Thrice that I tried, thrice that I failed. That, in a nutshell, is the story of my attempts to represent our school in the annual extemporaneous speech competition. Had I won first place, I should have been the school’s bet for that event. But as usual, I ended up runner-up, and my friend Athena was the winner. She really is an excellent orator. Whatever I can do, she can do better. It is what it is. Perhaps next year, I’ll just try declamation, so I wouldn’t have to compete with her anymore.

“I was just lucky, Christian!” That was Athena, trying to console me after the contest.

“It has nothing to do with luck. You’re really a good speaker. You deserve to win. Good luck at the speech competition.”

After saying “thank you,” Athena embraced me. Well — that’s my consolation prize. A hug from my friend.

Then the day of the competition came. I went to the school hosting the event to watch. The moment I reached the campus, my phone rang. It was Mrs. Simon, our school principal. She asked me to see her immediately. Sensing the urgency in her voice, I hurried to the library, where she said she’d be waiting.

“Christian — Athena is in the hospital. She had an accident on her way here. She won’t make it to the contest. You placed second in our elimination, so you’re her substitute. You’ll be our contestant for the extemporaneous speech. The organizers have allowed it.”

I was speechless. She talked fast, as if she didn’t want to give me the chance to say no. That’s vintage Mrs. Simon — direct, firm, and unwilling to take no for an answer. I didn’t know what to say. I was worried about joining a competition with no preparation. But I was more worried about Athena.

“The contest starts in less than two hours. Do this — not for yourself, not even for the school. Do this for your friend. Please.”

I accepted. The theme, at least, was the same one we’d used at our school’s elimination — only the specific topic would be new. Ms. Cruz, Athena’s coach, briefed me quickly on the rules and the topics the judges might give.

Then the contest began. And as if two hours’ notice wasn’t pressure enough, I drew number one in the lottery. First contestant. No one to watch and learn from before my turn.

In the room beside the venue, I was handed a slip of paper with the specific topic, written as a question:

“What can you do to make the Philippines a better nation?”

“Oh my God,” I whispered. That wasn’t one of the topics I’d practiced.

Three minutes. Three minutes to solve a problem that has bedeviled this country for as long as I’ve been alive. Were the judges serious? How many presidents have taken their turn running this country? How many years did each of them have to make it great? Did they succeed? No. And they had senators, congressmen, entire administrations behind them. I had nothing. No power, no money, no influence. Just an ordinary boy — alone, with a blank mind and a ticking clock. What was I supposed to say?

Wait. Wait. Calm down, Christian. This is a contest, not an interrogation. It’s a hypothetical question. Don’t take it personally. Breathe. Inhale. Exhale.

Every movement of the minute hand felt like a blade, slicing away at what little composure I had left.

Until the last few seconds, nothing came. Then Ms. Cruz told me it was time. I closed my eyes and whispered, “Dear Lord, please help me.”

I made myself walk slowly toward the next room. On the way, I passed a student in the hallway, his head swaying to whatever was playing through his earphones. I recognized the song immediately — Michael Jackson’s “Man in the Mirror.” One line reached me as I passed him, and it hit like a switch flipped in my head.

That was my moment. God had heard me.

“I am but a young man,” I began, “still struggling to get an education. I don’t have brilliant ideas to offer this nation. I don’t have the power, the money, or the influence to make any meaningful change in our society. But there is one thing I can do that might be exactly what this nation needs. The King of Pop, Michael Jackson, once sang that if you want to make the world a better place, you have to look at yourself, and then make a change. That is exactly what I intend to do. I cannot change the system of our government. I cannot change how you think, or how you act. I cannot change you. But I can change me. I have the power to transform myself — my attitude, my perspective, the person I choose to be every single day. If each of us did the same — if each of us looked in that same mirror — the Philippines might just become the nation we keep asking someone else to build.”

I gave that answer to a room full of judges I never expected to see again. But I’m asking you the same question tonight, because it didn’t stop mattering the moment the contest ended.

Look at yourself. Look hard.

Are you the reason this country stays the same? Or are you willing to be the reason it changes?

That was the best part of my three-minute speech. I didn’t wait for the results. I left the moment I finished and went straight to the hospital, where Athena was recovering with only minor injuries. I was relieved just to see her sitting up, awake, and smiling weakly at me.

While I sat with her, Mrs. Simon called with the results. I hadn’t won first place. Runner-up. Again. At least I’d represent our district at the provincial level, alongside the winner.

But that wasn’t the news I cared about that day. The news I wanted — the news that mattered — was that my friend was going to be okay.