We arrived at Gatwick Airport just past 10 in the morning—early enough to sidestep the chaos of last-minute check-ins, but late enough for the weight of goodbye to still linger in our steps.

The kind of morning where time doesn’t rush; it just… sits with you. Like fog that hasn’t decided whether to lift or stay.

My trolley rolled steadily ahead, full of suitcases and carry-ons packed with both essentials and emotions. But my stomach? Empty. Not just in the literal sense—I hadn’t eaten—but in that quiet, echoing way you feel when you’re about to leave something behind. Jan walked beside me, his expression unreadable but familiar. Calm, steady, but with eyes that betrayed a flurry of thoughts. Mama trailed a few steps ahead, already scanning the departures board like she was looking for more than a gate number—maybe direction, or peace of mind, or the next chapter spelled out in black-and-yellow letters.

We were going home—but first, we were hungry.

Not hungry for croissants, or wraps, or limp sandwiches in cling film. We weren’t looking for snack food. We were searching for something far more specific: rice. Hot, freshly-cooked, garlic rice. The kind of rice that feels like it’s hugging your soul from the inside out. The kind that smells like Saturday mornings back home when someone’s already up before you, cooking breakfast with care.

We passed cafés with lattes and muffins, rows of triangle sandwiches that looked like they had given up on life, even a sushi kiosk that somehow felt too cold, too clean. We gave each other a knowing look. Our OFW stomachs, loyal as ever, weren’t easily convinced. “Pwede na ba ’to?” we joked in silence, already knowing the answer. Not yet. Not here. Not this.

I laughed—one of those quiet, self-aware laughs that rise up not from amusement, but from the strange emotion of it all. Because it wasn’t really the rice I was craving. It was familiarity. It was comfort. It was a flavor memory that carried more than taste—it carried home. And in that moment, I realized airports are not just hubs of travel. They’re holding rooms for longing. For transitions. For people who are not just going somewhere—but returning. To places. To people. To pieces of themselves they hadn’t seen in a while.

We found a place to sit near Gate 558. The chairs were stiff and cold, the sandwich in my hand unimpressive at best, and the water—overpriced and lukewarm. But then I looked at Mama, seated quietly across from me, her rosary slowly moving through her fingers. She wasn’t praying loudly or dramatically. Just that familiar, steady murmur under her breath—the kind of prayer only a Filipina mother can offer. A rhythm. A shield. A comfort passed down like recipe cards and wisdom from grandmothers.

I felt something in my chest loosen. The ache, the tension, the quiet anxiety of leaving—it softened. We were in transit, yes. Hungry, tired, missing home before even leaving—but we were on our way.

And in that very ordinary moment, sitting with my family under fluorescent airport lights, I was reminded of something that I often forget:

The waiting room can be a sacred space.

Airports are strange places. They ask you to be still while preparing for motion. They hold your body in limbo while your heart tries to catch up. And sometimes, it’s in those in-between spaces—the quiet corners of departure halls, the minutes between passport checks and boarding calls—that life gives you its clearest lessons.

That it’s okay to not feel fully ready.

That you can carry both excitement and grief in the same suitcase.

That the real journey isn’t just about the destination—but about who you are becoming as you leave.

Today reminded me that not all goodbyes are loud. Some are whispered over coffee cups and half-eaten sandwiches. Some are tucked into your chest, where no one can see them. But they’re there. And they matter.

So much of life is spent rushing toward what’s next, but I don’t want to rush this. I want to remember this exact moment—this ordinary, beautiful morning at Gatwick. The soft rhythm of Mama’s prayer. Jan’s quiet planning. The longing for rice. The ache and anticipation tangled together. The knowing that in just a few hours, we’ll be stepping into warm air, familiar voices, and the arms of home.

But for now, we are here. In the middle. In motion. In grace.

And maybe that’s the truest kind of leaving—not one filled with fanfare, but with presence. With eyes wide open. With hearts already halfway home.

Because sometimes, it takes a 10AM flight, a quiet prayer, and a failed search for garlic rice to remind you of the most sacred truth of travel:

You can be in between and still belong. You can be hungry and still whole. You can be leaving, and still—finally—coming home.