HOW I’m learning to live between two worlds: one grounded in nature, the other chasing dreams.
Moving to Manila wasn’t just a change of location for me, it was a full-body reset. From the softness of trees swaying in the wind to the steady roar of jeepneys in traffic, I went from hearing birds in the morning to unconsciously tuning out the constant hum of city life. It’s disorienting, sometimes. Like my senses are still catching up to where I am.
I grew up in a place where everything breathed gently. Mornings smelled like damp soil and the air felt like a soft reminder to slow down. Our home is surrounded by greens, and silence isn’t empty, it’s alive. That place still feels like my safest corner in the world. I could breathe there without thinking. I still crave that kind of air.
Here in the city, I don’t hate it. I actually like its energy. What I hate is the pollution, the absence of green, and how hard it is to find a moment of stillness that doesn’t feel forced. But this is also the place where my dreams are. And for a Gen Z like me, independent, ambitious, learning how to live on my own – that matters.
Living solo in Manila forces you to grow in ways no guidebook can teach you. I’ve had to figure out things on my own, emotionally and practically. I’ve learned how to protect my energy, how to cook my own comfort food, how to cry it out and still show up the next day. Some days, I feel strong for doing that. Some days, I just feel drained. But I try not to guilt myself for missing home. It’s not weakness. It’s part of becoming.
Whenever the city starts to feel too loud, too much, I run to places that remind me of home. Not in the literal sense, but in the way they feel. I look for trees. I look for quiet. My OG tambayan? Arroceros Forest Park. Hidden in the middle of Manila, it’s the one place that reminds me I’m still connected to where I came from. It’s green. It’s soft. It lets me breathe.
When I’m there, I remember the part of me that doesn’t care about deadlines or trying to keep up. I remember that healing doesn’t always need a conversation. Sometimes, it just needs leaves above your head and your feet on the ground. That’s how I reconnect with myself.
Being here, I’ve realized I live differently depending on where I am. In the province, I move slowly. I listen more. I don’t rush meals. But in the city, I’m a different kind of alive. I move fast. I dream louder. I take up space in ways I never thought I could back home. That contrast isn’t something I’m trying to solve, it’s something I’m learning to embrace.
And maybe that’s something a lot of Gen Zs are learning, too. We talk about burnout. We crave peace. But we also want to do big things. We love nature, but we’re also in love with our Google Calendars. We want soft lives, but we’re building them in hard places. It’s a contradiction, but it’s real.
I get homesick often. Especially when the pace gets overwhelming, when the days blur together, when I crave a sunset not blocked by buildings. But I’ve learned that missing home doesn’t make me any less capable. It just makes me human.
This life isn’t easy, but it’s mine. And I’m learning to embrace its contradictions. I can be soft and strong. Grounded and ambitious. Tired and grateful. I can love both the quiet of the province and the fire of the city.
Maybe that’s the lesson of being a probinsyana in the city – you don’t have to choose between who you were and who you’re becoming. You just have to listen to both voices and let them coexist. One keeps you grounded. The other keeps you moving.
And when it gets too much, when the city swallows me whole, I’ll find myself walking the paths of my go-to forest park again – breathing, healing, remembering who I am.
