The structure of your space can literally make or break your spirit.
“If you don’t like where you are, move. You are not a tree,” writer Enitan Kehinde said.
I lived in northern Metro Manila almost all my adult life, a true child of Quezon City. I was born there and went to school there from kindergarten to college. For most of my life as a student, I only had to walk to school. In high school at Stella Maris College, I had a lunch pass so I could leave school and have lunch at home. I knew Araneta Center like the back of my hand—it was the world as I knew it with SM Cubao at the center.
Condo living was a nightmare for me. In the middle of the night, I would wake up with my heart beating so fast because firetrucks and ambulances would pass along Shaw Blvd. I would often look down my window to see if we would survive in case we had to jump.
When we had to move to Project 4 in senior high and then to Diliman for college, it almost felt like a rebellion. I grew up thinking people weren’t supposed to move so much or move too far, especially from places where most family members lived. The idea seemed scary, and the comforts felt “unleavable.” Stay where you are, stay where you’re comfortable, where you feel safe. Stay where people tell you to stay.
And then the COVID-19 pandemic hit.
At the time, we were living in a 25th-floor, one-bedroom condo at the edge of Ortigas CBD (I had to move there for work). My son’s school was across from us and I would wake up to the music of morning Mass. Malls were a few steps away, a premier hospital was walkable, and there were other hospitals nearby in case of emergency. It was the cosmopolitan life many dream of.
Condo living
Is it me? I would often wonder. Am I so negative that I can’t appreciate where I am? Anyone else would have loved where I was living, but I didn’t.
I had never deteriorated as much as I did while living there. My mental health suffered, and this affected my relationships. Worse, my son’s mental health also suffered. He couldn’t go to school even if it was just a few steps away. He would be lethargic, and at night I would hear him crying himself to sleep. (Perhaps the only bright spot about living in Ortigas was we were near the hospital where my mother underwent cancer treatment.)
I eventually realized what was causing my pain: it was the noise. In the middle of the night, I would wake up with my heart beating so fast because firetrucks and ambulances would pass along Shaw Blvd., sounding like they were right beside me. I would panic thinking there was a building fire we were not aware of, and would imagine how we would save ourselves. I would often look down my window to see if we would survive in case we had to jump.
For others, condo living is perfect. For me, it was a nightmare. Add to that was the absence of a sense of community, especially during the pandemic, and tenants who thought pets were pests. The only thing that saved me during the strict lockdowns was the view of the mountains of Rizal and the sound of birds when there were no vehicles in the streets. Car-less roads on Sundays would help, but it could not be sustained.
I decided to move back to QC. It was my ‘hood, after all. But inflation saw this solo parent only being able to afford an apartment at the edge of QC in the Banawe area, near the cities of Caloocan and Manila. It was a charming, ‘80s-style apartment that reminded me of my childhood in Cubao. Sadly, it came with nosy neighbors and a poor garbage collection system. When settlers started building shacks on the sidewalk outside our gate, I knew it was time to move again.
But where?
Southern living
I looked in Pasig and Mandaluyong, but could not afford the available spaces. I also wanted ample space for my son to thrive while I having my own. But it needed to be affordable, in a peaceful area, but near enough to essential establishments. Tall order? Maybe.
Until I came across this marketplace listing of a place in the south. It was love at first sight, but I was not sure I could afford it. So I said I’ll just check it out. I needed to see it for myself, because I had never seen a design like it.
And so my son and I went to have a look. The house is newly built, lived in by the owners for about two years before they migrated to Canada. The walls are white, the floor is black marble. The colors of the house are dominantly black and white, with touches of wood in the bedroom floors. The steel banisters are also painted in black, making the vertical space look even more spacious.
It’s minimalist and spacious with enough daylight and natural circulation so one could breathe—and put up a 10-foot Christmas tree.
The impact of the new place on my mental health was immediate and profound: I slept deeply again and would wake up feeling rested. It was not as noisy as Ortigas and Quezon City.
I knew, though, that I could not afford it. So while the landlords were lovely and it was my dream place so my son could finally experience living in a nice place, after that visit, I went quiet. I looked at other places, but my thoughts always went back to this place, more than 30 kilometers from my place of comfort.
And one day, the landlady messaged me. Even if I didn’t apply to rent their house, they wanted me to live there. Even better, I could afford the rent. It was the sign I needed, and we eventually moved there.
The impact of the new place on my mental health was immediate and profound: I slept deeply again and would wake up feeling rested. It was not as noisy as Ortigas and Quezon City which, combined with the wonderful breeze that circulates inside when the windows and walls (my bedroom walls are sliding doors) are open, give a perfect probinsiya feel. The open air around the house makes it so.
It feels like the house is breathing, and I am breathing with it.
Even when I am alone, I just have to look out my bedroom and I would feel happy again. The space, the structure itself makes me happy. It’s not perfect, but it makes me happy. And although sometimes there would still be a trace of loneliness, the place where I live at least makes it a little more bearable instead of adding to it. For the first time in a long time, the place where I live is not adding to my despair.
The best part is when friends come over, and they add to the beautiful energy of the place. I also have to commend my neighborhood: our area is not gated, but we look out for each other. I feel safe and somewhat cared for. Moving to the south means moving away from the family we have in Metro Manila, but at least I have my neighbors.
A lot of people ask me about the pain of traveling to other cities for work, especially since I commute. But you know what? Knowing I would come home to my place makes it worth it. I look forward to it, and the trip home after a long day out is one filled with excitement. I admit, though, that at my age I could only manage to enjoy commuting to and from as far as Ortigas.
Past that, including Quezon City, is now a challenge (I have had to pass up wonderful collaboration opportunities because of this, and I apologize to people I have had to disappoint).
When going up and down my place doing chores, I often think how long I would like to live here, and I can only hope my landlords allow me that. I am still a work in progress, still getting back on my feet, but this place reminds me that I am blessed.
I live in a nice house, you see.
