I Didn’t Plan to Stay Eight Years
by Anj
It started with a message on a random night after work.
A colleague sent a link. PyCon Philippines 2018 was looking for volunteers.
There was an opening for sponsorships and marketing. I didn’t think too much about it. I just applied.
I had no experience.
No background in sponsorships. No experience volunteering for conferences.
I didn’t even volunteer back in college. There wasn’t much exposure to organizations where I studied, so it never became part of my world.
Still, I said yes. And somehow, I got accepted.
What I didn’t expect was this: I was the only one who applied for sponsorships and marketing.
So it became just me and Mickey.
We sent cold emails. A lot of them. 200+ emails total.
Rejections came in faster than replies. Most emails were ignored. Some were turned down immediately. A few led to calls.
And in those calls, it was always just the two of us, trying to convince companies to believe in something we were still figuring out ourselves.
That was the real beginning.
Not the title. Not the role.
Just two people, learning how to show up.
At the time, I didn’t think this would last.
I didn’t think it would stretch into years. I didn’t think it would take up space in my life, let alone shape it.
But it did.
What started as volunteering slowly turned into responsibility. I eventually became Sponsorship and Marketing Lead for Python Philippines.
There still weren’t enough people in the team, so we had to build as we went.
We focused on building reach and creating spaces where people could connect beyond conferences.
We organized meetups almost every month, often with the help of companies that generously opened their office spaces for us.
Not every event went smoothly. There were times we had to postpone because of the weather, adjust plans at the last minute, or figure things out on the fly.
But most of the time, it worked out.
People showed up. Conversations flowed naturally over coffee and pizza. Developers shared ideas, students asked questions, friendships formed between strangers, and for a few hours, everyone simply enjoyed being part of the community.
Those moments reminded me that sponsorships were never just about funding events.
They were about creating spaces where people felt welcomed enough to stay.
They funded student volunteers. They made events accessible. They allowed more people to step into a space they might not have entered otherwise.
From a small group of around ten, we grew into a core team of thirty.
We ran Kaizend sessions. We built PyCon year after year. The events got bigger, but so did the expectations.
Then came PyCon Asia.
Hosting it once was already a challenge. Doing it twice in a row pushed us to our limits.
It was messy. Exhausting. At times, overwhelming.
But we delivered.
Not because everything was perfect, but because people kept showing up anyway.
Somewhere in between the emails, the events, and the late nights, something shifted.
The work stopped feeling like something I just did. It became something I was part of.
I met people who didn’t just stay colleagues. They became friends. I watched them grow into speakers, leaders, and mentors. I saw milestones unfold in real time.
And without noticing it at first, I was growing too.
Recently, I stepped down as Sponsorship Director.
There’s a clean way to tell that story. Something about “moving forward” or “making space for others.”
But the reality is less polished.
Letting go of something you’ve built over years is uncomfortable. You don’t just hand over responsibilities. You also hand over identity.
For a long time, this role was how I showed up in the community.
Stepping down meant redefining that.
But leaving the role didn’t mean leaving the work.
I transitioned into supporting another team. I still help maintain sponsor relationships. I still show up where I can.
Just without the same title.
And surprisingly, that shift taught me something I didn’t expect.
Impact isn’t tied to position.
For years, I kept asking myself how long I would stay.
Eight years later, I think that was the wrong question.
Longevity isn’t what makes something meaningful. Staying for the sake of staying doesn’t mean anything.
The better question is simpler, and harder to answer honestly:
Why am I still here?
Not because it’s familiar. Not because I’ve invested too much time to leave.
But because, even now, I still find reasons to show up.
And for now, that’s enough.