“The only way to mean change is to plunge into it, move with it, take part in the dance.” ~Alan Watts
Dear reader, I have to admit that I have not always been a fan of change. I wouldn’t say I’m naturally leaning towards something new or unfamiliar to this world.
Like many kids, I have found daily comfort. It repeats the joy that comes from normal moments. Whether we do that or not, repetition builds a mental framework that quietly defines our comfort zone.
Maybe it begins to be an identity and slowly forms over time. And I remember mine so clearly, perhaps, even though it’s the other people struggle to remember their early years.
As you know, my early days were divided into two dramatically different parts of the world. A chapter unfolds in the familiar calmness of the United States. Next is a mixed ham in developing countries.
It’s not the most typical of childhood stories, but I was drawn from my life in San Francisco and thrown into the Philippines as a six-year-old girl. My story begins just before that life-changing movement. From the heart of the city I called home.
A simple day
My first memories of San Francisco are filled with sidewalk doves, ice cream at Pier 39, sunshine at Yaba Buena Park, buckets of crab, shrimp, fish and seafood dinners. My parents ran through a small corner store under our apartment while working full-time.
The store was the source of many pleasant moments, whether it’s candy, hot dogs, and anything we could get. I still remember the layout of the three-bedroom apartment, the party room where my grandfather handed out tips, and the rooftop playground where I played with rollerblades of tags.
As a child, I was particularly energetic and loud at school. I often had problems. It’s not serious, it’s about chatting, fidgeting, or overly enthusiastic.
That characteristic has not disappeared. I’m still easily excited. So people sometimes wonder if my enthusiasm is authentic.
But I didn’t want to tone it down. Maybe I’ve seen too many Robin Williams movies. Then again, it was the 90s.
Those were simple and happy days that I always cherished.
In chaos
A six-year-old, just starting his freshman year and still talking about Disneyland, is now sitting on a plane heading to the other side of the world. The irony was not lost to me. I moved to my family’s country of origin and still feel like a stranger.
All I had was something unknown before me.
But it didn’t take long for the new reality to take a blow. I was thrown into a completely different world – fast, loud, everything at once.
The paved sidewalks are gone. Instead of them: a dusty road without curbs. The river I once knew it was a now contaminated waterway, lined with trash and lingering smells of hanging in the air.
Dust rises on all vehicles passing by. The traffic moved like a mess. Weaving car, horns, people who change “lanes” freely. Looking back, it felt like a Mario Kart game – motorcycles, jeepneys and trucks all race without rules.
And seat belts? It doesn’t exist. People cling to the back of the bus and grip the metal bar to balance. Honestly, even Mario Kurt had more order.
But the most difficult thing was to adapt to the humble circumstances of our new home. There was no hot water, so my mother boiled it in a kettle and poured it into the basin every day.
Power outages are common, and streets often flooded when it rained. Sometimes it floats in the past, or when we get home. The cockroach flew through the air, and while breakfast the lizard skittered across the wall.
Sure enough, words like “disturbed,” “terrifying,” and “confusing” should not completely capture how I felt.
Homesick
It is natural to feel overwhelmed by such an environment at such a young age. I remember the shock clearly and how much I missed the world I left behind.
If I was younger I might not have noticed it. But I already knew the world and my place in it.
I have learned to observe, mimic and ask questions. I was sensitive and curious, all of which made the transition even more difficult.
I missed San Francisco. It’s a trivial thing that makes my school, my classmates and life feel normal.
And while I’m not proud of it, I thought I was different from the people around me. That discomfort was my first lesson about how flawed ideas of “other” really exist. This is a lesson that will grow with me over time.
But there was still much to learn.
Slowly open
Resisting situations makes it easier to judge everything around you. That judgment will create negativity and eventually color your entire experience. At some point, the only way forward is acceptance.
For some reason, I stopped resisting and found the power to take things step by step. Because no matter where you are in the world, the need for human connection never changes.
So I went with it. I showed up at school, even if I didn’t understand my classmate’s language.
I tried. Every day I picked up words, saw how people spoke, and tried my best to be open.
In the end, language made sense. I started out from my shell.
With my brother, we explored the food on the streets that appear in our neighborhood every week. Magical chocolate, locally flavored ice cream with hot, cheesy corn, fermented fish paste and salty pork skewers, fried fish balls in oyster sauce, caramelized bananas. It’s strange at first, but very tasty.
One unforgettable moment I can still remember was when our entire building lost power for several hours. These “brownouts” happened frequently and without warning, as locals called them.
It was always inconvenient, but on that particular night, a large group of children and parents came out of the house during a halt. Despite the darkness, candles and battery-powered lights lined up at the edge of the open space, infusing a warm glow throughout the building.
I remember seeing other neighbors’ children for the first time and enjoying the cozy atmosphere they created. Little did I know that some of them would become some of my closest friends and playmates in the coming years.
That night changed something within me as it was the first time in my life, not just from the possibility of a new friendship.
A small world
After that, my energy returned, but became more cautious. After all, it was a quiet life in the third world country I was dealing with, and it wasn’t too difficult to get injured randomly, like I was accidentally walking in a car.
Still, I was talking to the muslim spoung, playing after school, and adventures to buy snacks in the neighborhood. It was common for families to hang out signs of what they were selling outside the home.
For just a few coins I was able to buy candy, pastries, or soft drinks tied up in plastic bags. It wasn’t the usual way to drink it, but it felt like a snack on hot days.
There were many local attractions I was with. An old man was confused by Halloween as he climbed a coconut tree. However, he also shared experiences such as Gameboys, Nokia Shone, WWE Wrestling, Karaoke, and pop music from Britney to Eminem. At this point, it was in the 2000s.
In many ways, I began to see how big and small the world can become at once. We saw how culture spreads and how much it shares, regardless of distance.
A permanent lesson
We spent four years in the Philippines. Finally, I felt at home in a lifestyle that was once impossible.
But eventually it returned. And when I sat back in a fifth grade classroom in California, it felt surreal.
There was a well-dressed teacher, a Costco cupcake, and a cubby painted in bright colors. Everything seemed to be polished, but still, I felt like I was living a secret life.
It’s difficult to explain. Maybe it’s something you can only understand if you were alive. It felt like I was carrying two childhoods in one life.
My personality has changed. I was more grounded and appreciated for electricity, hot water and the simplest comfort.
I have learned to cherish what really matters: connection, community, and confidence come through effort and heart rather than building on the material. It was a lesson I stayed with and I took it to my teenage years, teaching English in the Czech Republic, and to my current life here in Finland.
I will forever thank you for my childhood in the Philippines. It taught me that abundance and rarity can live side by side. And sometimes, when you embrace less art, you discover more.
A quick look at Letzel
Retzel is a writer and creator of Cherish & Jots, a space that explores beautiful human confusion through essays on creativity, culture, personal growth, life lessons and happiness. At the heart of her writing is her deep belief in the forces of self-direction in a noise-filled world. Subscribe to her weekly newsletter for inspiration, intent-setting prompts, and meaningful insights to guide your days with clear objectives. Letzel lives in Finland and shares it regularly on her website.
