By Leonardo Micua
THERE are moments in governance when policy language—ordinances, committees, acronyms—quietly touches something deeply human.
Last week, during the sponsorship of an ordinance by Vice Governor Mark Ronald Lambino, one such moment happened. It was not dramatic. No applause break. No soaring rhetoric. But if you listened closely, you could hear what often goes unheard: the quiet exhaustion of families raising children with special needs—and a serious attempt to finally meet them where they are.
The proposed establishment of BRIGHT Centers—Building Resilience through Inclusive Growth and Holistic Therapy—is a response to thousands of parents who have learned to become therapists by necessity, teachers by default, and advocates by survival.
In Pangasinan, as in much of the country, children with autism, Down syndrome, speech delays, and other developmental disorders are common. What’s rare is accessible, consistent, and affordable support. Families are left dealing with private therapy, long waitlists, unclear diagnoses, and untrained advice. Intervention comes late, burnout comes early, and the child—who should be at the center—often becomes an afterthought in a system not built for them.
What makes the BRIGHT Center proposal compelling is that it acknowledges a truth we don’t say out loud often enough: therapy does not end when the session ends. Progress doesn’t live only in clinics or classrooms. It happens at home—during meals, playtime, meltdowns, bedtime routines. If parents and caregivers are not equipped, trained, and supported, no amount of weekly therapy hours can fill that gap.
Vice Governor Lambino was clear about this shift in thinking. The BRIGHT Centers are not meant to be traditional STAC facilities with rows of chairs and fixed programs. They are envisioned as functional learning hubs—spaces where children receive therapy and parents learn how to continue that care every single day. Parent education. Caregiver training. Early intervention strategies. Skills development. This is not charity. This is capacity-building.
And that distinction matters.
For too long, social services for children with disabilities have operated on a model of dependency: professionals provide, families receive. The BRIGHT Center flips that script. Families become partners, not passive recipients. That alone has the potential to change outcomes—not just for children, but for entire households.
Equally important is how the province plans to make this sustainable. Instead of constructing expensive new buildings, the BRIGHT Centers will initially be integrated into existing provincial hospitals—one per district, if all goes according to plan. This practical use of current assets signals something rare in public policy: restraint paired with intention.
Even more promising is the convergence with education. The Pangasinan Polytechnic College’s Bachelor’s program in Special Needs Education was not created in isolation. It now finds its natural extension in these centers, where future professionals can gain hands-on experience while addressing a real shortage of specialists in the province. Education feeds healthcare. Healthcare strengthens education. This is how systems are supposed to work.
Critics may ask about cost. About timelines. About whether the province has “enough numbers” to justify this. But perhaps the better question is this: how much does it cost not to act? How many children go undiagnosed because assessment is inaccessible? How many parents quietly give up jobs, opportunities, or even hope because support is fragmented or nonexistent?
Lambino himself admitted there is no exact number yet—but the trend is clear. The need is rising. And delay, as developmental experts will tell you, is not neutral. Delay has consequences.
What stands out most in this initiative is urgency. This idea was discussed casually just weeks ago. Today, it is already before committees on education and health. In government time, that is fast. In the lives of families who have been waiting years, it still feels late—but it is a start.
At its core, the BRIGHT Center ordinance is not about buildings or budgets. It is about dignity. It is about saying that children with special needs are not side issues, and that their parents deserve more than sympathy—they deserve structure, guidance, and real support.
If approved and implemented with care, the BRIGHT Centers could become more than facilities. They could become proof that inclusive growth is not a slogan, but a daily practice—one family, one child, one trained caregiver at a time.
And that, quietly but powerfully, is how resilience begins.