When I was four years old, my grandmother would sometimes take me with her to downtown Davao whenever she had errands to run. Taking a cab was impractical, so we rode a jeepney instead. As we crawled through traffic, she would always remind me not to stick my head or hands outside. And knowing me, I would do exactly the opposite.
I loved how the wind rushed against my face—the reckless joy of motion, the illusion of freedom. She would scold me, worried that I might fall or clip the side of an oncoming vehicle. Her fear was practical, maternal. Mine was instinctive, curious. Even then, I was already drawn to the feeling of being somewhere else, of leaving the familiar behind. Those short rides through the city became my earliest journeys, and I still treasure them.
Perhaps that is where the longing began. The desire to move, to go somewhere—anywhere. It doesn’t really matter whether the journey is a short ride to a nearby town or a flight to the far edges of the world. What matters is the act itself, and the quiet risks we accept along the way.
