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“The only way to make sense out of change is to plunge into it, move with it, and join the dance.” ~Alan Watts
I must admit, dear reader, that I wasn’t always a fan of change—not even a little. I wouldn’t say I entered this world naturally inclined toward new or unfamiliar things.
Like many children, I found comfort in routine—the joy that comes from ordinary moments repeating themselves. Whether we realize it or not, repetition builds a mental framework that quietly defines our comfort zones.
Maybe that’s where identity begins, slowly shaped over time. And perhaps that’s why, …
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“The only way to make sense out of change is to plunge into it, move with it, and join the dance.” ~Alan Watts
I must admit, dear reader, that I wasn’t always a fan of change—not even a little. I wouldn’t say I entered this world naturally inclined toward new or unfamiliar things.
Like many children, I found comfort in routine—the joy that comes from ordinary moments repeating themselves. Whether we realize it or not, repetition builds a mental framework that quietly defines our comfort zones.
Maybe that’s where identity begins, slowly shaped over time. And perhaps that’s why, while others struggle to recall their earliest years, I remember mine so clearly—because the foundation of my childhood was disrupted early on by a dramatic shift.
You see, my early years were divided between two drastically different parts of the world. One chapter unfolded in the familiar calm of the United States; the next, in the chaotic hum of a developing country.
It’s not the most typical of childhood stories, but I was pulled from my life in San Francisco and thrown into the Philippines as a six-year-old girl. My story begins just before that life-changing move—in the heart of a city I called home.
Simple Days
My first memories of San Francisco are filled with pigeons on sidewalks, ice cream at Pier 39, sunshine in Yerba Buena Park, and seafood dinners with buckets of crab, shrimp, and fish. My parents ran a small corner store beneath our apartment while holding full-time jobs.
That shop was the source of many joyful moments—snacking on candy, hotdogs, and whatever treats we could get. I can still remember the layout of our three-bedroom apartment, the party room where my grandfather handed out chips, and the rooftop playground where we rollerbladed and played tag.
As a child, I was energetic and loud, especially in school. I often got in trouble—not for anything serious, but for being talkative, fidgety, or overly enthusiastic.
That trait hasn’t gone away. I still get excited easily—so much so that people sometimes question whether my enthusiasm is real.
But I never wanted to tone it down. Maybe I watched too many Robin Williams movies. Then again, it was the nineties.
Those were the simple, happy days I’ve always cherished—before everything changed.
Into Chaos
Picture a six-year-old who had just started first grade, still talking about Disneyland, now sitting on a plane heading to the other side of the world. The irony wasn’t lost on me—traveling to my family’s country of origin and yet feeling like a stranger to it.
All I had was the unknown ahead of me—and a handful of roasted peanuts to calm my nerves.
But it didn’t take long for the new reality to hit. I was thrown into a completely different world—fast, loud, and all at once.
Gone were the paved sidewalks. In their place: dusty roads with no curbs. The rivers I once knew were now polluted waterways, lined with trash and a lingering smell that hung in the air.
Dust rose with every passing vehicle. The traffic moved like chaos—cars weaving, horns blaring, people changing “lanes” at will. Looking back, it felt like a game of MarioKart—motorcycles, jeepneys, trucks all racing without rules.
And seatbelts? Nonexistent. People clung to the backs of buses, fingers gripping metal bars for balance. Honestly, even Mario Kart had more order.
The hardest part, though, was adjusting to the humble conditions of our new home. There was no hot water, so my mother would boil it in a kettle and pour it into a basin every day.
Power outages were common, and when it rained, the streets often flooded—sometimes with rodents or worse floating past as we walked home. Cockroaches flew through the air, and lizards skittered across the walls during breakfast.
Sure enough, words like “disturbed,” “terrified,” or “confused” don’t quite capture how I felt.
Homesick
It’s only natural to feel overwhelmed in that kind of environment at such a young age. I remember the shock vividly and how much I missed the world I had left behind.
If I’d been younger, maybe I wouldn’t have noticed. But I was already aware of the world and my place in it.
I’d learned to observe, mimic, and ask questions. I was sensitive and curious—and all of that made the transition harder.
I missed San Francisco—my school, my classmates, the little things that made life feel normal.
And though I’m not proud of it, I saw myself as different from the people around me. That discomfort became my first lesson in how flawed ideas of “otherness” truly are—a lesson that would grow with me over time.
But there was still so much more to learn.
Slow Opening
When you resist a situation, it becomes easy to judge everything around you. That judgment breeds negativity, and before long, it colors your entire experience. At some point, the only way forward is acceptance.
Somehow, I found the strength to stop resisting and take things one step at a time. Because wherever you are in the world, the need for human connection never changes.
So I went along with it. I showed up to school, even when I couldn’t understand my classmates’ language.
I tried. Every day, I tried—slowly picking up words, watching how people spoke, doing my best to be open.
Eventually, the language began to make sense. I started to come out of my shell.
With my siblings, I explored the street food that showed up each week in our neighborhood—ice creams in local flavors served with magic chocolate, hot cheesy corn, sour mangoes with fermented fish paste, salty pork and beef barbecue skewers, fried fish balls with oyster sauce, and caramelized bananas. Strange at first, but so delicious.
One unforgettable moment I can still recall was when our entire building lost power for several hours. These “brownouts,” as the locals called them, happened often and without warning.
It was always inconvenient, but on that particular night, large groups of kids and parents came out of their homes during the outage. Despite the darkness, candles and battery-powered lights lined up the edges of the open spaces, imbuing the entire building with a warm glow.
I can still remember enjoying the cozy atmosphere they made along with the background sounds of small talk and guitar music while meeting other neighbor kids for the first time. Little did I know that a few of them would become some of my closest friends and playmates for several years to come.
That night changed something in me, and not just from the possibility of new friendships, but because it was the first time in my life that I saw how a begrudging inconvenience could be transformed into a beautiful moment of connection.
Small World
After that, my energy returned, though with more caution. After all, it was still life in a third-world country I was dealing with, and it was not very difficult to get hurt at random, like someone running your foot over with their car by accident.
Still, before long, I was speaking fluently, playing after school, and venturing out to buy snacks in the neighborhood. It was common for families to hang signs of what they were selling outside their homes.
With just a few coins, I could buy candy, pastries, or a soft drink tied in a plastic bag. It wasn’t the usual way to drink, but on hot days, it felt like a treat.
There were plenty of local sights that stayed with me—boys climbing coconut trees, old men puzzled by Halloween. But there were also shared experiences: Gameboys, Nokia phones, WWE wrestling, kara
