Why presence still matters – and always will

By Herman M. Lagon                      

There was something disarming about the way Philippine Guidance and Counseling Association (PGCA) National President Christopher P. Hernandez opened his talk at the PGCA-Iloilo Seminar-Workshop. It wasn’t a grand declaration or a sharp critique. It was the way he named, with warmth and candor, the quiet struggles and invisible grit behind helping work. Sitting in the ballroom of the Iloilo Grand Hotel, listening with colleagues from guidance, wellness, and allied professions, I felt an unexpected familiarity—para bang kinuwento niya yung araw-araw na hindi nasusulat sa reports. His idea of animus service—the spirit that moves us to serve even when our job descriptions end—landed in a way that was less theoretical and more like someone gently placing a hand on your shoulder: “I see what you carry.”

What struck me first was how he affirmed something many helping professionals hesitate to admit: compassion is rarely tidy. It stretches, spills, and exhausts. And yet, as Sir Chris described, it also anchors. I remembered a student I once met—not the dramatic kind you’d see in case studies, just a quiet boy who lingered after every guidance class. He’d stay a bit longer in the room, sometimes for no clear reason. Back then I wondered if I should “do more,” “probe deeper,” or “apply a framework.” But listening to Sir Chris, I realized that sometimes the relationship is the intervention. The boy didn’t need a savior—he needed a space where silence was allowed. That small memory floated up during the talk, reminding me how often our most meaningful acts are not the heroic ones.

Sir Chris’ challenge to go “beyond the role” also made me think of the many colleagues who serve outside the spotlight. The psychometrician who explains test results to anxious parents with patience, even if it means staying late. The barangay health worker who accompanies a mother through a confusing hospital queue not because it’s mandated, but because she sensed the fear. Or the guidance aide who quietly prepares the counseling area each morning so the space feels welcoming. These gestures rarely appear in accomplishment reports, yet they carry the same spirit Sir Chris spoke of. They are not exceptional—they are everyday. And perhaps, that is what makes them important.

Still, his message did not romanticize service. Sir Chris did not paint helping work as some heroic calling. Instead, he spoke of its messiness—the exhaustion, the blurred boundaries, the weight of stories that sometimes follow us home. It was refreshing to hear a national president admit these truths without judgment. Many nodded silently during his morning talk, including those who confessed earlier over coffee that they sometimes feel guilty for being tired. His message landed with the kind of relief that comes when someone articulates what you’ve been holding inside but could not quite name. Listening to him, the room felt less like a seminar hall and more like a group of people collectively exhaling.

One of the most compelling parts of his message was when he talked about the courage to care deeply in an imperfect environment. That courage, he said, is not loud. It is the counselor who returns to a difficult case the next day even after feeling inadequate. It is the teacher who checks in on a withdrawn student despite having stacks of paperwork waiting. It is the health worker who reminds herself, “Kaya mo pa,” before stepping into another emotionally charged situation. These examples grounded the talk—not in abstract advocacy—but in the small, human decisions that quietly shape the lives of others.

What I appreciated most was the humility behind Sir Chris’ message. He did not position guidance counselors or mental health workers as the only people capable of care. Instead, he emphasized shared responsibility. Community resilience, he said, cannot rest on a single profession. It grows when people—teachers, parents, neighbors, barangay workers—become attentive to each other. In a place where mental health support is still uber thin and counselors are direly outnumbered, his reminder felt comforting rather than heavy. It means we do not need to carry everything alone.

Leaving the hall after his talk, I reflected on how “animus service” shows up in small ways in our own team at ISUFST. It is in the laughter that slices through long testing days. It is in colleagues offering snacks to lighten tense moments. It is in shared glances that say, “Kaya pa.” These moments do not solve structural problems, but they keep us human. Sir Chris’ talk helped me and many local PGCA seminar-workshop participants appreciate them more. He reminded us that relationships—not structures—often keep service compassionate.

By the end of the day, I realized that what Sir Chris offered was not a lecture but a conversation we all needed. A conversation about staying soft in a world that can harden us. About choosing presence even when solutions are unclear. About seeing people not as burdens, but as stories in progress. And about recognizing that our own stories matter too—that caring for others does not have to mean losing ourselves.

If anything, his talk affirmed something simple but profound: that the spirit to serve does not require grandeur. It requires sincerity. And when sincerity is paired with skill, boundaries, and a community that supports each other, helping work becomes less about being strong and more about being real. Perhaps that is the true courage Sir Chris was pointing us toward—not the courage to rescue everyone, but the courage to show up honestly, gently, and humanely, one person at a time.

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Doc H fondly describes himself as a ”student of and for life” who, like many others, aspires to a life-giving and why-driven world grounded in social justice and the pursuit of happiness. His views do not necessarily reflect those of the institutions he is employed or connected with.