Here’s the thing — Mayantoc, Tarlac isn’t glamorous. There’s no skyline to pose in front of, no rooftop bars with panoramic views, no polished tourist path with curated experiences. What you’ll find instead are dirt roads, dogs asleep in the middle of the street, tricycle drivers who wave like they’ve known you for years, and manongs/manangs who greet you with a hug and a comment about your weight.
There’s chaos here.
There’s beauty here.
There’s truth here.
And for a long time, I wanted nothing to do with any of it.
I was born in the Philippines, but I left when I was three. I didn’t grow up with these roads under my feet. I didn’t speak the language fluently. I didn’t know the names of half the people who waved at me when I arrived. I spent most of my life trying to blend in somewhere else—learning how to belong in places that were never truly mine, bending myself to feel “normal,” acceptable, digestible. I distanced myself from anything that felt too raw, too loud, too Filipino.
Because deep down, I carried a quiet kind of shame.
Shame for not knowing enough.
For feeling like a guest in my own story.
For being too American here and too Filipino there.
For not being enough of either.
So I kept my connection to the Philippines at a distance. I’d talk about it in the way you reference an old photograph—nice to look at, but separate. Not part of who I actively was. I thought that was easier. Cleaner.
But this trip… it cracked all of that wide open.
It wasn’t just about eating street food or visiting family or sweating through three outfit changes a day. It was about finally being still long enough to feel something. Something familiar. Something grounding. Something I didn’t have words for until I was back in a place I’d spent years avoiding.
It wasn’t perfect. The power went out for a whole day. I got mosquito bites in places I didn’t know had skin. The heat was aggressive and unapologetic. But amidst the discomfort, something softened. Something healed.
I sat in our family home, sipping coffee with my mom while the rooster crowed outside. I listened to my dad tell stories of his time in the military, laughing about how naughty I was as a kid. I reunited with the women who used to care for me when I was a baby—who greeted me not just with affection but with the brutal honesty only Filipino aunties can deliver:
“Nalukmegka unay!” (“You’ve gained weight!”). And you know what? I laughed.
Because that moment—chaotic, unfiltered, completely sincere—was real. And for once, I wasn’t trying to soften it, filter it, or distance myself from it. I was just… in it. Present. Proud. Home.
For the first time, I didn’t feel like I had to perform my heritage or prove I belonged. I didn’t need to speak perfectly or have all the answers. I just needed to show up as I am. With love. With humility. With honesty.
I’m learning that owning where you come from doesn’t mean checking all the cultural boxes or being fluent in every dialect. It means being honest about your story—the whole story. Even the messy, complicated, in-between parts.
Mayantoc isn’t just where my parents retired. It’s where I remembered who I am.
Not in a grand, dramatic way.
But in small, ordinary moments that whispered, you don’t have to keep running.
So no, it’s not glamorous.
But it’s home.
And I’m done pretending that’s not enough.
I don’t have it all figured out.
There’s still a lot I don’t know.
But I’m learning.
I’m returning.
I’m owning it.
One sweaty, honest, healing visit at a time.
