You know that specific, heavy feeling at the start of a new semester? You walk into the room, look around for your friends to claim a row of chairs, and suddenly your eyes stop. There’s a gap.

You look at the desk near the back where they used to sit. The classmate who spent twice as long re-reading the chapters, who stared at the exam papers with that quiet, panicked look, but was always the first to offer you a pen or make a joke when the whole room was stressed out. And it hits you like a punch to the gut when you remember that they aren’t coming back.

They failed that one brutal requirement. They fell below the retention grade. They got filtered out… by a cruel system which decided they didn’t deserve to stay.

And the absolute worst part? The professor walks in, drops their bag, starts writing on the board, and everyone just opens their notebooks. We just… keep going. Like a whole human being didn't just get swallowed up by college.

It breaks me every single time.

Social media fed us that burnout is only for the overachievers. But nobody talks about the devastating and suffocating burnout that destroys the students who have to fight for every passing grade. The pressure on them is a different kind of hell.

Imagine waking up every single day knowing you have to work twice as hard just to hit the bare minimum, while the system constantly screams in your face that you're running out of time.

We often just say "buhay ay 'di karera" jokingly when we feel pressured. Because just as the song meant, life isn't a race. But inside these university walls that line feels like a cruel joke.

Because inside, college feels like a race, one where “survival of the fittest” is toxically glorified.

It’s a ruthless, fast-paced sprint that doesn't give a damn if your brain needs a little more time to process a lesson. It doesn't care if you're a deep thinker instead of a fast thinker. It just demands that you memorize, perform, and pass right now.

The system doesn’t throw you a lifeline if you stumble; it just steps over you and keeps moving the clock.

The pain they carry before they drop out is heartbreaking. It’s the exhaustion of staying up until 3:00 AM looking at words that won't click, the sheer humiliation of seeing a failing grade on a screen, and the gut-wrenching feeling that you are disappointing everyone who believes in you.

Somewhere along the way, we started confusing education with endurance. The student who understands a lesson deeply but needs more time is considered behind and a slow learner, while the student who can memorize everything overnight is considered ahead.

They are burning out not from a lack of trying, but from trying so hard with an engine that's being forced to redline until it literally breaks.

I feel guilty. We’re all so drowned in our own stress, scrambling to balance our own sanity, social lives, and passing marks, that we don't notice our friends are going under until their seats are suddenly empty.

We started this journey as a batch. We were supposed to cross the finish line together. But the closer we get to graduation, the emptier the room feels. When we finally put on those gowns, walk across that stage, and throw our caps in the air, I don't think I'll feel pure joy. I’ll just be looking at the empty spaces in the crowd.

Because victory where we leave our brightest, kindest hearts behind isn’t victory at all—it’s just survival.

To anyone drowning in this race: your worth is not tied to a timeline that ignores your humanity.

Pausing to breathe is not quitting; it is surviving a system that is built to burn you out.

Take a breather, ask for help, and begin again.

Because one day, when we look around the room for a new semester, I hope we won't have to count the empty desks anymore.

The Frontman