I once joined a quiz bee.
It was a small, local contest sponsored by the church in our community—nothing fancy, just the kind where faith, trivia, and pride quietly collide. The timing was perfect. We had just moved to Better Living in Parañaque, I didn’t know anyone yet, and I was in the middle of building a small shed in our backyard for my workshop. Life felt unsettled, but full of possibility.
I went to the church office to register and learned I needed a partner.
That news deflated me. I had just arrived. I knew no one. I was ready to walk away when a girl about my age approached me and asked, “Do you already have a partner?”
I told her I didn’t.
She smiled and said she needed one too. Then she asked if it was okay for us to team up.
Of course, I said yes.
Even if it hadn’t been a Bible quiz bee, believe me—I would have said yes any day.
We were ushered into a holding room where the mechanics of the contest were explained. Canned soda and chips were passed around. We talked, laughed, and grew comfortable with each other far too quickly for two strangers. At some point, I casually suggested we go out sometime—maybe even later that night.
She said yes.
Then our names were called and we walked up to the stage.
The host explained the rules again, this time for the audience, and announced the prizes. I don’t remember the third or fourth prizes anymore, but I remember the first two very clearly.
First prize: a Swatch watch.
Second prize: a black Parker pen and a leather-bound divider binder.
The first prize didn’t excite me. My older brother had just given me the exact same Swatch watch—and I was already wearing it that day. What I really wanted was the second prize.
The contest began.
I answered confidently, especially during the difficult rounds. With every correct answer, I could feel my partner’s amazement beside me. She grabbed my arm, jumped in excitement, shook it as if to say, Who are you? Her energy was contagious.
Until the final question.
When it came, I refused to answer.
The room went quiet.
I wasn’t throwing the game. I knew the answer. I simply knew what I wanted—and I made sure I got it.
We finished second.
Later that night, I showed Nanay what I had won. The Parker pen. The leather-bound binder. Solid. Useful. Exactly what I had chosen.
I also thought about the girl who almost was.
She didn’t speak to me after the contest. She left without a word.
That was when I learned something important.
Success does not mean winning everything.
Winning means choosing—clearly, intentionally—what you are actually aiming for.
Sometimes it’s about the prize.
Often, it’s about something beyond that.
And sometimes, what you choose to win in the moment quietly decides what you lose forever.
That’s why you must be careful with your goals.
What you want now may not be what you truly want in the end.
Choose wisely.
Originally published on Benjie's Bench - Measuring Life's lessons in Millimeters