My family resided in an area that used to suffer from perennial flooding during the rainy seasons. I still remember the way the water crept onto our terrace and then inside our living room, and unfortunately, up to our bedrooms, leaving no place inside our house which is not submerged in water. Our bungalow, which had always felt like a safe haven, was swallowed by floodwaters that refused to recede for weeks.
The floors inside our house turned into a clear pond with some gouramis freely swimming, and catching them turned the gloomy days a little more enjoyable for me and my siblings. When the flood gradually receded, the scent of dampness clung to everything. There were times when we just finished tidying up the house after the water subsided, and the flood reappeared because of heavy rains. The flood didn’t just disrupt our routines—it uprooted our sense of stability.
Because of the rising water, we had to leave. My siblings and I were sent to live with our grandparents temporarily because their house had a second floor, while our parents stayed behind to manage what they could. That separation was one of the hardest parts. I was young, but I understood enough to feel the weight of being apart. I missed the quiet comfort of my parents’ presence, the way they made even the worst days feel manageable. Living with our grandparents was safe and warm, but it wasn’t the same. It felt like we were scattered pieces of a puzzle waiting to be put back together. Not to mention that, as children who were used to playing outside, being stuck inside the house indeed became a bore for all of us.
Those days taught me more than I realized at the time. I learned how quickly life can change, how fragile comfort can be, and how deeply we rely on the people around us, not just for physical shelter, but for emotional grounding. I saw resilience in my grandparents’ calm, in my parents’ determination, and in the quiet ways we all tried to hold on to normalcy. Even in displacement, there was love because they walked the extra mile to provide us with what we needed when our parents were not with us.
So when my parents asked me what I wanted for my 18th birthday, I didn’t hesitate to ask for something far more meaningful than a grand debutante’s party. Instead of gowns and ballrooms, I wished for a home that wouldn’t flood every time the rain poured. I asked them to use the money they had loaned to renovate our home so we could finally live without the discomfort and distress that came with every storm. Eventually, our barangay road was improved, and the flooding stopped. It wasn’t just a change in infrastructure; it was a quiet victory, a turning point that gave us back our peace.
Now, whenever I hear heavy rain, I’m reminded of that chapter in my life. It wasn’t just about the flood, but it was about the feeling of being in dread and separated as a family, and the strength it took to stay afloat emotionally. That experience shaped how I view home, family, and the quiet power of togetherness. Because even when the waters rise, what truly anchors us is the bond we share with those we love.