A Journey into Filipino Folklore

Somewhere between dusk and dream, that’s where our stories live.

And for us Filipinos, those stories don’t just stay in books or bedtime tales. They live in our kitchens, on the wind, under the old trees our mothers told us never to climb. They breathe with us. They walk beside us. They teach us—even when we pretend we’ve outgrown them.

I was a child of both science and superstition. Raised by nurses and dreamers. My lola would rub Vicks on my chest and mutter a quiet prayer. My titas would laugh over ghost stories by candlelight during brownouts, their shadows dancing on the walls. They were afraid. But they also loved the thrill of being afraid.

I didn’t know then that I was growing up in the arms of folklore.

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The Path We Walked with Bare Feet

When you grow up in the province, you don’t question the existence of the duwende. You just know not to destroy their mounds or play near them after dark. You don’t argue about whether the tikbalang is real—you simply avoid whistling at night. You learn early on that some knowledge is not about logic. It’s about respect.

Respect for the unseen. For the old. For the sacred.

It’s why we say “Tabi-tabi po” when we walk through a field or forest. We are not announcing ourselves. We are asking permission. Asking for peace. That, to me, is one of the most beautiful things about being Filipino. We don’t assume we’re the only ones in this world. We move through it like guests.

And sometimes, like children still hoping for magic.

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Of Monsters, Guardians, and Memory

I used to think our folklore was just about fear. But the older I get, the more I realize—these creatures, these spirits, they weren’t invented just to scare us. They were created to make sense of pain, loss, and wonder.

The manananggal, the winged woman who splits in half, has always fascinated and frightened me. But what if she isn’t a monster? What if she’s the symbol of a woman split by duty and desire, by hunger and guilt?

What if the kapre, sitting up in trees, isn’t evil—just lonely? Watching the world change, the forests vanish, his home replaced by subdivisions and malls?

What if the diwata, that stunning fairy of the mountains, is simply the reminder that nature doesn’t owe us kindness, but deserves our care?

They aren’t just stories. They’re reflections.

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Our Folklore is Our Compass

It doesn’t matter if we believe in them literally or not. What matters is that these stories taught us how to believe.

They gave us rituals for grief. Words for fear. And tools for healing.

When someone fell sick unexpectedly, and no doctor could explain why, we’d say: “Nadulaan og kalag.” Their soul had wandered too far. The cure? A quiet calling back. A whispering of the name. A warm hand on the back.

It wasn’t science.
But it was care.
It was presence.
And sometimes, it worked better than any pill.

That’s the thing with folklore. It doesn’t ask to be proven. It asks to be remembered.

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Diaspora and the Stories We Bring with Us

Now that I live far from home, in a country where the trees have different names and the wind carries other tales, I find myself holding even tighter to the ones I grew up with.

Maybe that’s what happens when you leave. You start watering the roots you once ignored.

When I feel homesick, I don’t always cry. Sometimes, I just sit quietly and imagine the stories of my childhood walking beside me. The aswang, misunderstood and tragic. The white lady, waiting by the road. The engkanto, watching from the trees.

They are pieces of home. Of identity. Of the Filipino soul.

And they come with me. Every step. Every shift. Every sleepless night when I wonder what I’m really doing here.

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Why We Must Keep Telling Them

Because they are ours.
Because they are tender.
Because they carry the voices of our grandmothers and ancestors who survived through silence, song, and story.

Because when we forget them, we forget parts of ourselves.

Let us keep telling these tales—not as warnings, but as windows.
Let us write them into poems, whisper them to our children, honor them in art.
Let us teach the next generation that belief is not weakness. It’s remembering the weight of wonder.

And maybe, in doing so, we will learn how to live again—with reverence. With roots. With soul.

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To all my fellow Filipinos abroad: when the wind howls strange, or the moon lingers just a little too long—don’t be afraid. Maybe it’s not a ghost. Maybe it’s just the land, calling us home with the voice of a story we’ve known all along.

So let’s keep listening.

Let’s keep telling.

Let’s never stop believing.