I have seen the consequences of rushed educational shifts from the frontlines. Today, I join my fellow educators in urging CHEd to pause and listen to those who will bear the brunt of the changes.

This “reframed” General Education curriculum is not an abstract policy adjustment — it will reshape workloads, courses, and livelihoods. Having navigated the K-12 reforms within my own academic department, I know the human cost of reform is always paid by teachers first.

Following last Tuesday’s CHEd online public consultation, it was heartening to see social media flooded with pushback from my fellow educators. Most of the debate has rightly focused on how this “reframed” curriculum prioritizes market forces over the liberal education our students need to become engaged citizens. When I look at these proposals, I see more than just policy — I see the people.

We need to talk about the human cost. In statements circulated by faculty-language advocates and educator groups, including Tanggol Wika and the Association of Faculty and Educators (AFED), estimates warn of a potential displacement of 60,000 to 90,000 faculty members nationwide as GE offerings are reduced, merged, or reassigned under the new framework.

These are not just statistics; they are colleagues with families whose livelihoods are now on the line.

CHEd has, of course, pointed to a “retooling program” designed to handle the faculty displacement. On paper, it sounds like a viable solution. But we have to ask: have we actually looked at CHEd’s track record? When we revisit its past performance on these promises, the gap between policy and reality becomes impossible to ignore.

We were told the CHEd K to 12 Transition Program scholarships would be our safety net during the enrollment gap. But for many of my colleagues, that net was full of huge holes. The criticism from academic groups was loud and justified: CHEd’s administrative breakdowns did not just cause delays — they hit displaced teachers where it hurt the most, threatening their ability to survive while they tried to retool.

In 2016, I walked into my graduate classroom to find something unusual: it was packed to capacity. Normally, these courses are small and intimate, but this time was different. After talking with my graduate students, I realized they were not just there for a degree; they were displaced faculty members from all over — from Baguio to Davao — relying on the CHEd scholarships as a lifeline to navigate their own displacement.

However, the implementation of that program was plagued by systemic failures that I witnessed firsthand. Many of these “CHEd scholars” were forced to drop out because their stipends were delayed for months, or even a year.

It is a tragedy that many of my colleagues had to abandon their education not for lack of merit, but because the release of funds was so unsynchronized with university schedules that they simply could no longer afford to live while studying.

The situation grew even more dire when reports surfaced that private institutions were refusing to admit CHEd scholars. The reason? The government had defaulted on its tuition payments.

Eventually, the funding vanished entirely. It was heartbreaking to see my colleagues, who were so close to finishing their graduate programs, suddenly hit a wall. They simply did not have the personal funds to cover the tuition themselves, especially after already sacrificing so much to stay in the program.

It turns out my observations were not just anecdotal. A 2018 Philippine Institute for Development Studies (PIDS) assessment of the K to 12 transition scholarship support found CHEd “mired in administrative issues,” underscoring what many experienced on the ground: the agency was not prepared for the volume of applications and lacked the staffing and systems to deliver timely support at scale.

Because CHEd has seemingly failed to learn from its past systemic collapses, history is on the verge of repeating itself.

Now, as this “reframed” curriculum looms, that familiar fear is back. If CHEd is serious about reform, it should (1) publish a transparent implementation roadmap with timelines, budget, and accountable offices — including a faculty displacement and redeployment plan; (2) convene structured consultations with HEIs, student organizations, faculty groups, and professional associations where proposals and responses are documented and made public; and (3) defer pilot testing for Academic Year 2026–2027 until the roadmap is in place and minimum readiness criteria (funding release schedules, enrollment impacts, and support mechanisms) are independently validated.

My proposal is simple: an inclusive process that weighs policy against its human impact — and proves, in advance, that promised safeguards will work in practice.

We must stop treating educators as replaceable parts and start honoring them as the lifeblood of the Philippine education system.