It’s hard to describe what it feels like to stand on the edge of everything you’ve ever known.
Tonight, I’m in Cebu City, sitting on the floor of the departure terminal near Gate 4, with my backpack beside me and a deep ache in my chest that somehow feels like both fear and joy. I’ve done all the hard parts: said goodbye to my family, ridden the bus to Bacolod, boarded the ferry with a quiet storm of emotions. And now I’m here — waiting.
My flight to Seattle leaves in the morning. An international departure. A phrase I’ve said casually before but never fully felt until now.
Cebu’s evening light painted the airport in gold and lavender, and for a moment, I watched planes take off with tears in my eyes. Some of them were people coming home. Mine will be a flight into the unknown.
I’ve been holding my emotions in all day. Smiling through security lines, chatting with other travelers, updating my friend in Oklahoma. But when I sat down to write this, the weight of it all landed in my chest.
This is the final chapter of my time in the Philippines. The air smells like lechon and perfume. The announcement over the intercom says something in Bisaya I don’t fully catch. The man across from me is watching a teleserye on his phone. All these familiar things. They won’t be mine anymore — at least not every day.
But I’m not running away. I’m running toward something. Toward someone who’s made space for me. Toward a version of myself that doesn’t just survive, but lives.
One more night. One more sunrise. Then it’s goodbye, islands. Hello, America.
Wish me courage.
