If there is one thing heavier than a sack of newly harvested rice, it is the weight of expectations.

At eighteen, I imagined adulthood as a wide-open road, stretching out with endless possibilities. To me, it meant freedom—the freedom to choose my own path, to stand firmly by my dedication to Jehovah, and to live with a sense of purpose that was truly mine. But the reality of stepping into that stage of life felt very different. Instead of the open road I pictured, it felt more like a crowded marketplace, with voices pulling me in every direction, each louder than the one before.

Parents carried their dreams for me, dreams carefully wrapped in love but often heavier than they realized. Relatives chimed in with their ambitions—some subtle, others delivered like commands. Teachers added their own demands, painting pictures of success that didn’t always align with the vision I had promised Jehovah. And in the middle of all of this noise was my own heart, already given to God, whispering that I couldn’t let these competing voices drown out the vow I had made.

That’s when I learned that growing up is not simply about growing older or taller, or about gaining the right to sign your own forms and pay your own bills. It is about learning to grow under the invisible burden of expectations—the constant tug-of-war between what others want you to become and who you know, deep down, you are meant to be.

This chapter is not just about the milestones of entering adulthood, but about navigating the hidden weights that come with it. It’s about discovering how to walk steadily under pressure, how to laugh sometimes at the absurdity of it all, and how to keep your eyes fixed on Jehovah even when everyone else seems to have their own plan for your life. Because the truth is, expectations never stop coming—but neither does Jehovah’s strength to carry them.

My Baptism and the Beginning

A few months after commencing my dedication in my Villaflores Moment, I made the most important choice of my entire life. That morning on August 25 of 2018, beneath the sprinkling drops and the soft murmur of voices gathering, I stepped into the cool water of my baptism. It wasn’t just an immersion or some traditional ceremony—it was a declaration, a public stand, a line drawn in the sand of eternity. In front of my congregation and of that convention in Binalonan, my friends, and most importantly, Jehovah, I openly declared that my life was no longer mine to live for myself. It belonged to Him.

As I walked toward the rectangular container of water, my heart was a battlefield. On one side were nerves—sharp, insistent, nagging. The butterflies in my stomach weren’t graceful gymnasts leaping with elegance; they were more like clumsy classmates during P.E., tripping over the mat while trying to do somersaults. Yet, on the other side, there was peace. A deep calm anchored my heart. I knew why I was there. I wasn’t acting out of pressure or mere tradition. My decision was deliberate, born out of love, conviction, and months of private prayers.

To many, baptism might look like a simple move—go down dry, come up wet. But for me, it was far more. It was the outward confirmation of a vow I had already made months earlier in Villaflores. There, in that breezy vast field, I had whispered my dedication to Jehovah, offering Him the full devotion of my life. Baptism, then, was like sealing that vow with an official stamp—similar to mailing a letter you’ve written with trembling hands, only to press the envelope shut and drop it into the mailbox with finality.

And when I came up from the water, my hair dripping, my clothes clinging, and my body shivering under the raindrops, I knew I had just made the wisest decision I could ever make. That moment wasn’t just about getting wet; it was about emerging with a clean conscience before God, with the confidence that I was now officially His dedicated servant. No diploma, no victory, no government document could ever compare to the weight of that moment.

The very next day, August 26, I turned eighteen. What timing! From one angle, I had just been spiritually reborn. From another, I was suddenly labeled an “adult” by the state. I laughed to myself at the irony. Yet, at eighteen, I was far from a fully formed man. Yes, I had grown spiritually, but physically and emotionally I was still a teenager—acne battles, unpolished dreams, and a stubborn weakness for coffee. More than that, I was a habitual people-pleaser. I found it nearly impossible to say “no.” Whether it was my parents, my relatives, my friends, even others, my default answer was usually “yes” or “I’ll try.”.

So while Jehovah had my heart completely, I realized that many others still had my schedule. That was a lesson I was yet to learn—how to balance my love for Jehovah with the courage to set boundaries, to stand firm in my dedication without feeling guilty for disappointing people. But at that moment, despite my flaws and immaturities, one truth burned brighter than all others: I loved Jehovah. Deeply, fiercely, with the kind of flaming devotion that made every sacrifice worth it. And with His help, I knew that love would only grow stronger as I learned, stumbled, and rose again.

That day in Binalonan wasn’t the end of a journey—it was the true beginning.

The Expectations Begin

Not long after my baptism, I entered tertiary education, but the weight of expectations came crashing down on me like a sack of newly harvested rice balanced carelessly on a farmer’s shoulders. Suddenly, it felt as though everyone had drafted a personal five-year plan for my life, and none of those plans matched. My parents, with love in their eyes and urgency in their voices, wanted me to give my studies undivided attention. My relatives, who had been rooting for me since day one, were already picturing me as a Certified Public Accountant—preferably one who could also do their taxes for free. My classmates wanted me to loosen up, go out more often, and prove that I wasn’t secretly eighty years old trapped in a teenager’s body. My professors? They seemed intent on baptizing me in oceans of ledgers and drowning me in balance sheets until I dreamed in debits and credits. And Jehovah—most importantly—wishes me to keep the Kingdom first in all things.

And me? Well, I just wanted to survive with my sanity intact and without disappointing everyone in the process while living with my dedication.

Being the people-pleaser that I was, I tried to juggle it all. I would sleep early then study late into the midnight until my eyelids waged war against my willpower, only to wake up again early the next morning for ministry. On weekends, I’d help my parents plant or harvest in the fields, sometimes trudging into class afterward with soil still in my nails. I was trying to be everything to everyone: the obedient son, the diligent student, the supportive classmate, and the faithful servant of Jehovah. Yet, more often than not, I ended up feeling like I was nothing to myself.

Here’s the thing about expectations: they don’t politely knock on your door, wait for you to answer, and ask if they can stay a while. No. They break in, drag their suitcases across your clean floor, plop themselves down on your couch, and demand snacks as if they own the place. And if you fail to serve them, the guilt creeps in like an uninvited guest who refuses to leave. That was me—constantly serving the expectations of others, exhausted but unable to say no.

And yet, through it all, Jehovah’s voice echoed gently in my heart: “Seek first the Kingdom.” It was a reminder that while everyone else wanted a piece of me, only Jehovah wanted all of me—for my eternal good. That quiet truth gave me strength, even when the world’s expectations grew unbearably loud.

Accountancy: The Golden Ticket?

There’s another pressure I have to scale. It involves pursuing careers in this world. To my relatives, studying accountancy was like being handed a golden ticket to the future. Their faces would light up with a mixture of pride and expectation whenever the subject came up. They would beam at me and declare with great confidence, “One day, you’ll be rich! You’ll sit in an office with air-conditioning and never have to bend your back in the fields again!”

It was their way of saying, “We love you and want something better for you.” And I appreciated that. After all, they had spent much of their lives working under the hot sun, their hands blistered from planting and harvesting, their backs aching from long hours in the fields. For them, accountancy wasn’t just a career—it was an escape, a ticket to comfort, a symbol of success. To see me holding that golden ticket was, in their eyes, proof that our family could rise above hardship.

I laughed along with their dreams, nodding politely, smiling at their visions of me as a future CPA in a crisp white shirt, surrounded by calculators and computers, perhaps even sipping coffee in some glossy office. But deep inside, a quiet question gnawed at me: Is that really what I want?

It wasn’t that accountancy was bad. In contrast, I love accounting. In fact, most of the time, numbers and balance sheets made sense to me—when they weren’t attacking me with unexpected adjustments or when “trial balance” didn’t feel like an actual trial for my sanity. But while the subject was manageable, it never sparked fire in my soul. It never made my heart race with more excitement or filled me with deep satisfaction.

What did ignite that fire was ministry. Sharing the good news Jehovah wanted to spread. Opening the Bible with someone who was searching for answers. Offering comfort to a heart weighed down by problems. Those moments lit me up in ways debits and credits never could. Ministry felt alive—it had eternal value. Whereas financial statements? Well, they only had value until the next audit.

Still, with the expectations of my relatives pressing down like a heavy backpack filled with ledgers, I tried my best to live up to their dream. I attended every class, sat in front to look extra studious, and understanding accounting principles until they buzzed in my head. I even practiced enthusiasm, nodding vigorously at financial statements as though they were a thrilling mystery novel. On the outside, I looked like a model accountancy student, determined and focused.

But on the inside, ministry time began shrinking smaller and smaller. It was like that one piece of meat you purposely save for last on your plate—only for someone else to swoop in and eat it before you get the chance. I tried to “save” my energy for the ministry, but somehow the demands of school kept gobbling it up. By the end of the week, I was drained, running on fumes, and all I could give to Jehovah was whatever scraps of time and energy were left.

That realization hurt. Here I was, supposedly holding a golden ticket, yet the “prize” didn’t feel golden at all. Instead, it felt like I was exchanging the ministry—my true joy, my true calling—for a desk full of calculators and endless reconciliations. And no matter how much I tried to convince myself otherwise, deep down I knew: Jehovah’s work was worth far more than any paycheck, any office, or any air-conditioning unit ever could be.

The question lingered in my heart: Whose dream am I really living—mine, my relatives’, or Jehovah’s?

The Farm and the Fields

On top of school, there was the farm. Our family’s livelihood depended on planting and harvesting, and in a farming household, there’s no such thing as “weekend off.” While my classmates spent their Saturdays relaxing in cafés, scrolling endlessly on their phones, or catching up on much-needed sleep, I was usually knee-deep in mud, wrestling with stubborn weeds, or hauling a sack full of Ampalaya (bitter gourd) that seemed to gain weight with every step I took. Oh! I remember that feeling. Back pains!

Don’t get me wrong—I wasn’t entirely miserable out there. I actually loved the smell of fresh earth after the rain, the way the fields shimmered under the afternoon sun, and the rhythm of nature that pulsed all around. Sometimes I’d hum Kingdom songs as I worked, imagining the time in paradise when farming would be pure joy—no back pain, no blisters, no mosquitoes plotting to drain me dry. Out there, surrounded by creation, I could almost feel Jehovah’s presence in the soil and the wind.

But reality wasn’t paradise. When the farm consumed whole days, I’d drag myself home sunburned and sore, so exhausted that the thought of opening a textbook—or worse, my accounting homework—was laughable. Most nights, I collapsed on my bed without even opening my Bible. That’s when the guilt crept in. Not guilt for helping my parents—I loved them, and I knew my hands lightened their load. But guilt that I was robbing Jehovah of my best, of my time to dig in and know Him more in my personal study. My dedication wasn’t just words whispered in Villaflores or water splashed in Binalonan. It was a promise. And each time exhaustion stole my energy for prayer or Bible study, I worried I was slowly, unintentionally breaking it.

So I tried to balance it all. I carried my pocket-sized Bible and a notebook to school, hoping to squeeze in study sessions between classes. Sometimes I read a scripture while resting under a tree in the field, my hands still caked with dirt, sweat dripping down my forehead. I prayed while planting seedlings, whispering words between breaths, asking Jehovah for strength not just to lift sacks of vegetables but to carry the far heavier weight of responsibility. At night, when I felt too drained to think, I’d at least try to thank Him before falling asleep mid-prayer, only to wake up and sheepishly say “Amen” in the morning.

It wasn’t perfect. In fact, it often felt like I was juggling flaming torches while standing on one foot in a rice paddy. Sometimes I gave more to school, sometimes more to the farm, and sometimes I managed to give Jehovah only the leftover scraps of my day. But deep inside, my heart still burned for Him. That flame never went out. Even when my schedule pulled me in every direction, I knew that the balance I was desperately seeking wasn’t really about time management—it was about priorities. And slowly, painfully, I was learning to make Jehovah’s work the anchor around which everything else had to bend. Ginatangko ti kinapudno, ket saanko pulos ilako dayta (I bought the truth myself, and I will never sell it). And I nail it.

A Dilemma and the Outburst

The turning point came a pleasant morning when my father, tired from harvesting from midnight up to the dawn, sat me down on a wooden bench outside our house. The air was heavy with the scent of soil and smoke from the cooking fire. He wasn’t a man who wasted words, and that day was no different. His voice was firm, and it carried a weight that pressed into my chest.

“You need to choose. Continue school… or serve as a pioneer.”

On the surface, it sounded simple—just pick one. But deep down, I knew it wasn’t really a choice. It was a battle of views, two worlds colliding in my heart, and by that time, I am just starting to enjoy the best life as a continuous auxiliary pioneer.

School represented my parents’ dreams. It meant financial stability, a respected career, and perhaps even relief from the endless cycle of planting and harvesting. It meant air-conditioned offices, neat clothes, and the proud smiles of relatives boasting about their accountant nephew. To my parents, school was the ladder that could carry me out of the mud and into a brighter future. Above all, it is the reason for all their sweat and sacrifices.

Pioneering, on the other hand, represented my vow to Jehovah. It was my spiritual flame, my source of joy, my way of saying to God: “Here I am—send me.” It meant investing my time in things eternal, building treasures that no moth, rust, or inflation could destroy. It was the path that made my heart race with purpose.

The problem was obvious: choosing one felt like betraying the other. If I chose school, I feared my spiritual flame would dim, flickering until it died out under the weight of ledgers and deadlines. But if I chose pioneering, I feared I would be betraying my parents, ignoring their sacrifices, and leaving them heartbroken. Either way, someone I loved would feel abandoned.

It was like being asked to pick between breathing and eating. Sure, you can last a while doing only one, but eventually, you’ll collapse without the other.

The weight of that choice crushed me. It sat in my chest like a stone, pressing harder with every heartbeat. I carried it while I was in a jeepney going to school, through my classes, through the farm work, even through the ministry. Every time my father glanced at me, I felt the silent question hanging in the air: Which will you choose?

That day, it became too much. I was riding the motorcycle on the long, cemented road between Villaflores and Ungab. The sun was merciless, glaring down on the fields that shimmered like golden oceans of rice. My right hand twisted the throttle of the motorcycle to rev the engine, but it felt like I was dragging the entire universe behind me. Finally, with no one around to hear, I couldn’t keep it inside anymore.

I scream out loud into the wind. No words, just a shrill cry.

The sound burst out raw and desperate. The road stretched endlessly, and the only witnesses were the carabaos grazing lazily by the dikes. But as the wind carried my cry away, something happened inside me. My heart felt lighter, as if the stone I had been carrying cracked in two and rolled off my chest. Tears mixed with sweat, blurring my vision, and I twisted the throttle more, to be faster—like I could outrun the expectations that had been chasing me.

It wasn’t a formal prayer, not the kind you’d say at a meeting with carefully chosen words. It was messy, loud, and almost childlike. But deep within me, it was the most honest feeling I had ever felt. I admitted out loud that I couldn’t handle it on my own. And in that moment, even with dust stinging my eyes and my legs burning, I knew Jehovah had heard me.

That morning, I arrived at school with a heavy heart, uncertain if I could make it through the day. I sat in class, staring blankly at numbers on the blackboard, my mind far away, whispering silent prayers for strength. I didn’t know what Jehovah’s answer would look like, but I trusted that somehow, He would give me clarity.

By the time I returned home that evening, something had shifted. The air in the house felt calmer, lighter. My father didn’t bring up the ultimatum again. He just asked about my day and went on with his routine, as though our heavy conversation had never happened. It wasn’t like the problem magically disappeared—my parents’ dreams for me were still there, and my struggle to prioritize Jehovah’s will was far from over. But it was a reprieve, a small but powerful reminder that Jehovah never abandons those who lean on Him.

That night, lying on my thin mattress with the electric fan squeaking beside me, I thought about what had happened. Maybe Jehovah had whispered to my father’s heart, calming his worries, softening his expectations. Or maybe He had simply given me the strength to carry the weight without collapsing. Either way, I knew I hadn’t faced that day alone.

Balancing school and spirituality still felt like trying to juggle flaming torches while riding a motorcycle on that road. There were days when I gave more to school than I wanted, days when the farm drained me so completely that ministry felt like an afterthought, and days when I wondered if I’d ever figure it all out. But from that dusty road between Villaflores and Ungab, I carried a new certainty: Jehovah was listening. He cared. And He wasn’t asking me to carry the weight by myself.

Looking back, I realize that moment on the motorcycle was less about solving the dilemma and more about surrender. I didn’t suddenly know which path to take, but I knew where my help would come from. And that made all the difference.

It also gave me the courage to laugh at myself sometimes. Like when I nearly dozed off during class after an early morning in the ministry, and my professor caught me, saying, “You must have been studying too hard last night.” I smiled, thinking, If only you knew. Or when my relatives teased me, saying, “When you’re rich, don’t forget us!” and I thought to myself, Don’t worry—I’ll be rich, just not in the currency you’re thinking of. Humor didn’t erase the struggle, but it made the load a little lighter.

The road to choosing pioneering wasn’t immediate, nor was it easy. But that cry on the motorcycle, that honest moment of surrender, was the beginning of a shift. It was proof that Jehovah’s strength could fill the cracks where mine gave way. And with every prayer, every tear, and every small victory, I was learning that true success wasn’t found in balance sheets or diplomas. It was found in staying faithful to the promise I had made the day I stepped in the field of Villaflores and to the waters of my baptism.

Lessons in the Weight

That’s when it hit me: the weight of expectations is unavoidable. No matter who you are or where you go, they follow you. Parents have them, relatives have them, friends have them—and let’s not forget the expectations we pile on ourselves. It’s like walking through life with a backpack full of bricks. You can shift it from one shoulder to the other, but you can’t exactly toss it into the nearest dumpster.

For those who choose to walk with Jehovah, those expectations don’t magically disappear. We still feel them pressing down. The difference is that we’re called to carry them with patience. And patience, as I’ve discovered, isn’t glamorous. It’s not a dramatic movie moment with stirring music—it’s quietly biting your tongue when someone tells you how you “should” be living your life. It’s smiling when inside you want to shout, “Please, not this lecture again!”

But here’s the twist: expectations aren’t always a curse. When they align with your values, they can actually lift you up. Take my congregation, for example. When they encourage me to keep serving Jehovah faithfully, that’s an expectation I’m glad to live under. It doesn’t feel like a backpack of stones—it feels more like a push forward, a reminder that I’m on the right path.

The real problem comes when expectations and values collide. That’s when they stop being helpful and start feeling like chains. Every decision feels risky: betray others, or betray yourself. And honestly, no one wins in that scenario.

Which is why the next part of this journey matters so much. It’s the chapter I call “When Values Clash.” Because that’s when the real battle begins—not on the outside, but inside the heart.