“I spent 18 years building an altar of work, only to realize I was starving for soul-sustenance. I went home as a stranger, I left as a daughter who finally knows how to sleep soundly.”

For a long time, I was a stranger to my own family. I had become a devotee to the “altar of work,” chasing deadlines until my body was a hollow shell with no soul, and my mind was clouded by the grey fog of burnout. I had been a workaholic – a title I once wore like armor, only to realize it was actually a cage.

I spent the holidays in the warm company of friends and colleagues, and while their kindness was a gift, it was a borrowed pleasure. I needed to return home. I needed to go home.

The Symphony of the Mundane

The moment the wheels of the plane touched the tarmac, the heavy knot in my chest began to loosen. I wasn’t just returning to a house; I was returning to my roots.

At Helen’s Home, the days begins not with the an alarm clock, but with the “music ” of my mother: her dramatic morning lines and that persistent nagging. To some, it’s noise. To me, it is the defibrillator. An electric shock to my resting heart. It is the sound of life coming back to me.

Then there is the chaos- the hilarious, “scamming” banter of my younger sister(the comedian to my serious soul) and the joyful interference of our dogs. In this house, silence is rare, but usual everyday family drama is abundant. I realized sometimes, I needed this beautiful, familiar noise.

A Feast for the Tired Soul

I spent three weeks doing nothing but breathing, sleeping, and eating. There is a specific kind of joy that only happens over a steaming bowl of home-cooked food. I requested all my favorites, and my mother lovingly prepared them:

• Sinigang with it’s soul-warming broth.
• Dinuguan prepared exactly the way I remember.
• Any dish simmered in reach, creamy coconut milk.

I watched her hands- hands that have worked for nearly 80 years- prepare these meals like a queen. I realized then that I had been starving not for food, but for the soul-sustenance that only a mother’s kitchen can provide. It was the long-lost recipe of my life. She may nag at times, But I’m sure most mothers do- it’s just another ingredient in her recipe for love.

The Changing of the Guard

Reaching my mid-40s has shifted my perspective. I looked at my mother, nearly 80 and still remarkably strong, and I feel anxious. She still wakes up with the sun for the market; she still insists on scrubbing the laundry.

But as the eldest, I see the shadows of fatigue she tries to hide. I’ve realized that making up for the “lost time” isn’t a grand gesture; it’s in the small things. It’s taking the laundry from her hands and start cleaning the house so she can finally sit. It’s telling her that she doesn’t have to fret over all unnecessary things – just take a nap. We will do the rest. It is recognizing that even the strongest pillars need to be leaned on sometimes.

Molded to be “Different Strong”

Our home is not perfect. It is loud, it is dramatic, and it is hilarious. But it is the only place where I can truly reset.

I used to think strength was defined by my productivity or having an impeccable reputation for work ethics. I was wrong. I was actually molded in this house to be a different kind of strong – a strength forged through discipline, weathered by trials and rejection, and sharpened by the need to think outside of the box.

I am back where I started, and for the first time in years. I slept soundly. I am home.

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