A Return to My NLE Days, for My Brother Now Finding His Way

There are stories we tuck away, not out of shame but reverence—because some seasons are too sacred to speak of until the right time arrives. And this, finally, is that time.

I made a quiet promise to myself years ago, the kind of promise made not out loud but in the sacred space between memory and meaning. I told myself I would only return to my nursing student days—only peel open the pages of my in-house review, the nights of prayer, the quiet breakdowns behind bunk bed curtains—when my brother reached this part of the journey. When it would no longer just be a memory, but a mirror. When my story could be more than nostalgia—it could be a lantern.

And now, he’s here.

My younger brother is preparing for the Philippine Nursing Licensure Examination, and watching him go through this process has felt like reliving a life I once wore: the weight of reviewers that never seem to end, the anxiety that fills your lungs more than oxygen, the quiet thrill of dreaming you might actually pass and become a nurse. So today, I come back to a version of myself I had safely locked away. I am returning to 2011. To the girl who didn’t yet know how strong she would need to be.

Talavera: Where Time Froze and Everything Changed

It was December. A month most people associate with celebration, glittering lights, and carols. But for us—those who carried the weight of unfinished dreams—it was a month of holy stillness and spiritual battle. We were brought to Talavera House of Prayer in Cebu for our in-house review, a 20-day retreat where we left everything behind: phones, comfort, distractions, and the noise of the world. We surrendered our routines, comforts, and digital distractions in exchange for sleepless nights, handwritten notes, and the terrifying silence of facing our own inadequacies.

I still remember Day 1 like it just happened yesterday. We waited for the bus with our bags packed, not with clothes, but with notes, highlighters, index cards, rosaries, and a stubborn kind of hope. My batchmates wore wacky smiles and carried anxious laughter, as if to mask the fear we all carried under our skin. I took photos—lots of them. Maybe I already sensed that this was the kind of chapter you’d want to remember for the rest of your life.

Talavera was quiet, sacred. It was the kind of place where your prayers felt louder, where the sunrise felt like a personal gift from God. My first morning, I opened the curtain and saw Cebu wrapped in morning mist, and for a moment, it felt like heaven was whispering, “You’re going to be okay.”

Every day was a routine of lectures, mock exams, and long hours reading the same rationale again and again hoping it would make sense the third time around. We woke up early, prayed the rosary before classes, and collapsed into our beds long after curfew with highlighters still in our hands. I was never the top scorer. In fact, during our in-house exams, I was often the one who failed. Quietly. Tearfully. But not once did I allow those numbers to define me. I didn’t compare myself to others. I just whispered to myself, “Next time, I’ll do better.” And then I did.

The Nights Before the Big Days

A few days before the board exam, they finally allowed us to open our laptops. Most of my batchmates used that time to watch movies, rest, or message their families. But me? I found myself searching for answers—not the ones found in textbooks, but the kind that ease your soul. That’s when I came across a blog post by Maria Kristina Siuagan. She wrote about a strategy called B.O.A.R.D. E.X.A.M., and those words became my shield.

She reminded me that the board exam wasn’t just difficult—it was broad. That overconfidence could be dangerous, and amplifying faith and relationships would matter more than caffeine. That readiness wasn’t just academic—it was physical, emotional, and spiritual. That X’s—our old notes—deserved a second look. That a warm glass of milk and a proper night’s sleep were not weaknesses, but wisdom. And more than anything, she reminded me to eliminate distractions and to dart toward my target with unshakable focus.

On December 17, we were allowed to visit the actual testing site. I was assigned to the University of Cebu, Lapu-Lapu-Mandaue Campus. We took photos again—our last ones before everything would change. That night, we had dinner with our instructors and mentors who prepared food for us. They didn’t just feed our bodies; they nourished our spirits. They shared tips, survival hacks, but more than that—they looked us in the eye and told us we were ready, even if we still felt small inside.

December 18–19, 2011: The Day I Met Myself

I woke up at 3:00 a.m. Pearl, my roommate, nudged me gently, whispering, “Anj, it’s time.” We had breakfast and prayed before heading to the testing site. I remember holding my rosary tighter than my pencil.

Strangely, I wasn’t nervous. I was calm—like everything I had studied, every failed mock test, every whispered prayer had led to this moment. When the proctor handed me the test booklet, I didn’t flinch. I smiled. I knew I had given this everything.

The questions weren’t easy. There were some that made me go, “What the heck is this?!” But then I remembered what my mom always said: “Hangad sa langit, Lhang. Ask Him. He’s listening.” So I did. I whispered to heaven in between test items. I closed my eyes when panic threatened to win. I reminded myself why I started. And somehow, I made it to the end.

I remember getting incredibly thirsty after those 500 questions—like my brain had burned through all its fuel. But what stayed with me more was the feeling of peace. I didn’t know if I passed, but I knew I did my best. I had shown up fully. I had surrendered everything.

A Prayer From Then, For Now

“Lord, I just need to be able to focus. I need your help to look at this information so I can remember and apply it well on my exam. I need you to help me feel more confident… Give me the peace, when it is all said and done, to know that I walked in and did my best.”

—My prayer, December 2011

I wrote this the night before the board exam. I still keep it close.

To My Brother, and Every Dreamer After Me

Dear brother, you’re standing where I once stood—afraid, but chosen. Tired, but called. Confused, but not alone. You may not believe it, but every hour you spend reviewing, every church you visit, every moment you doubt yourself—it’s all part of the becoming.

Please know this: you are enough, not because of your scores, but because you care. You are becoming a nurse not just through lectures or rationales—but through the quiet strength of showing up every day for the life you want.

You are not alone in this mountain. I walked it before you. I lit the path as best I could. Now, it’s your turn to climb.

And when you pass—and you will—remember this: it wasn’t just your knowledge that brought you there. It was your faith, your discipline, your humility. It was every prayer whispered in exhaustion. Every mistake you turned into a lesson. Every time you chose to rise again.

This is more than my story. This is now ours.

And to every future nurse reading this: The journey will test you. It will stretch you. But it will also transform you.

You won’t just pass an exam.

You’ll find out who you really are.

— AJ Gabriel