a mix of relief, nostalgia, and something I still cannot quite put into words.
Here in the Philippines, March usually signals the end of the school year. It is a time when learners are recognized, when achievements are celebrated, and when everyone begins to look forward to what comes next. There is a sense of completion in the air. Students feel excited to walk on stage, yet at the same time, they are already dreaming of summer break.
As a parent, this season always brings back memories.
Every year after the Recognition program, my daughter cries not out of disappointment, but from something deeper. She cries because she never expected us to surprise her, especially after we pretended not to make a big deal out of her achievements. She cries because of the teachers who guided her, only for her to later learn that some of them will be leaving the school. She cries because of the quiet uncertainty of whether she will still be with the same classmates next year.
Seeing this side of her reminds me of how tender she still is. There is a certain fragility in the way she experiences these moments. Perhaps she is still learning how to navigate her school life. Or maybe she is simply learning how to deal with change, one ending at a time.
Two weeks ago, she told me she had been chosen to deliver the Opening Remarks for their school program. I had a feeling that this meant something more. A week later, she confirmed she was part of the first honors list. I could not help but smile, quietly wondering if this would be another year of tears or if this time, things would feel different for her.
She might not cry the same way anymore, but I know there will still be a hint of sadness.
At the same time, I see growth. I see that she is beginning to understand what these endings mean. That all the early mornings, the deadlines, the confusion, and even the doubts are not just challenges to survive.
They are preparing her for something greater. They are teaching her discipline, responsibility, and resilience.
As I reflect on her journey, I realize that not all endings come with applause and certificates. Some arrive quietly, in the heart, asking us to hold on to what truly matters.
It is the same kind of quiet ending that we experienced at home just recently, in a much deeper and more spiritual way.
Yesterday, Ramadan ended here in the Philippines. For the first time, I felt a deep kind of sadness as it came to a close.
This year was different for me. I committed myself fully to the Holy Month, and in doing so, I felt closer to our Creator in a way I had not experienced before. Waking up before dawn, resisting hunger and thirst, choosing patience even in small moments of irritation. These were not just routines. They slowly shaped who I was becoming.
What made it even more meaningful was that I shared this journey with my children. There was something beautiful about seeing all of us united at home, embracing and practicing our faith together. It brought a kind of joy that is simple yet profound.
As the days passed, my body adjusted to the rhythm, but more than that, I became more mindful. I paid closer attention to my words, my actions, and even my thoughts. There was a sense of being cleansed, of being reset from within.
And then, just like that, Eid arrived.
Of course, there was celebration. We wore new clothes, shared meals, and spent time laughing with family. But beneath all of that was a quiet realization. We were no longer the same people who began the journey at the start of Ramadan.
Something had changed.
Ramadan left its mark on us. It taught us resilience, gratitude, and humility. And so, its ending did not feel like a return to old habits. Instead, it felt like stepping forward, carrying everything we learned into our everyday lives.
Eid al-Fitr, for me, is not just a celebration. It is a reminder of who we can become if we choose to hold on to what we practiced during those thirty days.
As I sit with these moments, I begin to understand why this March feels heavier, yet more meaningful.
Endings are not just about things coming to a close. They are about preparation. They gently push us toward what is next.
Eid al-Fitr may mark the end of Ramadan, but it opens a life shaped by faith, discipline, and intention. Recognition Day may signal the end of a school year, but it leads to new opportunities, new lessons, and a deeper sense of self.
Both journeys, though different, shape us quietly. They remind us that growth does not always come in big, visible moments.
Sometimes, it happens in the small choices, in the unseen efforts, in simply continuing even when things feel uncertain.
Endings are not losses. They are transformations.
They show us that we are no longer who we used to be. More importantly, they reveal who we are becoming.
Maybe that is the real beauty of March endings. They do not simply close chapters.
They begin new ones, written by the strength, faith, and character we have built along the way.
