I was in Subic Bay last weekend to watch blind twins compete in a national triathlon. Jerome and Joshua Nelmida, 24, finished the grueling swim-bike-run race in record times, with Joshua ahead of Jerome by just 30 seconds. It’s tough enough to be a triathlete with eyesight. The twins enter an open sea invisible to them and depend on a sighted athlete-partner to be their eyes while swimming against the waves.

As Joshua and his sighted partner Bernard emerged from the sea en route to their tandem bike, Joshua stumbled on the sand. He quickly got up, made up the lost time and ended up with the gold medal.

Spectators are surprised and then amazed by the odd sight of buff blind athletes connected with cords to equally ripped guides.

In Subic, my own reaction was a deep sense of pride. Not that I had anything to do with their success. All the credit goes to these twins with extraordinary grit and to their devoted parents.

I had known these kids since they were seven years old, 18 years ago, when they were among several case studies for a documentary I did on blind children. I was proud to have witnessed them become these men of steely determination. They were my story.

Eighteen years ago, I had never seen any blind kids and learned that they were usually hidden at home by parents concerned for their safety. So I sought them out. Joshua then was a frail boy who was afraid of strangers and seemed agitated by the light from our camera, the only thing he could sense with his eyes.

I had also featured five-year-old Aleeia, a talkative and animated blind child who already knew how to operate a computer.

All three kids went to a school for visually impaired children, and had dedicated and well-informed parents. But I also showed that most parents of blind children, especially those in rural areas, were uninformed about what was best for their kids and unaware of available services.

I would return to these children again and again since that first story in 2007 and watched them grow up to be well-adjusted, accomplished adults. What I just finished this month is my fifth documentary that features blind children as they advance in age and navigate a society with few facilities for them.

Aside from garnering dozens of medals since their teens, the twins have a talent and love for music. They are aiming for college scholarships to enable them to pursue this passion. Aleeia, now 22, is nearing graduation from college with a degree in psychology. I can envision how effective she would be as a counselor advising kids how to overcome challenges in their lives.

At the finish line of the race in Subic Bay, my documentary team arranged for a surprise meetup, with Aleeia there to congratulate her childhood friends.

I was lucky to be a witness not just to a joyful reunion. I was there at various stages and important episodes of their lives. In doing so, I’ve lived a documentarist’s dream to document “change over time.”

Most journalists are able only to present snapshots of reality, the who, what, where and when of current events. I’ve also felt the adrenalin rush of breaking news and live reporting. That’s the bulk of journalism, explaining the news of the day in two or three minutes.

It’s an uncommon privilege to do long form, the extra minutes documentarists are given to tell a story with more detail and depth.

But much rarer is “extreme long form,” the opportunity to follow subjects over years, to return to them repeatedly to show how they change, adapt, grow, overcome, and sometimes fail. Every time I meet up with these blind kids, I suddenly lose my ability to complain about anything. And I always hope that some of their grit will rub off on me.

They have also been a window to observe society. In the twins’ case, they encountered big-hearted coaches, guides, and donors who helped them break barriers. They show others what can be done. Events like triathlons have become inclusive enough so that parathletes can shine.

Part of my good fortune has been to be part of a documentary show, I-Witness, that has enabled this kind of work for the past 26 years. This is one of the rewards of a TV program’s longevity, the wealth of archival material to provide our stories with unusual depth and context. But it also requires the documentarist’s own longevity, my greatest luck of all.

These kids’ stories of course are far from over. They’re only in their 20s. I, on the other hand, am already in my 60s. Documenting their lives has spanned a big part of my career.

The latest chapter is done, climaxed by that triumphant finish and emotional reunion in Subic. I’m already imagining how the next chapter unfolds.