Rooted in Limbo: Redefining Home
I grew up in Antipolo, a city perched just east of Manila. It’s close enough to Metro Manila to feel connected to its pulse, yet far enough to offer a quiet escape. Nestled in the foothills of the Sierra Madre mountain range (spanning over 540 kilometers east of Luzon Island), there’s still something raw, almost untouched, about it—especially in the early mornings when the mist clings to the trees. I’ve always thought I knew Antipolo too well, having watched it evolve over the decades, and the Manila city life creeping in slowly in from its foot until further up the mountain.
This year, coming home, I realized something humbling: I didn’t even know what the name “Antipolo” meant.
Read: Long before the street, there was the tree By Howie Severino Published November 23, 2024
It wasn’t until I caught an episode of Howie Severino’s show (just in time for my homecoming) that I learned about the Tipolo tree, the very origin of my hometown’s name. A cousin took me to Tipulo Restaurant, a charming restaurant that pays homage to this tree, and suddenly, it felt like I was seeing the name everywhere - pharmacy, boutiques, etc. How had I missed it all these years? It’s strange to think that a place so familiar can still hold secrets, waiting to be rediscovered.
And maybe that’s what coming home is: a chance to see the familiar with fresh eyes, to notice the details that time and distance have blurred.
I’ve just returned from a month-long trip to Manila (technically Antipolo, east of Manila but for simplicity's sake - Manila), a stretch that took me through the festive chaos of December and into the quieter days of January. For an entire month, I barely had a moment to myself — quite different from the slower, more solitary rhythms of my life in France which I adore.
But I’m not complaining.
A cousin took me to Tipulo Restaurant, a charming restaurant that pays homage to the Tipolo tree.
That month was a filling one. It’s hard to describe what it feels like to be constantly surrounded by family and old friends who genuinely want to spend time with you. It’s overwhelming in the best way, and even now, back in my other home in France, I can still feel my cup overflowing.
Coming back [to France] wasn’t without its demands. Work was waiting, routines were waiting, and so was more company. Normally, after that much socializing, I’d crave solitude. And to some extent, I do, but this time, I didn’t mind the constant presence of others. Maybe that’s the quiet gift of being around the right people: even when you long for space, their presence doesn’t weigh on you. It’s a reminder of just how important it is to choose your company wisely, and to surround yourself with people who feel like sunlight: warm, steady, and never too much.
When someone asks me, “How was your holiday in the Philippines?” I fumble for a quick answer. “Lots of eating, lots of meeting people,” I say. (Gosh, how much time do I need to ‘debrief’? It’s been more than a week since.) And while that’s true, it barely scratches the surface. What I want to say is that it was a feast. Not just of food (though there was plenty of that, abundantly plenty - I know that’s redundant but just to highlight the ampleur), but a feast of the familiar. It felt like I had been quietly starving for the sounds, the smells, and the energy of Manila without even realizing it.
But here’s the thing about coming back to something so deeply familiar: it can also feel a little... strange. Somewhere along the way, this version of “home” had shifted. Manila was still home—the city that raised me, the city that knows my roots—but it didn’t feel exactly the same anymore.
That’s when it hit me: I wasn’t just coming home to Manila. I was coming home to a version of myself I hadn’t seen in years. The me who knew every shortcut, who knew where to find the best street food, who didn’t flinch at the chaos because it was just normal. But now, that version of me felt a little distant, like an old friend you’ve drifted apart from. And oddly enough, I missed her.
More than meeting people, I felt like I introduced the old me to the current me.
At the same time, I couldn’t help but think of France—the place I now call home. I have my people here, my routines, my little corner of the world. My life in France has grown roots, and sometimes, without realizing it, I catch myself referring to it as “when I go back home.” But there’s an irony to that, isn’t there? Because as I walked the streets of Manila, reunited with family and friends, I was technically already home.
It made me think about all the other places I’ve felt at home—Brazil, New Zealand, Lithuania, and even fleeting moments in cities I’ve only passed through. Maybe that’s the crux of it: home isn’t a fixed point on a map. It’s not just the people you’re with, the routines you build, or even the life you’ve lived in a place. Home is a feeling. It’s that deep, quiet sense of belonging, of knowing that for this moment, in this place, you’re exactly where you’re supposed to be.
For me, that feeling of “home” has never been more layered than it is now. Manila is home. France is home. And at the same time, neither of them completely are. That limbo—between the familiar and the unfamiliar, the old and the new—feels unsettling, but also grounding. Maybe that’s what happens when you allow yourself to belong to more than one place.
Strangely enough, in this in-between space, I’ve never felt more rooted. I’m not entirely sure where those roots lead, but I know this: home isn’t static. It changes as we change. It grows as we grow. It’s not just a place or a set of people, it’s a feeling you carry with you. And that feeling can find you in the most unexpected places, with the most unexpected people.
I guess the main takeaway at this point is redefining what home means to me. Maybe it’s not just a point on a map. Maybe it’s a point in time. A moment when everything feels right, even if only for a little while. And if that’s the case, then home isn’t something you search for. It’s something you create, something you carry with you wherever you go.