The week after Bryan's house call was filled with energy—both literal and emotional.
Emman's students were more engaged than ever. They were drawing circuit plans with more accuracy, asking deeper questions, even staying after class to rehearse for the upcoming Regional TLE Showcase.
But while the students were buzzing, Emman was starting to dim.
His nights had become longer. The lessons, more complex. His weekends—once reserved for quiet coffee and church visits—were now consumed by rewiring lesson plans, checking tools, and fixing the school's inventory system. His back ached from the long hours. His eyes felt heavy, even after sleep.
And worst of all, his smile—so natural, so frequent—now felt... mechanical.
Friday, 7:42 a.m. – Jose Rizal High School
"Sir, may I ask—how do I compute total resistance in a parallel circuit?" Marco asked eagerly, workbook in hand.
Emman blinked. "Ah… yes. Just take the reciprocal—wait—no, sorry, the inverse…"
His voice trailed off.
He stared at the board where he had started solving an example problem… only to realize he had written the series formula instead.
Marco looked concerned. "Sir, are you okay?"
Emman forced a smile. "Just… tired, I guess."
He brushed it off. But inside, he knew the truth:
He was overloaded.
Lunch Break – Faculty Room
He sat quietly at the corner table, unopened lunch beside him. A cold bottle of water was pressed against his temple.
Across the room, two younger teachers were chatting.
"May long weekend daw next month," one said. "Perfect for a break."
"What break?" the other laughed. "Sir Emman's still coming to school on Sundays."
They didn't know he heard.
They weren't being rude. Just honest.
He stared at his planner—crossed-out deadlines, scribbled meeting notes, reminders of things still unfinished.
You're a light, Emman. But even lights need rest.
A Visit from Mrs. De Jesus
At 4:00 p.m., just as Emman was locking the EIM room, Principal Ma. Teresa De Jesus appeared behind him.
"Sir Emman," she said gently, "May I speak with you?"
They walked toward the covered bench behind the faculty room, a quiet corner shaded by bougainvillea vines.
"You've been carrying a lot," she began, sitting beside him.
He didn't deny it. He couldn't.
"I'm… trying," he finally said. "I just don't want to fail them. The students, the programs, this school..."
"You haven't failed anyone," she replied. "But even circuit breakers trip when the load is too much. So why do you think you're exempt?"
He looked down.
"You teach them that safety matters, balance matters. You tell them not to overload a system. But Emman…" She paused. "You've been ignoring your own advice."
The Unplanned Break
That Sunday, Emman did something he hadn't done in months:
He didn't go to school.
He left his planner on his desk. He turned his phone to silent. And he took a jeep to the Laguna Lake pier, sat on a bench facing the water, and just… watched.
He listened to the waves, the laughter of children, the hum of fishermen's radios. He breathed. Not to prepare for a class, but just to be.
And in that stillness, something sparked—not urgency, not planning, not anxiety—but peace.
The Return of the Teacher
By Monday, Emman returned—not just physically, but fully present.
He greeted his students with a real smile.
He let them lead part of the review session. He gave himself permission to pause when needed.
And most importantly, he began delegating. Marco helped organize tools. Carina checked attendance. Bryan handled inventory logs.
"I'm not stepping back," he told them. "I'm stepping together with you."
Reflection: The Heart of the System
Burnout doesn't announce itself like a fire alarm.
It creeps in like a slow voltage drop—hard to notice until things stop working.
But Emman, through rest, rediscovered a truth he often taught but rarely applied:
"A balanced system doesn't just protect the circuit—
it preserves the one who powers it."
And in that balance, he wasn't just a better teacher.
He was himself again.