The urban panorama faded into a haze as my flight flew away from the resplendent skyscrapers of Makati and Taguig. I observed the bright lights transform into the endearing chaos of quaint boutiques and family-owned eateries, and a surge of indescribable emotion started enveloping me. For weeks, a subtle undercurrent of dissatisfaction had coursed through my veins. By all outward standards, I had achieved my dreams. I was successful. Becoming assistant vice president for the Philippines’s largest telecommunications company at the age of 43 – check. Finished my Masters in Asian Institute of Management – check. A salary that afforded me the luxury of indulgence – check. Yet, within me, a profound void resonated. It seems I was suffering some sort of mild depression; I referred to it as another Monday. I felt that going home was something I had to do.
This trip to Davao wasn’t planned. It was almost instinctive, and flailing. Mom’s voice on the phone, laced with a familiar concern, had been the catalyst. And for the first time in years, I didn’t argue. Laarni and I booked our flight home. I didn’t cite my packed schedule, my crucial meetings, my presence at the office. I simply said, “Yes”. As the taxi finally pulled up in front of our old house in the Davao, a wave of nostalgia hit me. I was home, the place where my family still lives, in the same house I grew up in, a house bursting with memories and the comforting aroma of my mother’s sinigang and callos. Mom stood on our red brick porch, her face etched with the passage of time but her eyes sparkling with the same unconditional love and slight terror I remembered from childhood.
We sat on the high stools beside the kitchen counter, sipping her favorite orange juice, the kind that tasted of earth and home. The conversation was simple, unhurried. She talked about the family, her S&R grocery runs, and her latest Netflix binge watches. I listened, not really focusing on the words, but on the rhythm of her voice, the comfortable silence that punctuated our conversation. It was a balm to my frayed nerves, a gentle reminder of a simpler time.
A few days after, I drove through town, visiting places I haven’t returned to in a couple of years, I realized that it was only with my family that I felt I belong. My old school (which was newly renovated), local friends from high school and college (who I haven’t seen in decades), and the familiar streets between our house and town – all reminders of a life that I left, a life that I didn’t belong. My success in Manila had come at a personal cost. I had sacrificed my connections to my family, and, most importantly, my connection to myself. The constant pressure to succeed had created a void within me, a hollowness that no amount of professional achievement could fill.
Here, in my hometown, surrounded by the familiar sights and sounds, I felt no sense of connection, not just to the place, but also to myself. I continue to feel profoundly alone. The reminder of who I was prior to my job title, my accomplishments, where I was from, and whether I was someone’s friend – it just made me throw up. Here I thought going home was an antidote to cure this feeling. I can’t stand that this was my origin story to be one of them, the benighted, the disillusioned, the ones that studied Jesuit values but never once practiced what it meant.
I thought of myself as being late in terms of achievements since my first priority was my passion for the arts. I grew up in a culture with exaltation of ambition and achievement, even when the price to our health became rather too high. They told us in graduation speeches and commencement exercises to dream and reach for the stars and be the best versions of ourselves. The pursuit of excellence is a core value of the Ateneo and the Jesuit order that serves it. “Magis” is to be truly passionate about improving oneself, sometimes even beyond. They never told me was that such things come at a high price.
For most of us who left to take start chasing our dreams, going home can be really a powerful experience. It proves that the bond with the familiar is primeval. I needed to touch base with my roots, to recharge so to speak. I was reminded that I belonged to something bigger than myself, that I was attached to a history, and to a family. It’s not where I came from; that actually mattered, it’s the roots that I have with my family does. It’s about “refinding” balance and purpose.
Have I lived a a life that was meaningful and fulfilling? Finding myself was a pilgrimage, I was not focused on the destination. I understood who I was, the values that I stood up for, and accepted my flaws and all. These values were no longer aligned with the city that I was from and the friends that I left behind. Change was inevitable, I’ve lost friends, I’ve outgrown my hometown, and it felt liberating.
The importance of going home, especially when you’re feeling lost or disconnected, is often underestimated. I realized that going home wasn’t about escaping my life, but about returning to one of my sources of my strength, the foundation upon which my life was built. I felt that I could face whatever challenges lay ahead, because I had reconnected with the part of myself that truly mattered. I knew, now more than ever, the importance of going home. It wasn’t just a place; it was a feeling. I belonged somewhere. I was recollecting. I was going home to yourself. And that, I realized, was the most important journey of all.
Note: Photo above was my room, my mom’s shrine to my achievements posting all certificates, and newspaper clippings.
