The bus rumbled along the dusty road, cutting through fields of green sugarcane under a sky that promised nothing but good things. I chose a seat by the window and settled in with my backpack at my feet. The air was warm, scented faintly with earth and diesel, and filled with the hum of conversation and tricycle horns as we passed small towns.
It felt surreal — leaving the familiar roads of Negros Occidental behind. I’ve traveled to Bacolod before, but never with this kind of energy inside me. This wasn’t a vacation. This was the start of my real journey.
I watched carabaos wade through rice paddies, kids wave from roadside sari-sari stores, and mothers hanging laundry in morning light. It was as if the world wanted me to see every beautiful piece of it before I left. The sugarcane fields seemed endless, a green sea that stretched out like my dreams — wild, wide, and waiting.
I wore a simple outfit for comfort — a light blue tank top and denim shorts, plus a straw hat to keep the sun off my face. I smiled at strangers, chatted briefly with the old woman sitting next to me, and tried to freeze the moment in my mind. The past few months have been heavy, but today, everything felt light.
I thought of my friend in Oklahoma, waiting patiently, giving me space and support when I needed it. That thought gave me a kind of peace. I wasn’t alone on this path. I was moving forward with purpose.
When the bus finally pulled into Bacolod City, my heart was racing with anticipation. Next stop: the ferry port. I was closer now — not just to a place, but to the woman I’m becoming.
I stepped off the bus with a deep breath and a silent thank you to this land that raised me. Bacolod, let’s go.
