Novitiate had officially begun, and with it came an overwhelming wave of emotions that I could hardly begin to articulate. I want to prepare you for what lies ahead in this narrative—these installments may stir something deep within you. I wish I could say that the experiences we faced were light and pleasant, but the truth is often more harrowing than we care to admit. For reasons unknown to me, Mo. Ethel had a particular sternness towards me, as if I had been singled out among the twenty novices to endure an extra layer of trial.
Our days were governed by a strict and rigorous schedule that demanded unwavering commitment. Sleep was a luxury we could barely afford, with a mere three hours allotted to us. Each night, we were roused from our dreams to participate in an hour of adoration, the quiet moments filled with a weight that felt almost palpable. The penitenccial rosaries were a form of penance that tested our physical limits; kneeling with arms extended, I often glanced over at Olivia, whose shoulder would pop out of its socket, leaving me nauseated and helpless.
The mornings began at the hour of 3 AM. Mornings in the novitiate were a dance with exhaustion, where prayers felt less like an invitation to the divine and more like a test of endurance. As dawn broke, we gathered for morning prayers, the air thick with a heaviness that seemed to weigh down our eyelids. Staying awake was a struggle, a battle waged against the pull of sleep that threatened to swallow us whole.
The assistants, vigilant and unyielding, hovered at our sides, their presence a constant reminder that dozing off was not an option. With each faint stir of our bodies, they would poke and prod, their sharp nudges a wake-up call that felt almost like a ritual in itself. Sleepiness was deemed a hex, an affliction that we novices seemed to carry in our eyes, and it never failed—no matter how hard we fought, at least one of us would inevitably drop our prayer book, the thud echoing in the silence and drawing disapproving glances from those around.
I recall those mornings vividly, the struggle to stay awake becoming a relentless cycle. I would grip my prayer book tightly, whispering silent prayers for strength, willing my eyes to remain open as the words blurred together. The act of praying transformed into a war of will, each moment feeling like a small eternity as I fought against the exhaustion that clung to me like a shadow.
After the battle of morning prayers, we would transition into daily mass, presided over by a priest from within our institution. The solemnity of the service contrasted starkly with the chaos of our awakening minds. As we sat in the pews, the weight of our collective fatigue hung in the air, yet there was a sense of comfort in the ritual.
The mass offered us a moment to center ourselves, a breath of calm amidst the storm of our daily lives. Even as I struggled to keep my eyes open, the familiar prayers and hymns wrapped around me like a warm embrace, grounding me in the present.
In those moments, I found a strange beauty in our shared struggle. We were all in this together, bound by our commitment and the challenges that tested our resolve. The morning prayers and daily mass became not just a routine, but a testament to our perseverance, a reminder that even in the face of exhaustion, we could find moments of grace.
Our daily meals? They were a distant memory. Our fast was cruelly strict, reduced to bread and water, and any transgressions led to harsher punishments. I vividly recall one particular incident when I was forbidden to eat for five days—only water, a torment that etched itself into my memory. Our evenings sometimes offered a meager soup or a bowl of Lugaw, but Sundays were the rare oasis where we could partake in fish, rice, and mung beans. The fasting felt endless, and we clung to the hope of feast days in the church, moments of celebration that momentarily dulled the ache of deprivation.
Our education was no less restricted. We were confined to studying only the materials approved by Fr. Bing, the founder, with no outside resources allowed. Chores were assigned daily, and the atmosphere of strict silence hung over us like a thick fog. Speaking to each other was discouraged, and as “foreigners,” we were ordered to learn Tagalog, a challenge that felt both daunting and isolating.
I remember the first time I laid out my mat on the unforgiving wooden floor—no pillows, a stark reminder of our new reality. The heat was relentless, with air conditioning a luxury we could only dream of. Each day, I found myself drenched in sweat, grateful for the brief moments spent in front of a fan, trying to catch a breath.
Living in this environment felt like an immersion into poverty, a cultural shock that was both eye-opening and humbling. The first time I tackled washing my clothes by hand, my knuckles bled from the effort, a painful initiation into a life of simplicity and struggle. It was as if there was a certain pleasure in seeing us “foreigners” grapple with the realities of the culture and lifestyle.
And then there were the showers—ice-cold, outdoor water that shocked my body but also provided a strange relief from the heat. Each drop felt like a reminder of our circumstances, a moment of vulnerability that somehow offered clarity amidst the chaos.
This journey through Novitiate was not merely a passage through trials; it was a profound awakening to resilience, humility, and the strength that lies in community—even when silence reigns. It is a story of growth, of grappling with discomfort and discovering an unexpected depth of spirit. As I share these memories, I invite you to walk alongside me, to feel the weight of the experience, and to reflect on the beauty that can emerge from the harshest of realities.
The picture I shared in this installment marks a significant moment in my journey—the day we received our habit with the SITH. It was a ceremony filled with anticipation, yet for me, it was bittersweet. Some parents were allowed to attend, but as a form of disciplinary control, I was not permitted to invite mine. Sia’s and Olivia’s families came, and they embraced me as part of their own, offering a warmth that cut through the coldness of my exclusion. In that moment, anger surged within me; the unjustness of it all felt suffocating. The rationale given was about detachment, but we all knew it was a tool of manipulation, a means to exert control over our lives and emotions.
As I reflect on those days, I find it challenging to convey the depth of the strict discipline and punishment we endured. It felt like living in a hell that was both physical and psychological. Yet, here I am, grateful for the sanctuary that social media has provided. It has given me the courage to share my story, and in return, I have found a community willing to reflect on their own experiences. Through group messages, a reality washed over us (Sia and Olivia) we are survivors, bound by shared pain and resilience.
One memory stands out starkly in my mind—the moment I was flagellated by the mother superior. The reason provided was that a U.S. Bishop had supposedly caught wind of our movement and was questioning its legitimacy. To this day, I remain skeptical of that claim; it felt more like a tactic to break my spirit, to quell the fire within me that refused to accept the status quo. But the consequences were severe. I endured over 200 lashes, a punishment imposed by someone who wielded power over me.
The ropes used were about six feet long, tied in knots, with the ends burnt to prevent fraying. I can still see those ropes in my mind, a chilling reminder of the pain they inflicted. The strikes were merciless, missing my back and striking my face, leaving me with a black eye that told a story of both physical and emotional torment.
In those moments, the pain was excruciating. Yet, I stood firm. I refused to flinch, to show any sign of weakness. My spirit remained unbroken, even as my body weakened under the relentless punishment. I remember the sleepless nights that followed, my shirt clinging to my wounds, a constant reminder of my suffering.
But it wasn’t just my pain; I could see it mirrored in the faces of Olivia and Sia. We were bound together in our shared torment, a silent pact that we would always have each other’s backs. In that dark chapter of our lives, we found strength in one another, a flicker of hope amidst the shadows.
As we reflect on our time during Lent, memories flood back of the rosary walks we endured, barefoot on the scorching rocks of San Jose. Each step was a reminder of our commitment, but also a testament to our resilience. The heat radiated through the soles of our feet, a physical manifestation of the trials we faced together- only by God's grace.
One particular incident stands out vividly in my mind: Olivia accidentally broke a statue. The reaction was swift and harsh—her disciplinary measure was to wear the remnants of that statue in a bag tied around her neck. I can still picture her, head held high despite the humiliation, a symbol of how we were all forced to carry our burdens, both figuratively and literally.
I remember a day when I was tasked with ironing the mother superior's habit. Trust me when I say that the irons we used were nothing like the modern conveniences found in the United States. These were heated over a bed of coal, and the metal seemed to have a mind of its own regarding temperature. I often wondered if this was a cultural norm in the Philippines or just another trial meant to test our endurance.
In my eagerness, I heated the iron too much and burned a hole in the backside of the mother superior's habit. Panic surged through me as I contemplated my options. Rather than confessing my mistake, I decided to flip it over, hoping she wouldn’t notice. But when she came to prayer, her burn hole became a silent witness to my blunder, and I knew I would pay the price for it.
Another time, I was assigned the dreadful task of cutting the grass—using nothing but a single-handed pair of scissors. The absurdity of it all struck me; it felt like a punishment straight out of a surreal nightmare. Each snip was a reminder of our reality, a stark contrast to the life I once knew.
Yet amidst the chaos and the hardships, there was a undeniable beauty in our camaraderie. We tried to remain unbothered by the situations we found ourselves in, wearing our challenges like armor. The nightmare we thought we were living was indeed our reality, but in those moments of shared struggle, we found solace in each other.
We were bound not only by our faith but also by the trials that tested us. Together, we navigated the complexities of our lives, finding strength in vulnerability and laughter in the face of adversity. Our experiences were harsh, yes, but they forged a bond that would last a lifetime. In the end, it was the resilience we cultivated in one another that became our greatest salvation.
As I share this part of my story, I invite you to reflect on the complexities of resilience. It’s a journey marked by struggle, but also by the bonds we forge in adversity. Together, we navigated the harsh realities of our existence, and in doing so, we emerged not just as survivors, but as warriors in our own right. This is a testament to the power of the human spirit, even when faced with the most daunting challenges.
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I know how it was hard back then...
Oh Katie. My heart is on fire for you❤️. You are amazing.
Dear Katie, I started reading your story today, 11/29 around midday It’s 9:20 pm and completed section 12 among other chores.
Amazing story.