I HAD JUST returned from the United Kingdom a little over a week ago. The trip was part of an official mission — representing the Philippines at the British Council Going Global Conference 2025 in London.
Alongside key officials from the University of Antique, we proudly carried the Philippine flag at one of the world’s premier platforms for higher education, where academic leaders, policymakers, and innovators converge to forge partnerships that transcend borders. The days were full of wrap around meetings and campus visits each brimming with discussions about international collaboration and institutional growth.
But behind the formalities, what stirred me most was deeply personal. This visit was unlike any other. I wasn’t merely traveling as an academic delegate; I was returning to a chapter of my own life — with my beautiful wife beside me.
We had both lived in the United Kingdom over a decade ago, studying and working, and returning together felt like stepping into a living photograph — every cobblestone, every drizzle of London rain, whispering memories of a life we once thought neatly tucked away. Nostalgia, I realized again, is not gentle — it tugs at your chest with a quiet insistence.
After our courtesy call to Philippine Ambassador to the UK Teddy Boy Locsin at the Philippine Embassy on Suffolk Street, my wife and I decided to walk through the city, letting the streets guide us. From Suffolk Street, the city hums like an old friend whispering secrets I thought I’d long forgotten.
Trafalgar Square opens before me — its fountains shimmering like fragments of a younger self who once stood here in 2011, full of wonder and uncertainty. The lions remain unchanged, stoic against time, while the rush of buses and the scent of rain-soaked stone awaken something tenderly familiar.
As we walked down the Strand, memory and present merged — the rhythm of footsteps echoing a decade-old heartbeat. Turning into Houghton Street toward the London School of Economics, I felt it again: that strange mixture of awe, solitude, and belonging.
London doesn’t simply exist around you — it seeps into your soul, quietly marking you with its intellect, its restlessness, its rain. Standing there, I realized that while years and countries had passed, part of me never truly left this city that once shaped my dreams.
Our visit to the LSE Library made this realization even more vivid. My wife and I stood by the helical ramp inside the atrium of the LSE Library — the spiral staircase of concrete and steel, bathed in daylight from a glass dome above, its landings echoing the footsteps of students past and present. Students moved about with a quiet urgency, books tucked under arms, laptops open, voices hushed.
I watched, transported back to my own days there, when these same stairs were my pathway to dreams I had yet to name. The library wasn’t just a place of learning. It was a silent witness to ambition, perseverance, and quiet discovery. Witnessing it again with my wife made the moment unbearably precious, a reminder of where I had been and how far I had come.
And then came the reunions. We reconnected with our relatives, church and university friends in London and Wolverhampton, people who had been family when home was oceans away. We laughed, shared stories, and yet behind the laughter was a quiet swell of emotion, tears threatening to spill without shame.
I also reconnected with my cherished classmate from LSE, who now serves as the Programme Director for the GMIM in the Department of Management. Seeing them again reminded us that certain bonds, once formed, transcend years and distance. Those reunions were not merely social calls — they were affirmations of memory, connection, and the enduring human need for familiarity.
The Ache of Belonging Everywhere and Nowhere
There is a particular ache that only expatriates understand — the ache of loving many places and belonging to none. When you’ve lived and worked abroad, each city leaves a mark: a street corner that holds your laughter, a quiet park bench where you questioned your choices, a train station that knows your silences.
Global professionals often carry this invisible weight. It is the emotional cost of ambition, the tax of mobility. You adapt so well that detachment becomes second nature. Friendships become postcards; cities become keepsakes. The world becomes your map — but your heart, too often, becomes scattered across it.
For Filipinos, this duality is a familiar one. Millions of Overseas Filipino Workers (OFWs) and expatriates navigate a life stretched across borders. Opportunities abroad bring pride, yet quietly demand sacrifices—the birthdays missed, festivals unseen, laughter lost to distance. We may prosper, but our hearts remain divided, part here, part there, part everywhere. (To be continued)/PN
