From Snow to Sweat: A Love Story About Rediscovering the Philippines

From frozen mornings to tropical sunsets, a journey of coming home to identity and heart.

When I landed in Manila after twelve years in Calgary, I felt like I was stepping into a fever dream. The kind where everything is too bright, too loud, and too familiar to be real. The air hit me like a hot towel fresh from the sauna, and before I could catch my breath, the humidity decided to make itself at home on my skin.

It was disorienting, speaking the language yet feeling like a tourist. I could understand every word, but forming sentences in Tagalog took effort, like wearing an old sweater I used to love that now felt tight around the edges. I remember standing outside NAIA, staring at the chaos of jeepneys, taxis, and tricycles all honking in one spontaneous orchestra, thinking, “so this is home?”

But I knew this was what I came home for. This land is the mother that raised me, and I was determined to get to know her again. It’s been four short months since I came home with the family I built in Calgary. Here are a few things I’ve rediscovered since yelling “Touchdown, Manila!”

The Rainforest and the Frozen City

Calgary was polite in every way. The weather, the people, even the wind had boundaries. Spring rains were brief and shy, like they didn’t want to inconvenience anyone. I used to wish for more of it — the soft patter, the smell of wet grass, the drama of thunderclouds.

Now I live inside that wish. Manila is part rainforest, part Armageddon. In just four months, I’ve experienced more rain than I did in my twelve years in Canada. The sky opens up like a faucet you forgot to turn off, and it doesn’t stop until you start checking for mold in your shoes.

And yet, I can’t hate it. It’s a little inconvenient when you hang your clothes dry in the sun (when there is barely any sun for weeks). But I also learned that they made special fabric conditioner for seasons like that here (Not sponsored by Downy™️, but… hit me up?)

Peace, I learned, doesn’t always mean silence. In Calgary, silence was the default — even the birds seemed too shy to chirp. When one finally did outside my apartment, I’d gather my husband, our son, even the cats, like everyone, come see proof that life still exists!

Rain drumming on tin roofs, tricycles buzzing past, vendors yelling “Taho!” or “Balut!” The wind doesn’t just blow here; it talks. It grabs you by the face and says, you’re alive, remember?

Here in Manila, the soundtrack never stops. Roosters wake us up at 5 in the morning. Crickets overpower the evening news to let us know there’s no rain tonight. The rain speaks to us so often, we have names ready for the incoming storms for the whole year.

In Canada, you have to seek out nature, and be in awe of how grand and big and beautiful it is. Here in the Philippines, you’re invited to be a part of it.

The Soundscape of Chaos

My husband was overwhelmed at first. He missed the kind of quiet in Canada that let you hear your own heartbeat. We never quite got rid of our habit to visit malls - a very Filipino way to pass time. So we would visit the local ones, and find other Filipinos trying to fill their boots. But it’s never truly the same. In Calgary, the malls are predictable - one section for food. Another strip just for shoes. And another only for clothes, then the gadgets and the spas…

Here, even malls breathe. It’s like stepping into a festival every day, with music blasting from three directions and children sprinting across the hallways. There’s food stops in every hallway, there are salespersons getting you to try the latest perfume. Indoor playgrounds with varying themes - from dinosaurs to underwater!

Arcades for kids and kids-at-heart. And at the heart of most malls, there will always be some sort of event taking place. Out of the ten times I’ve gone to the same mall in two months, I’ve seen competitions for online games such as Valorant take place, Marvel appreciation events, One Piece merch sales - they even sold BYD Electric cars INSIDE THE MALL!

Now, my then-overwhelmed husband is now the one coordinating our schedule so we could go visit the mall when they decide to blow up a giant inflatable Pikachu for a Pokemon event so he could meet his idols (and introduce them to our son).

The Rhythm of Time

Life runs slower here, and somehow I finally caught up.

In Calgary, I had a dishwasher and a washer-dryer combo, yet I was never able to find and balance my time to use them properly. The days always seemed so short, and perhaps the shorter days in the latter part of the year really do have an impact on my productivity. You can meal prep all you want but you’ll somehow never have the time to sit down and relax, unless you’re compromising your time to do your household chores.

Here in Manila, I handwash dishes and hang my clothes to dry, praying the rain doesn’t betray me halfway through. It’s time-consuming work, sure, but oddly meditative. There’s something soothing about watching the day unfold between laundry lines and the smell of soap.

The strange thing is, I have time now. Not because there’s less to do, but because life simply refuses to sprint. Maybe it’s the humidity. Maybe it’s the unspoken rule that you’re not supposed to rush what’s meant to be lived slowly.

Faith and Whiplash

This one deserves a full paragraph and maybe a therapy session.

Before leaving Manila, I was Catholic — the kind that prayed before meals and thanked God for traffic not being “too bad.” Faith was stitched so deeply into my days that it was easy to miss, like background music you stop noticing after a while.

Then Calgary happened. Somewhere between snowstorms, mental illness and self-awareness, I stopped believing. But it was never out of spite. I still have deep respect for the faith that brought me up, and even more respect for anyone who practices any faith.

But now, I drive past billboards that say “Talk to Me. – God” and I feel like I’m being short-circuited to remember what it was like to make the sign of the cross. The Philippines doesn’t ease you into religion; it dunks you straight in.

Sometimes I wonder if the country is trying to re-convert me through sheer persistence. But maybe that’s just what rediscovery looks like: not returning to who you were, but just remembering your past self, and seeing how far you’ve come.

People and Warmth

One thing Canadians and Filipinos share is friendliness, but it comes from different worlds of warmth. Canadians are open and polite, kind in that calm and practiced way that makes everyday interactions easy. They’ll hold the door, compliment your shoes, and say you should grab coffee soon. But most of the time, that coffee never happens. Friendships stay on the surface. It’s pleasant, but shallow.

In the Philippines, friendliness has a different rhythm. People can seem distant at first, even snobbish if you catch them on a bad day. But once you’re in a shared space, that wall dissolves. At my son’s preschool, for instance, parents actually stay inside the classroom.

At first, I thought it was strange to linger when he should be learning independence, but soon I realized it’s normal here. Parents sit, chat, and help their kids together. When a child acts up, other parents step in and gently correct them, as if every kid in the room belongs to all of us.

It surprised me how naturally I fell into the same habit. There’s a quiet comfort in it, a sense that we’re all watching over one another. That’s the kind of togetherness you rarely see in Canada, where people value independence above community. Filipinos, I think, are wired for connection. We move as one when it matters.

Maybe it’s because we’ve all faced similar hardships, and we’re used to carrying the weight together. Struggle makes people softer in unexpected ways. It cuts through formality and forces honesty. It teaches you how to notice when someone else is hurting. And perhaps that’s why it’s easier to rely on Filipinos. Our instincts lean toward care, toward helping. It’s not perfect, but it’s real. It’s the kind of warmth that doesn’t fade after small talk ends.

Food and Family Restraint

Let’s talk about food, because honestly, how could we not?

Calgary spoiled me. That city was a buffet of cultures wrapped in snow — authentic Indian food on one block, Korean barbecue on the next, and an all-you-can-eat sushi place waiting to destroy your self-control. (Explain to me how sushi is cheaper in landlocked Calgary than in Manila, where we’re literally surrounded by ocean. Make it make sense.)

So I ate. A lot. Calgary was cold, and I was bored. Food became both comfort and culture. My hobbies were all sedentary — reading, writing, gaming, sleeping, occasionally pretending my maladaptive daydreaming counted as cardio. Eating was the one active thing I did. Between the North American portions, endless snacks, and Costco samples that felt like a part-time job, I ballooned.

Then I came home to the Philippines, where food feels different. Salt over rice can be a whole mood — a meal, even a memory. Everything’s organic. The street food is dangerously good, and every pop-up stall is proudly Filipino-inspired, which basically means “we add calamansi to everything.”

And yet, I eat less now. I’m not sure how I found the restraint.
Maybe it’s the heat.
Maybe it’s the constant sweating.
Maybe I just haven’t found my go-to restaurant yet.
Or maybe — and this one hit me mid-bite — it’s because the Philippines taught me a different kind of restraint.

Back in Calgary, meals were mine: my portions, my plate, my fridge.

Here, everything’s shared. When you eat at a Filipino table, you don’t just eat — you participate. You pass the ulam. You make sure the little ones eat before you reach for seconds. You take enough to be satisfied, but not so much that anyone else might miss out.

It’s a kind of mindfulness that isn’t about dieting or discipline, but community. I used to think eating less meant missing out. Now I realize it means belonging. Meals here remind me that abundance isn’t measured in servings, but in togetherness.

Coming Home to Myself

The Philippines didn’t welcome me back with open arms. It greeted me with rain, sweat, confusion, and a strange sense of déjà vu. But somewhere between the thunder and the traffic, the handwashing and the laughter, I started to remember who I was before I learned how to say “hala?”

Rediscovering the country isn’t really about the country at all. It’s about rediscovering yourself — the messy, multilingual, spiritually confused self who can find peace in noise and joy in simplicity.

And maybe that’s what coming home really means. Realizing that no matter where you go, you will always look for home.