When Tricia Ann G. Anda made her way to the stage as Summa Cum Laude of University of St. La Salle Bacolod, everyone anticipated a speech about grades, ambition and the long hours it needed to get to the top. Instead, she handed them something else.

She gave the spotlight away.

“What if the person most deserving of this medal never got one?” she asked. “What if the real valedictorians are not the ones standing on the stage, but are quietly seated among you right now?”

There was a moment of stillness. Not the awkward type, but the sacred sort. The kind that settles over a room when someone says a truth that cuts straight through the chaos. 

Anda, a Bachelor of Science in Psychology graduate, did not speak about herself. Not really. Instead, she recognized the silent fighters, whose wins are sometimes overlooked.

“I would hand this medal to my classmates who worked online jobs and part-time shifts between classes,” she said, voice unwavering. “Some with cracked phones, borrowed laptops, selling food, art, anything just to make ends meet.”

She saw them. The students who walked to school in the sun or the rain. The ones who wiped their tears before entering the class. The ones who never asked to be seen, but she saw them.

“Maybe I earned the highest GPA, but they earned my deepest respect,” she said. And with that, she tore down every illusion of what being “top of the class” really means.

And then came the part that left many in the audience with tears streaming down their faces: a confession of privilege.

“I lived comfortably my whole life,” she admitted. “From preschool to college, I was driven to school. My meals were served. My uniforms are ironed. All I had to do was to show up.”

She didn’t sugarcoat it. She didn’t pretend to have suffered for the sake of relatability. Instead, she turned the mirror toward herself and said, I had it easier. And with that honesty came power.

“That’s when I understood what a chrysalis is. Where strength grows quietly in places no one applauds.”

Because not all transformations are loud. Some of it happens in the dark, at 3 a.m. shifts, during jeepney rides with half-read notes, in whispered prayers while counting coins for tuition.

“Though I may not have lived their story, I saw them. I admire them. And I carry their courage with me,” she said.

The audience had stopped moving by this point. Some people were crying openly. Anda’s remarks did more than represent humility; they gave healing. It told students who had previously felt invisible, “I see you.” You are important. You are enough.

Then, like any good Lasallian, she directed her thanks outward.

“To the parents and families—thank you for the countless sacrifices. To our janitors, guards, and maintenance staff — thank you for the clean rooms, safe gates, and silent service.

To Jesus, thank You. You carried me through it all. This victory is Yours.”

Her closing words were more than just a call to action; they were a prayer and a vow.

“We were not just trained for the finish line — we were formed for the front lines.

And now the wings are out. Fly high, yes. But fly wisely. Fly proud. Fly Lasallian.

And wherever we go from here, may we always fly toward the daylight.”