“Home is now behind you. The world is ahead.”
— The Hobbit

Every beginning is a kind of unraveling. It doesn’t matter how long you’ve waited for it or how tightly you’ve clung to the dream—it still hurts in ways you didn’t prepare for. Suddenly, what once felt easy—grabbing snacks from a familiar street vendor, catching a bus you know by heart, the casual small talk with your regular hairdresser—becomes a maze. The absence of the familiar reveals itself in small, jarring ways. You start to realize just how much of your daily life was built on tiny, effortless routines… until they’re gone.

No one really tells you that growing into yourself might involve breaking a little first.

When I first arrived in the UK, I wasn’t just adjusting to the weather or the accent. I was adjusting to absence. The absence of family, of comfort, of context. Back home, meals just happened—served warm, made with love, timed perfectly with your hunger. But here, alone in a flat with an unfamiliar stove and an emptier fridge, I resorted to microwave meals. I didn’t even know what some ingredients were, let alone how to cook them. One night, after a long and emotionally draining shift, I came home frozen and tired. I opened the fridge, found nothing comforting, and sat on the edge of my bed. I thought of my mother’s adobo. The garlic. The steam. The tenderness. The way she always asked if I’d had enough. I missed her so fiercely in that moment, I cried without restraint. The microwave meal sat untouched. I cried myself to sleep—hungry for food, but more than that, hungry for home.

No one really tells you that growing into yourself might involve breaking a little first. That you’ll spend nights wondering why you ever left the warmth of what you knew, even if what you knew wasn’t where you were meant to stay. There’s a kind of grief that follows change—a grieving of the person you were, of the life you had, of the comforts you didn’t realize would be so hard to let go of.

On days when the ache crept in, I gave myself two choices: to grit my teeth and pretend I was fine, or to crawl into my duvet cocoon and cry while eating cheap snacks from the local shop. More often than not, I chose the second option. And honestly? I make no apologies for that. Sometimes healing doesn’t look like strength. Sometimes it looks like softness, surrender, and surviving the day in whatever way you can.

But something unexpected happened in the midst of that vulnerability.

Growth arrived—not like thunder or lightning, but like quiet rain.

Growth arrived—not like thunder or lightning, but like quiet rain. Slowly, over days and weeks. I started cooking. First out of necessity, then out of curiosity. I discovered recipes from back home, and each one felt like a warm thread tying me back to my roots. I started to decorate my flat. Just little things—a candle here, a secondhand bookshelf there. A few framed photos, a throw blanket that reminded me of my old bed back in Cebu. I started to make this strange new space mine.

I began reading again. Not because I had to, but because I wanted to feel less alone. I turned to books like old friends, and they welcomed me back without question. I gave myself permission to rest—to rewatch my favorite shows, to cut my own hair when I got bored (a risky choice, I know), and to feel joy in the smallest victories. Every dish I cooked, every local place I discovered, every shift I survived—it was proof: I was no longer just surviving. I was growing.

People often tell me I’m brave for doing this alone. But the truth is, bravery is only the spark. It’s the decision to try, not the absence of fear. I’ve had more anxious days than brave ones. But I’ve learned that courage is just 10% boldness. The other 90%? Desire. A quiet, burning desire to live the life you once only imagined. To stay in the room when everything inside you wants to run. To show up for yourself—even when no one else is watching.

This life isn’t always soft or glamorous. There are bills to pay. Loneliness to wrestle with. Cultural gaps that still catch me off guard. But beneath it all is the unwavering truth that I chose this. And even on the hardest days, I would choose it again. Because in all this chaos, I found something precious: myself. Stronger, softer, wiser.

And so tonight, I offer this prayer—

Thank You, Lord, for calling me into this unfamiliar space. For walking beside me when I didn’t know the way. For never once leaving me, even when I felt like I was drowning. Thank You for equipping me in ways I didn’t expect—for turning a girl who couldn’t cook into a woman who finds joy in every sizzling pan. For transforming loneliness into solitude. And fear into foundation. Amen.

With a heart stretched wide by change, but still intact, still beating strong—
Anj 🤍