The Missed Slide That Taught Me Grace

By Maria Solita Zaldivar-Guzman

I honestly do not know how to start writing about today or how even to process the quiet heaviness I am carrying. But I choose to share this experience—not to complain, not to seek pity—but to remind myself that even in moments of disappointment, I can choose to be better. I can choose to be gracious and kind.

Last Saturday, on my first day in Manila, I had a meaningful conversation with a cousin. I apologized for an incident involving a parcel he sent me. His response stayed with me: “I have high patience tolerance. We already live in an unfair and often cruel world.” He said it with calm, as he always is collected, thoughtful, and gracious. He is the one who sent me his unused laptop charger when he found out mine was broken. His words echoed louder in my heart today.

This trip to Manila was for a beautiful reason: I received an invitation from the Philippine Board on Books for Young People (PBBY) for the 42nd National Children’s Book Day at Museo Pambata. My book, “Arryn’s Pagatpat Tree,” was among the new titles to be featured, just like in 2024, when “The Little Star” and “Engkanto sa Bukid it Tigayon” were included in the 41st celebration at the Cultural Center of the Philippines.

I could not attend back then because Brie was hospitalized, so my brother and cousin went on my behalf.

This year felt different. I wanted this to be a special first trip to Manila for Brie—her first plane ride, first museums, her first glimpse of landmarks and memories. I kept everything quiet, planning it as a gift and a surprise to those who have always supported me as a writer/author. I was so sure everything was in place.

The Secretariat confirmed our attendance and even encouraged us to bring children and books to donate. But as I sat in the celebration, clapping for fellow writers and illustrators, listening to dignified and eloquent speakers talk about the love for books and imagination as the breath of childhood, my heart swelled with joy and nostalgia.

Then came the moment. The slides of new titles began flashing on screen, alphabetically. I waited for mine. “M” came and went. My book never showed. My husband, filming proudly, looked at me with concern and sympathy. He offered to bring me downstairs for free ice cream—my favorite comfort food—but I chose to stay. I did not want to leave. I wanted to honor the moment, even if mine was not honored.

After the program, I approached the Secretariat. I explained, gently, and learned the truth—my book was supposed to be featured. I had emailed it. The invitation confirmed it. But the intern handling the slides made a mistake, and the Secretariat had overlooked it. I cried not because I was angry, but because I felt a moment was taken from me.

A moment I had imagined, prepared for, and longed to share with my daughter and husband, my constant supporters and inspiration. There would be no redo, no screen flash, and no platform photo.

The loss was quiet, but real. I chose not to react in anger. I did not walk out in protest. I will not write a complaint. I chose to breathe, to listen, to understand, and to forgive. I was weighing whether to post about it. I cannot say something good, but I will not say something bad either, because I understand the intention behind initiatives like these, and I know that to err is human.

And while I may be on the receiving end of something disappointing and heartbreaking, I still want to share the lesson I have learned: the gratitude I continue to find, no matter the circumstances.

Because life is like that. Sometimes, things fall apart and you cannot control it. But you can control who you become in the process. I am posting this not out of resentment, but as a reminder: There are no replays in life, but there is always renewal, redirection, and resilience.

The world may hand you a moment of pain, but you still get to decide whether to let it poison your heart, or purify your character. And today, despite the hurt, I chose to be better. I chose grace. I chose to keep writing.