The closer we get to our dreams, the farther we drift from home. Minsan na lang tayo nakakauwi, and when we do, it feels like stepping into a memory that’s still alive, waiting for us to notice it again. We walk through the same halls, touch the same walls, and yet, everything feels slightly out of place—like it’s been holding its breath since we left.
We find ourselves missing the simplest things. Yung radyo sa kusina na laging nakatono sa AM station, playing old songs mixed with bursts of balita na lagi namang pinapatigil ni Papa kasi “paulit-ulit lang ‘yan.” But we loved it anyway, that steady voice breaking the silence while Mama cooked dinner. We miss the nights when the family would gather in front of the TV, catching the evening news kahit paulit-ulit na ang headlines. It wasn’t about the program—it was about the togetherness, the shared glances and occasional jokes about how dramatic the reporters could be.
And what about the afternoons? Yung maingay na paghampas ng walis tambo sa sahig habang si Mama naglilinis, sabayan pa ng tunog ng kaldero at kawali kasi nagmamadali siyang matapos magluto. Sometimes, the house smelled like sinangag and tuyo, the kind of breakfast you didn’t think you’d miss until it wasn’t there anymore.
There were mornings when the washing machine whirred to life, drowning out the sound of birds outside. The thumping sound of clothes tumbling inside was almost hypnotic, a rhythm that signaled a normalcy we didn’t realize we’d crave one day. In the evenings, the cool breeze would drift in through open windows, carrying with it the faint scent of flowers from the garden or the rain-drenched earth after a sudden downpour.
We thought we left all this behind for something greater—for cities with towering skylines and lives filled with achievement. And yet, here we are, sitting in silence after another long day, aching for the sound of the radyo crackling in the background, the warmth of Mama’s voice calling us for dinner, or the sight of Papa leaning back in his chair, shaking his head at the TV news.
We’re chasing dreams, yes, but in doing so, we’ve become wanderers longing for the home we didn’t realize was stitched into the fabric of our being. The radyo, the washing machine, the evening news—they weren’t just noise. They were the sounds of belonging, the quiet symphony of a life that felt whole.
Now, as we stand at the cusp of everything we’ve worked for, there’s a bittersweetness to it all. The closer we get to touching the stars, the more we feel the gravity of where we began. Dreams may bring us to grander places, but they also ask us to let go of something. The price of rising is the sacrifice of staying grounded, of letting go of the simple comforts of home that once guided our every step.
While we move forward, clutching the echoes of home tightly in our hearts, we can’t ignore the quiet truth: every step closer to our dreams feels like a step farther from the place that taught us how to dream in the first place. And yet, in the very act of rising, we realize that the price we pay is not only in what we leave behind but also in what we carry with us.
As we walk into the new, with all its promise and uncertainty, we find that the home we’ve left behind isn’t truly gone. It’s stitched into who we are, a part of us forever, reminding us that every dream, no matter how far it takes us, was born in the quiet, steady warmth of where we began.