I was born in the Philippines. I spent sixteen years there before moving to Germany at fifteen. Life in the Philippines wasn’t easy — there were days when all we had to eat was rice with soy sauce or just rice with salt. But even in those times, there was joy. For me, happiness was simply sitting in the living room with my siblings, making jokes, talking, teasing each other, singing or dancing together. Those were the moments that made me feel closest to them, and I wish we could have done it more often.
When I was only three months old, my mother gave me away. Not through adoption, but into the care of her “friends”. In those five years, I was raised by a man who had nothing — no job, no money, no stable life, no blood tie to me. But he gave me everything. I will never forget the image of him kneeling down on one knee, begging neighbors and relatives so I could have milk to drink and food to eat. He sacrificed for me, even while he struggled to care for himself and his sick mother. I was the missing piece of his life, and he treated me like his own daughter. Later, I was taken away from him.
Sometimes I wonder what my life would have been if he hadn’t fought for me in those years — maybe I’d be out on the streets, begging for food or money. But because of him, I survived, and I am forever grateful.
As a child, I dreamed of many things. I dreamed of building a big house for my family, of owning a supermarket where they could shop for free, of having a restaurant or hotel, of donating money to people who needed it. More than anything, I dreamed of helping people. That dream is still alive in me today.
Growing up, I never met my father. People sometimes ask me why I don’t try to find him. My answer is simple: I don’t need to. I have lived without him. I have survived without him. What would I need him for now? But if one day he sees me, I want him to know that the daughter he abandoned is now a successful young woman in Germany — working, strong, financially stable and living her life.
I had two homes. My home in the Philippines was joyful, full of people who cared for me — my aunt. she raised me, and I am proud to call them my parent. My home in Germany, however, was different. I had hoped it would be a chance for my mother to finally be a mother. Instead, it became toxic. For four years, I lived in a house full of arguments, fighting, and even abuse. She made it seem like it was our fault we were here, even though she was the one who brought us. There were moments of peace, yes, but most of the time it was pain. I thank God that I’m no longer in that environment.
The hardest part of moving to Germany was leaving my family behind. I promised I wouldn’t cry, but when the car came to take us to the airport, I couldn’t hold back my tears. I hugged my grandma, my uncle, my sister. The one regret I carry is not saying
goodbye to my older brother. We were never close; we fought constantly, like Tom and Jerry. But I wish I had hugged him, thanked him, told him I loved him. I wish we had bonded more.
Still, Germany brought good things. I learned a new language, went back to school, and made new friends. I faced challenges, but I also found opportunities that I never would have had back home. Now, at twenty, I look at what I’ve achieved and feel proud. I became a chef. I work in a hotel kitchen, and even though it’s hard, I love it. Cooking isn’t just work to me — it’s love. If someone eats my food, I want them to feel like they’re home. Even if it’s a simple dish, I want it to remind them of family, of sacrifice, of comfort. I want my food to carry the feeling that no matter where you are, there’s a place where you belong.
But beneath my smile, there are truths I hide. People see me as the cheerful one, the happy friend who’s always there. What they don’t see is that my smile is often a mask. When people ask if I’m okay, and I say “I’m fine,” it’s not always true. I just don’t want to burden others with my struggles, or hear opinions that might pull me down. I wish I wasn’t such a people pleaser. I wish people would make the same effort for me that I make for them. I wish I could be loved, not for what I give, but for who I am. And yet, I keep moving forward. Most of the time, I’ve felt like giving up — but I never did. I held on because of my dreams, because of the people I want to inspire, because I want to show others that they’re not alone. My struggles taught me that life is not about having everything; it’s about never giving up.
I am proud to say I am Filipina. I will never be ashamed of my country. Filipinos are strong, hardworking dreamers. We fight until we reach our goals. That’s who I am, and that’s who I’ll always be. Ten years from now, I hope to have my own restaurant or hotel. I want to buy a home for my family. I want to give back, to help others, to build the life I dreamed of as a little girl. Maybe I’ll have my own family, too. But most of all, I hope I will still be strong, still be kind, still be me.
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People often see me and think they know me. They see the laughter, the jokes, the way I brighten up a room. They see a girl who is cheerful, dependable, and always giving. They see the effort I put into my work, my friends, my family — and they admire it. But what they don’t see is the weight I carry beneath that smile. They don’t see the nights when my bottle feels full to the brim with worries, expectations, and unspoken fears. They don’t see how often I wish someone would make the same effort for me, or how deeply I long to feel loved for who I am, not just for what I do.
Behind my cheerful face is a heart that is tender, a soul that sometimes aches, and a mind that quietly struggles to hold everything together. Yet, even with all of this, I keep moving forward. I smile, I laugh, I give — not because my life is perfect, but because I choose to be strong. I am proud of the woman I am becoming, but I will always carry a piece of longing
inside me. A longing to be truly seen, truly understood, and truly loved. And maybe
one day, someone will look beyond the smile and finally meet the real me.
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Photo credit: Image provided by the storyteller.