Return to Belonging: An OFW's Rediscovery of Home

They say that absence makes the heart grow fonder. Whoever "they" are, I'd like to thank them for summing up my entire six-year OFW experience in one annoyingly accurate phrase. When I left the Philippines at 22, I thought I knew everything about my country—the good, the bad, and the frustratingly inefficient. Ha! Little did I know.

The Journey Begins (Or: That Time I Thought I Was So Brave)

It was 2006 when I joined the exodus of Filipinos seeking greener (or at least differently colored) pastures abroad. My path led me to Kuwait and later Taiwan, inspecting microchips—tiny little things that required giant amounts of patience. I left with two suitcases, my mother's tearful blessing, and the completely misguided confidence of someone who had watched precisely three YouTube videos about "Life Abroad."

I wasn't prepared. Not even close.

Cold Realities (Literally... So. Cold.)

My first shock was Kuwait's weather. Desert country = always hot, right? WRONG. So incredibly wrong! Nobody bothered to tell me I'd need thermal underwear in the MIDDLE EAST. I spent my first winter huddled under every piece of clothing I owned, frantically messaging my cousin to send me sweaters. I still remember my landlady finding me in the kitchen at 3 AM, cooking sopas while wearing two hoodies, desperate for both warmth and comfort food.

In Taiwan, it was the factory life that broke me down bit by bit. Twelve-hour shifts under fluorescent lights that made everyone look like zombies, staring at microchips through a microscope until my eyes crossed. My supervisors kept saying "Quality control very important!" while I kept thinking "Eyeball control increasingly difficult!"

The Invisible Woman

The work was hard, but the loneliness? That was something else entirely.

As a Filipina abroad, I learned we occupy a strange space. We're everywhere yet somehow unseen. Once, at a grocery store in Kuwait, I helped translate for an American family who then turned around and asked if "someone" could help them find the cereal aisle. I was standing RIGHT THERE. Hello? The someone who JUST helped you is still here! (I showed them the cereal aisle anyway, because... Filipino hospitality dies hard.)

In both countries, I never fully belonged. My Kuwaiti apartment felt like a hotel I couldn't check out of. My Taiwanese factory dormitory—with its paper-thin walls that let me enjoy my roommate's nightly video calls with her boyfriend IN EXCRUCIATING DETAIL—never felt like home.

Finding Philippines in Small Things (Or: My Contraband Food Stash)

During those six years, I became a smuggler of Filipino comforts. Not literal smuggling! Though the customs officer who found 25 packs of Choc-Nut in my suitcase definitely gave me side-eye.

I hid packets of instant pancit canton like treasure. My roommates knew not to touch the special container in our shared fridge labeled "TOUCH = DEATH" that contained my precious calamansi. I once traded THREE DAYS of lunch duty for a slightly outdated copy of Yes! Magazine that had made its way to Taiwan.

The things I missed surprised me. The chaotic symphony of jeepney horns. The roosters that don't understand the concept of weekends. Even the afternoon floods! (Though maybe not the time my favorite shoes got washed away. RIP, blue sandals, wherever you ended up in Manila Bay.)

The Decision to Return

After my sixth Christmas away—celebrated by eating mediocre pancit from a "Filipino-inspired" restaurant with three other homesick OFWs—something in me broke. Or maybe it finally healed. The remittances I sent home were helping my family build their dream house, but I realized I was living in a place that would never feel like mine.

It wasn't easy to explain to my family. "But you're making dollars!" my aunt kept saying, as if I couldn't hear her the first twelve times. Money is a powerful reason to stay miserable, let me tell you. But there comes a point when you realize that belonging somewhere is worth more than having an impressive bank statement. (Though I wouldn't mind both, universe, if you're listening!)

Seeing Home Through New Eyes

The moment I stepped off the plane in Manila, the wall of humidity hit me like a warm, wet hug from a tita who doesn't believe in personal space. And I LOVED IT. The airport chaos that once made me roll my eyes now seemed like a beautiful dance of organized confusion.

I noticed things I'd never appreciated before. The way Filipinos will feed you before asking why you're at their house. The casual "pssst" to get someone's attention that would be considered rude in other countries but is totally normal here. The fact that "Oh, it's just around the corner" could mean anything from 10 steps away to a jeepney ride and two tricycles later.

My hometown, which I once thought of as boring and provincial, suddenly seemed rich with stories. The old church where generations of my family had been baptized. The market where the same mangosteen seller remembered me after six years away and asked, "Nakauwe nanu dayon diay ka?" (So you're finally home?)

The True Meaning of Home (With a Side of Lechon)

Living overseas taught me that home isn't just about geography. I mean, geography helps—especially our geography that comes with beaches and year-round mangoes. But home is really about belonging.

It's about being in a place where you don't have to explain why you wash rice three times, or why saying "Salamat po" to the bus driver is important. It's where you can laugh at inside jokes about Filipino telenovelas and where "Filipino time" is both universally criticized and practiced.

For six years, I had been a walking, talking Philippine tourism commercial: "Yes, we speak English!" "No, we don't all know Manny Pacquiao personally." (Though my uncle claims he once sat next to Pacquiao's cousin's friend at a cockfight, so basically we're family.)

Back home, I could just be me—the girl who still can't cook adobo as well as her mother, who secretly watches noontime game shows, who is terrified of the neighborhood dog but pretends not to be.

To Those Still Away

If you're reading this from some far-flung corner of the globe where you're the token Filipino—the one who brings pancit to every office potluck and gets called by the wrong name half the time—I see you. The sacrifice isn't just about missing fiestas and family gatherings. It's about living in the in-between, that limbo where you're never quite here nor there.

Your experience abroad, however difficult, is giving you new eyes. When you eventually return (if you choose to), you'll see the Philippines like you're meeting an old friend again—familiar but suddenly fascinating in ways you never noticed before.

Until then, treasure your care packages of polvoron and dried mango. Create your little Filipino corner with your Santo Niño figure and that weird plastic basket of fake fruit your mom insisted you take. Find your fellow Pinoys for karaoke nights where you can belt out "Total Eclipse of the Heart" with people who understand both your accent and your emotions.

Because one day, whether by choice or circumstance, you might come back. And the Philippines—noisy, chaotic, imperfect, wonderful—will be waiting, ready for you to fall in love with it all over again.

Just maybe bring back some chocolate from abroad. We might be the best country in the world, but let's be honest—our local chocolate still needs work.

 

The One Who Stayed: My Journey from Baby Sister to Family Cornerstone

There's something strange about being the last one home. All my life, I was the baby sister – the one everyone fussed over, sent money to, and worried about. Now I'm the one keeping track of everyone else.

The Scattering

My family used to be neatly gathered under one roof in Cebu. Now we're scattered across the globe like seeds from a dandelion:

My sister Maria works as a nurse in California, saving lives and sending home Kirkland chocolates that everyone fights over.

My other sister Mariia built a successful life in Florida – though she still complains about the humidity, which makes me laugh because... has she forgotten what Cebu is like in April?

My younger brother Mario became a tech worker in Saudi. The same boy who once couldn't figure out how to use our old DVD player now explains things like "cloud computing" to me over video calls.

And my oldest brother Marioo is... somewhere in Negros doing... something. Even with my family information network, there are mysteries I can't solve. Last I heard, he was starting a farm, but knowing him, he's probably switched to opening a resort or training fighting cocks by now.

<<Yeah, those aren’t their real names…LOL>>

Then there's me. Still in our family home in Cebu. The last one standing.

The Gradual Shift

I didn't plan to become the family hub. It happened so slowly I barely noticed.

It started after Dad passed away. Suddenly, there were decisions about the house, about Mom, about family property. Since I was here, I handled them. Just temporary, I thought.

Then Mom moved to California to live with Maria. That's when it became official – I wasn't just the baby sister anymore. I was the anchor, the one who kept our home alive.

All Roads Lead to Me

Now, all family news flows through me. I'm like a human switchboard, connecting lives across oceans and time zones.

"Have you heard from Marioo?" "Can you tell Cousin Jenny about the baptism?" "Does Mario know about Tita's surgery?" "Did you send Maria the pictures from the reunion?"

I use every communication tool known to humanity. WhatsApp for daily updates. Facebook for sharing photos. Instagram for the younger cousins. Video calls for important discussions. Sometimes I even write actual letters to our older relatives who still don't trust "that internet thing."

I've become the keeper of our family's story, making sure everyone knows what's happening with everyone else. Without me, my siblings might go months without hearing about each other's lives.

The Visa Coordinator

Being Filipino means travel is never simple. Getting visas is a nightmare of paperwork, interviews, and crossed fingers. And I've become the unofficial family travel agent and visa coordinator.

Last year, my cousin and her kids were actually at the airport, ready to fly to Singapore for her brother's wedding, when immigration stopped them. Something was wrong with their papers. They called me in tears.

From my living room in Cebu, I made frantic calls to relatives, coordinated with her brother in Singapore, and arranged for someone to pick them up from the airport. Three days later, with the right documents in hand (and a lot of prayers), they made it to the wedding just in time.

Seeing the Human Side

The strangest part of becoming the family cornerstone? Seeing my older siblings as real people, not the perfect adults I imagined them to be growing up.

I was thirteen when Maria left for nursing school. In my eyes, she was a full-grown woman who knew exactly what she was doing. Now, at 2 AM, she calls me crying because she's homesick or having problems with her husband, and I realize: she's still figuring it out too.

Mario asks me for advice about sending money home, and I think – when did I become the one with answers? Mariia confesses she sometimes feels like a fraud in her successful American life. And Marioo... well, on the rare occasions I hear from him, he still sounds like he's making it up as he goes along.

They were my heroes growing up. Now I know they're just humans, doing their best, sometimes succeeding, sometimes failing. It's both disappointing and comforting to realize.

The Weight and the Joy

Being the family connector comes with mixed feelings. Some days, it's heavy – I'm the one who has to share bad news, mediate disagreements, or explain to a niece why her father missed another video call.

Other days, it's lonely. While I know everything about everyone's lives, I sometimes feel like I'm watching everyone else's adventures from the sidelines. They're out there seeing the world while I'm here, keeping the home fires burning.

But there's joy in it too. I'm the first to hear about new babies, promotions, and achievements. I get to be the bridge that keeps our family connected despite the thousands of miles between us. When someone needs to know if we still have our grandmother's recipe for bibingka, I'm the one they call.

There's power in being the one who remembers, the one who connects, the one who stays.

From Cared For to Caretaker

Sometimes I look around our family home – quieter now, with fewer shoes by the door and fewer plates at the table – and I marvel at how things have changed. The baby sister, the one everyone protected and provided for, is now the guardian of the family's unity.

I never expected this role. Never asked for it. But as our family has spread across the globe, someone needed to be the center. Someone needed to stay.

So here I am, the accidental anchor, the last one home, turning the lights on and off in the house where we all once lived, making sure everyone still feels connected to this place and to each other.

It's strange, it's hard, it's beautiful. And somehow, it fits. The baby sister grew up and became the heart of the family – not because I was the strongest or the smartest, but simply because I was the one who stayed.

 

My Other Dreams: A Seaside Filipino Restaurant

We all carry other dreams inside us. You know the ones I mean – those quiet wishes that live alongside our everyday lives. The ones we think about when we're stuck in traffic, or right before falling asleep. The "somedays" we tuck away for when the timing is right.

For me, that dream has always been clear: a small Filipino restaurant by the sea.

A Taste of Home

It would be nothing fancy – just a humble place with wooden tables and chairs, open walls to let in the ocean breeze, and strings of colorful lights that glow softly as the sun sets. The menu would celebrate the food I grew up with, the flavors that taste like home.

I'd serve traditional Cebuano dishes, of course. Lechon with skin so perfectly crisp it crackles between your teeth. Puso (hanging rice) wrapped in woven coconut leaves – nature's own takeout container. Tinolang manok with ginger so fresh you can smell it from the kitchen. Balbacua, that rich beef stew that needs to simmer for hours until it becomes something magical.

The menu would feature all the classic Cebuano flavors – sweet, salty, sour, and that perfect hint of spice. Chorizo de Cebu for breakfast with garlic rice. Sutukil for lunch, where diners could choose how they want their fresh-caught fish prepared – sugba (grilled), tuwa (in soup), or kinilaw (ceviche-style).

And yes, I would absolutely draw the line at balut. (Look, I'm a proud Filipina, but there are limits to what I'm willing to cook for others – a partially developed duck embryo is where I personally draw the line. Though I might reconsider if you ask very nicely and promise not to make a face while eating it!)

Simple Pleasures

The restaurant would be small – just ten tables or so. Nothing overwhelming, just enough to fill with laughter and conversation. I'd know the regulars by name, remember their favorite dishes, ask about their families.

The location would be everything. Right by the water, where the sound of waves provides the soundtrack to every meal. Where diners can wiggle their toes in the sand while waiting for their food. Where the salt air seasons everything just a little bit more.

I imagine mornings spent at the local market, selecting the freshest ingredients. Afternoons in the kitchen, cooking alongside a small team who becomes like family. Evenings moving between tables, making sure everyone has what they need, sharing stories, creating a place that feels like coming home even for first-time visitors.

The Dream That Waits

For now, this restaurant exists only in my daydreams and late-night Pinterest boards. My reality is filled with other responsibilities and commitments that take priority. But I still practice my recipes whenever I can. I still scan Facebook listings for beachfront properties that might someday be the perfect location. I still collect mental notes whenever I eat at a restaurant that gets something exactly right – or terribly wrong.

The dream waits patiently. It doesn't demand to be fulfilled immediately. It simply exists as a possibility, a someday, a what-if that brings me joy just by imagining it.

What Dreams Are Waiting for You?

We all have these other dreams – the ones that may not be our main focus but add color and possibility to our lives. Maybe yours is opening a bookstore, or learning to sail, or writing a novel, or moving to a little town where nobody knows your name.

Whatever your dream is, I want to ask you: What are you doing to keep it alive? You don't have to pursue it full-force right now. But are you taking those small steps that keep the possibility open? Are you collecting ideas, practicing skills, making connections that might someday lead you closer to it?

Dreams don't have expiration dates. They can wait while we take care of our current priorities. But they also shouldn't be packed away so completely that we forget they exist.

So I'll keep perfecting my lechon recipe. I'll keep imagining the exact shade of blue I want to paint the restaurant walls. I'll keep believing that someday, I'll serve you a meal by the sea, with the sound of waves mixing with laughter and the taste of home on every plate.

What about you? What dream are you keeping warm while you go about your daily life? And what small thing could you do today to move just a tiny bit closer to it?

 

The Classroom I Never Left: My Journey Back to Teaching

When I was a child, I already knew what I wanted to be. While other kids dreamed of becoming astronauts, movie stars, or professional athletes, my heart was set on something that seemed much simpler – I wanted to be a teacher.

The First Classroom

I can still remember being 10 or 11 years old, sitting on the steps outside our house with the neighborhood kids spread around me, their homework open on their laps. There was something magical about the moment when confusion transformed into understanding on their faces – that little spark, that "aha!" moment that lit them up from the inside.

"Try it this way," I would say, showing them a different approach to a math problem or helping them sound out a difficult word. When they got it, their smiles were my reward. Those front steps were my first classroom, and those neighborhood kids were my first students.

The Detour

But childhood dreams often face adult pressures. As I grew older, the chorus of well-meaning advice grew louder:

"Teaching doesn't pay enough." "You're so smart – you should aim higher." "You need a real career, something stable."

The pressure from friends and family to get a "good" job was intense. They wanted the best for me, and in their minds, that meant financial security and professional status. Teaching, despite its importance, didn't check those boxes for them.

So I followed their advice. I became an industrial engineer, a profession that promised good pay, respect, and plenty of job opportunities. I packed away my teaching dreams and focused on building a different kind of future.

Finding Classrooms Everywhere

What I didn't realize then was that I never truly left the classroom – it just changed shape. As I moved into management positions, I discovered that my workplace had become my new classroom, and my team members were my new students.

All managing is teaching. Every time I trained someone new, every performance review where I offered guidance, every moment spent helping team members develop their skills – I was teaching. The tools were different, but the heart of it was the same: helping others grow and improve.

In meetings when I explained complex problems, in one-on-one sessions when I mentored junior engineers, in team buildings when I helped people understand each other better – I was still that kid on the front steps, just with a bigger classroom.

The Return

Life has a wonderful way of bringing us back to our truest paths. Recently, I started a side job teaching English online to children between 4 and 9 years old. It began as a practical decision, a way to earn some extra income, but it quickly became the part of my week I look forward to most.

The first time I saw a child's face light up when they correctly pronounced a new word, I felt like I had come home. That same spark I remembered from my childhood – it was still there, waiting for me all this time.

These little ones, with their curious minds and uninhibited enthusiasm, remind me every day why I wanted to be a teacher in the first place. When they grasp a new concept or use a new word correctly, their excitement is pure and contagious. There's no feeling quite like knowing you've helped someone understand something new.

The Classroom That Was Always There

Looking back, I see now that I never really left the classroom. Through all my years in engineering and management, I was still teaching – just in different ways and different settings. My classroom expanded from those front steps to conference rooms, to digital spaces where I now connect with eager young minds.

I am not discontent with my journey. My career as an industrial engineer and manager has been rewarding and valuable. But there's a special kind of joy in reconnecting with that original dream, in feeling that direct link between my childhood self and who I am today.

What I've learned is that sometimes our true calling follows us wherever we go, finding expression even when we think we've chosen a different path. My teaching heart found ways to teach, regardless of my job title or setting.

And now, as I split my time between management and teaching English to children, I feel a sense of completeness. The classroom I never truly left has welcomed me back with open arms, reminding me that sometimes the most meaningful journeys bring us right back to where we started – but with the wisdom and experience to appreciate it even more.

So if you have a dream that you've set aside for practical reasons, look around – you might find you've been living parts of it all along, just waiting for the moment when you can embrace it fully once again.

The Look in His Eyes: When My Father Finally Saw Me

In every family, each child seems to get assigned a role early on. In mine, I was always "the baby" – the youngest of four, trailing behind three older siblings who were seen as the strong ones, the achievers, the ones who set the bar. Being the baby of the family meant being loved, certainly, but it also meant not being taken quite as seriously.

For years, I accepted this role without question. It was comfortable in some ways – expectations were different, failures more easily forgiven. But deep down, I longed for something else: to be seen not just as the youngest, but as capable and strong in my own right. I wanted my father to look at me the way he looked at my siblings – with that special pride reserved for those he considered equals.

The Day Everything Changed

My bachelor's thesis defense wasn't just about completing my degree. For me, it represented something much bigger – a chance to step out from the shadow of being "the baby" and show what I could do on my own terms.

I had spent months researching furniture design based on seashells. I investigated how shells – these natural, beautiful structures – could inspire functional, elegant furniture pieces. I examined their curves, their structural integrity, the way they balanced delicacy with surprising strength. In retrospect, perhaps I was drawn to shells because I saw something of myself in them – often underestimated, yet remarkably resilient.

The day of my defense, my father sat quietly in the back of the room. He hadn't said much when I told him the topic of my thesis. I wasn't even sure he would come. After all, my oldest brother's engineering thesis and my sister's medical research had seemed more impressive to him. What was furniture design compared to that?

But he came. And as I presented my research, explaining the biomimicry principles that guided my designs, the structural advantages of shell-inspired forms, and the prototypes I had developed, something shifted in the room.

The Look That Changed Everything

When I finished and answered the last question from the panel, I looked up and found my father's eyes. What I saw there stopped my breath. It wasn't just approval or the obligatory pride of a parent checking off another achievement. It was recognition – pure and profound. For perhaps the first time, he was seeing me not as his baby, but as someone with valuable insights, someone who had created something meaningful through hard work and intelligence.

"This is remarkable work," he told me afterward, his voice carrying a new tone I hadn't heard before when he spoke to me. "You've found something special here." It wasn't just his words, though they meant everything to me. It was the look in his eyes – that unmistakable glint of seeing someone clearly, perhaps for the first time.

Beyond the Baby

Everything shifted after that day. At family gatherings, my father began asking for my opinion on matters where he'd previously only consulted my older siblings. He spoke about my work to his friends with the same pride I'd heard when he talked about my brother's engineering career. The dynamic had changed – I was still the youngest, but no longer just "the baby." I had become a tough and resourceful adult in his eyes.

For the five years that followed before he passed away, I got to experience a relationship with my father that was transformed. There was a new mutual respect between us, a recognition that went beyond family obligation. He saw me for who I was and what I could contribute, and that recognition allowed me to more fully step into my capabilities.

The Gift of Being Seen

It's been years since that day in the thesis defense room, years since my father passed away. But the gift he gave me in that moment – the gift of truly being seen – continues to shape who I am. When I face challenges, I remember the look in his eyes and find strength in the knowledge that he ultimately recognized my worth.

Sometimes the most profound parental gifts aren't material things or even spoken lessons, but moments when they truly see us – not as they've always thought of us, not as the role we've been assigned in the family, but as we truly are, with all our capabilities and potential.

I'm grateful that I had that moment with my father, that five-year window when our relationship evolved into something deeper. Not everyone gets that opportunity for recognition and transformation with a parent. Some spend their entire lives being seen only through the lens of childhood roles and expectations.

If you're still defined by an old family role – the baby, the troublemaker, the quiet one, the responsible one – know that you don't have to accept that limitation. And if you're a parent, remember that one of the greatest gifts you can give your child at any age is to see them anew, to recognize when they've grown beyond the role you've assigned them.

The look in my father's eyes that day taught me that it's never too late to be truly seen. And sometimes, being seen is the beginning of becoming who you were meant to be all along.

Just What the Doctor Ordered: The Uniqueness of Dr Pepper

I have a confession to make: I'm a natural person. I grow herbs on my windowsill. I choose the organic option when I can. I read ingredient labels like they're bestselling novels. But there's one completely unnatural thing I can't resist – Dr Pepper.

The Mystery in My Cup

If you've ever tried to describe the taste of Dr Pepper to someone, you know it's nearly impossible. It's not quite cola, not quite root beer, not quite cherry – it's just... Dr Pepper. That's because it's what I call a "fantasia flavor" – something that doesn't exist in nature but only in the magical world of food science.

The drink famously contains 23 different flavors all mixed together. Twenty-three! That's not a simple beverage – that's a carnival in a can. These flavors aren't just thrown together randomly. They're carefully balanced to create something entirely new, something that can't be found anywhere in the natural world.

Yet here I am, the person who makes her own kombucha, completely addicted to this burgundy mystery drink.

The Beautiful Contradiction

I've thought a lot about why I love Dr Pepper so much despite it being at odds with my usual preferences. And I've realized it's because Dr Pepper reminds me of something important: sometimes the most wonderful things don't fit neatly into categories.

Just like Dr Pepper isn't simply cherry or simply cola, people aren't simply one thing either. We're all walking bundles of contradictions and surprises. We're complex mixtures that don't always make sense on paper but somehow work beautifully in practice.

The 23 Flavors in All of Us

Think about it – each of us is made up of countless interests, traits, experiences, and quirks. I'm not just someone who likes natural products. I'm also someone who loves an entirely artificial soda. I'm not just one thing.

And neither are you.

Maybe you're the tough guy who secretly cries at romantic movies, or the math whiz who writes poetry, or the neat freak with that one messy drawer nobody's allowed to see. Perhaps you're the social butterfly who needs a full day alone to recharge, or the logical thinker who sometimes makes decisions based purely on gut feeling.

These contradictions don't make us flawed – they make us human. They make us interesting. They make us real.

Embracing Your Unique Blend

The makers of Dr Pepper could have created a simple cola or a straightforward cherry soda. But they didn't. They decided to create something that defies simple explanation, something that stands out in a world of easy-to-define flavors.

And I think there's a beautiful lesson in that. In a world that often pushes us to be easily categorized and understood, there's something rebellious and wonderful about embracing all 23 (or more!) of your flavors – even the ones that seem to contradict each other.

So here's to Dr Pepper, that wonderfully weird, impossible-to-define drink. And here's to all of us – equally weird, equally wonderful, and equally impossible to define.

Next time you take a sip of Dr Pepper (or whatever your own guilty pleasure might be), remind yourself that it's these unexpected combinations, these surprising contradictions, that make life interesting. The things that don't quite fit, that can't be easily explained – they're often the things that make us who we are.

And that unique blend deserves to be celebrated, one fizzy sip at a time.