It’s strange how time can change not just places—but the way we see them.

I’ve visited the Philippines before—last year, in fact. But in 2023, everything was a blur.

I was grieving my father.

I was back, but not really here. The world felt muffled, like I was walking through glass. I didn’t notice much then… except the ache of missing someone who should’ve been there.

This year, though, I returned with clearer eyes.

And what I saw left me… unsettled.

The Heat Hit First.

Not just warm—but blistering.

Everywhere I looked, people carried small wind cannons, like personal bubbles of survival. In malls. On sidewalks. Inside jeepneys.

And I thought—Is this what climate change looks like when it finally reaches our doorstep?

Not statistics. Not news reports. But sweat-soaked shirts, restless sleep, elderly people fanning themselves with receipts, and schoolkids squinting against the sun.

The sky above Cebu looked the same—but it pressed down harder.

Then the Prices.

Everything felt heavier.

Not just the air, but the cost of living.

Street food. Groceries. Rides.

Even the smallest joys now have a price tag that makes you pause.

I noticed how people ordered food more carefully.

Less impulsively. Always checking. Always counting.

I overheard someone at the market whisper, “Pila ra akong kwarta, Ma,” and it echoed inside me in a way it never had before.

There’s a quiet exhaustion etched into people’s faces here.

Not always spoken—but always visible, if you know how to see it.

The Roads Are Still Broken.

The same hospital that was under construction when I left in 2019 is still unfinished—scaffolding frozen in time.

Potholes filled only halfway.

Repairs started but never completed.

It felt like a metaphor for something bigger:

What are we waiting for?

And then there’s Filipino time.

What we used to joke about now feels like a symptom of deeper issues.

Not just lateness, but a kind of collective delay.

Like we’ve come to accept that things will always run behind schedule, and maybe even our dreams too.

I Found Myself Asking: Why Do I See More of the Bad?

And that question stayed with me.

It unsettled me.

Why is it that what stood out the most this time were the flaws? The cracks?

Why did everything feel harder, heavier, more disjointed than before?

And the truth is, I don’t have a perfect answer.

Maybe it’s because when you’ve lived away—when you’ve tasted other systems, other structures, even just more order—your eyes learn to see differently.

Not necessarily better, just differently.

You begin to notice what’s broken, not because you’ve forgotten how to love your home… but because you want so badly for it to heal too.

But Then—Soft as a Whisper—Came the Good.

Time with family.

Long tables. Loud stories. Shared meals.

Evening talks without checking the clock.

The joy of seeing my loved ones healthy, laughing, alive.

That’s something grief taught me never to take for granted again.

Food that tasted like childhood.

Cravings finally fulfilled.

SuTuKil. Torta. Mangoes so sweet they made me tear up.

Zubuchon lechon with skin that crackled, and halo-halo so colorful it felt like a celebration in a cup.

And most of all, presence.

I wasn’t rushing through this visit. I wasn’t numbing my way through it.

I was here. Fully. Tenderly.

And that was the lesson:

Sometimes, what you notice reveals where your heart is.

And sometimes, what you notice is a mirror.

Not of the place—but of yourself.

So here’s what I’m learning:

It’s okay to notice what’s broken.

It doesn’t mean you love your home less.

It means you’re awake now.

You’re paying attention.

But don’t stop there.

Also look for what’s still blooming.

What’s still kind.

What’s still worth coming back for.

For me, that was my family.

That was laughter around the table.

That was the joy of being seen and known again—not as a nurse, not as a writer, but as AJ. As Ate. As the one who came home.

So maybe this homecoming wasn’t perfect. But it was real. And sometimes, that’s even more sacred.