Some places are not just places. They are pauses. They are mirrors. They are quiet witnesses to the versions of ourselves we carry when the world becomes too loud or too vague to hold.

For me, that place has always been Aberystwyth.

It is not a city of grandeur. It doesn’t shout for your attention with neon lights or shiny attractions. It welcomes you in a different way—softer, slower. As if to say, “Come in, there’s space here. Be whoever you need to be today.” And that is exactly what I’ve done. Time and time again.

Aberystwyth has been my constant—my ritual when things feel uncertain. It is the first place that comes to mind when I feel the ache of being too far from home or too lost inside myself. I’ve gone there during heartbreaks I couldn’t name. During decisions that clawed at my peace. During birthdays that felt more like markers of survival than celebration. And in every season, this quiet coastal town has offered the same thing: space. Not answers. Not solutions. Just a place where I can lay everything down and breathe.

I remember visiting on my birthday in 2022 with a few close friends. We laughed by the pier and shared stories over takeaway food. The wind played with our jackets and hair, and for a moment, the world didn’t feel heavy. That day, we weren’t nurses or OFWs or people burdened by responsibility—we were simply souls in motion, letting the sea carry whatever we didn’t know how to hold.

There were also times I went alone. I didn’t always tell people. Sometimes, I just booked a ticket, brought a book or journal, and sat by the sea wall with my thoughts for company. In those quiet hours, Aberystwyth became more than a destination—it became a confessional. I’ve sat there with tears in my eyes, wondering what was next. Wondering if I had done enough. Wondering if the things I wanted were worth the ache they sometimes brought. And every time, without fail, the town held me without judgement.

I’ve walked its winding streets with Jan, my partner—our footsteps falling in rhythm, our silences gentle. There’s something tender about revisiting a place of solitude with someone you love. You notice new things. You remember how healing doesn’t always mean being alone—it sometimes means being seen, even in your quietest form. With him, Aberystwyth was not just about reflection; it was about being grounded in shared peace.

And most recently, before my mother returned to the Philippines, I brought her there too. It meant something more than words can capture. I watched her walk beside me, her presence calm and comforting, and I thought about how full circle it felt—to let her see this sacred corner of my life. The one that held me in moments I could never quite explain over the phone. In that moment, with the waves behind us and the day unhurried, I felt like I had offered her not just a visit, but a glimpse into the unspoken parts of me.

I suppose that’s the strange and beautiful thing about places—they hold our stories without asking questions. They don’t flinch when you arrive heavy. They don’t keep tabs on your progress. They simply exist, unchanged, so you can come as you are. Aberystwyth has seen every version of me: tired, uncertain, overjoyed, grieving, and quietly hopeful. And it has never once asked me to be anything else.

I don’t always know what draws me back. Maybe it’s the way the sky meets the sea without effort. Maybe it’s the way the cliffs feel ancient and indifferent to the chaos of modern life. Or maybe, deep down, I know that when I am there, I remember who I am beneath all the layers I wear in the world.

So, if you ever find yourself searching for clarity, or aching for something you can’t quite name—find your own Aberystwyth. That sacred place where you are not expected to have the answers. Where you are allowed to be in between seasons. Where your sadness can rest beside your joy without having to choose between them.

Let the wind carry what you cannot name. Let the waves tell you that beginnings don’t always have to look like progress. And when you go back—because you will—let that return remind you that your journey has never been linear, but it has always been true.

Aberystwyth will always be mine. The place I go to when I don’t know where else to go. The place that doesn’t fix me, but lets me feel whole anyway.