The first of July was supposed to be just another volunteering day, serving the kids and helping my co-volunteers run a smooth program. But as I found myself among the crowd during “Unang Lakang: Rotary Day for Children,” I didn’t expect to be holding a crying child in my lap, becoming the comfort he so desperately needed.

The outreach was held at Cebu City Sports Institute in Barangay San Nicolas for daycare students from Barangay Ermita and Pasil. I walked into the gym as an aspirant volunteer, feeling a mix of nervousness about meeting fellow volunteers and excitement to play with the kids. I thought I would just be handing out snacks, taking photos for documentation, or making the kids smile by joining their games. But instead, I became someone’s safe space.

In the middle of the program, a small boy began crying. He was looking for his mother, who was nowhere in sight. His cries grew louder and his panic was real. No one could find her, and the noise of the crowd only made him feel more lost. I couldn’t just sit and watch, so I gently took him under my care. I carried him around while looking for his mother and eventually let him sit on my lap, where he finally stopped crying.
I was busy looking out for the students’ needs: calling their parents, answering their endless questions, picking up their snack wrappers, and dancing with them as nursery rhymes played in the background. Then that boy appeared, crying loudly with a face full of panic. I tried comforting him, but even after walking around the entire gym twice, I couldn’t find his mother. So I finally decided to sit down.

He leaned into me, tears soaking my sleeve. I tried calming him with videos and wiping away his tears. He didn’t say much, but his tiny fingers holding my arm said everything. In a sea of strangers, he found someone to hold onto. That moment felt heavy and quiet, even with all the laughter and music surrounding us.
It made me realize that service does not need microphones or titles. It needs presence. It needs heart. I wasn’t his family, but for a moment, I was someone he trusted. That is the kind of impact I want to keep making, not loud, not always seen, but deeply felt.
My first Rotaract activity reminded me that the smallest, unscripted acts of compassion are often the ones that matter most.
That boy may not remember me, but I will never forget him.