The Uninvited Guest Called Change
Change doesn’t always knock. Sometimes it barges in unannounced, unbothered, and loud. You don’t always get the chance to brace for it. One day, you’re living your life, thinking about what to eat for dinner (mostly on Grab or FoodPanda), and the next, you’re booking one-way tickets, packing up what feels like a previous version of yourself. That was me. Months ago, I stepped into unfamiliar soil with a large luggage, a heavy carry-on luggage, and questions I wasn’t ready to answer.
People talk about change like it’s a fresh start. And maybe it is. But the word “fresh” can be misleading. Change can be heavy, complicated, and not the least bit refreshing. It pulls things out of you that you thought were stable. It makes you forget what normal even means. This post is not a manifesto on courage. It’s more of an attempt to trace the steps that led me through the confusion, the hush, and somehow, toward myself again.
The Grieving and Grace of Leaving Home
Leaving the Philippines wasn’t just a move. It felt like a quiet surrender. Like ending a chapter I hadn’t finished writing. I left behind so many things that shaped me: the carinderia where I buy my food for brunch while I’m light-headed with the lack of sleep, the long and winding road to my rural health work for which I fall asleep without feeling refreshed, and the language of comfort that rarely needs translating. Most of all, I left the people I thought I would give my life to serve: my country’s sick and needy people. That part still stings some days.
Packing was strange. I overthought every item, as if each shirt or book had the power to anchor me. In the end, I left more behind than I brought with me. And not just in the physical sense. I left behind the comfort of being sure of who I was—a doctor, a friend, someone whose name and work carried some weight. In Canada, those things didn’t seem to matter. At least not right away.
But something else came with that loss—a blank page. There was grace in that, though I didn’t see it at first. Grace in the friends who sent messages even when I was too slow to reply. Grace in my wife’s unwavering calm, even when mine cracked. And grace in my own courage, which didn’t feel like courage but looked like getting on the plane anyway.
Life in Between: The Strange Stillness of Starting Over
Settling in wasn’t dramatic. It was oddly quiet. Days blurred together, and I often found myself unsure of what I had actually accomplished. Time seemed slower, almost padded. Maybe because the markers I used to measure progress no longer existed. No patients waiting. No clinics to clock into. No Zoom meetings, no deadlines, just me trying to figure out how things worked, from healthcare registrations to finding the right aisle for rice.
There was also the dissonance of feeling both new and old. I was 30-something and experienced, yet also starting at zero. Credentials didn’t transfer cleanly. I had to learn to speak a language I already knew, but in a new dialect—job applications, networking, introductions that began with what I used to do, followed by a shrug. It felt like being fluent in a language no one spoke here.
But in the stillness, something else started to take root. I started listening to myself more. Paying attention to the way silence shaped my thoughts. There was grief, yes, but also space: space to feel what I hadn’t let myself feel back home. And sometimes, doing nothing was its own form of recovery. Not everything has to be productive to be healing.
Rediscovery: Writing, Worship, and Walking
I found myself writing again, which was both comforting and confronting. When I wrote before, it was usually for someone: a client, a church bulletin, an assignment. Now, it was just for me. I didn’t always like what came out. Some of it felt raw, some repetitive. But I kept going, and it began to feel less like a task and more like a thread pulling me toward clarity.
Then there was worship. When I finally joined a church here, it was a relief I didn’t expect to feel. There’s something grounding about singing songs you already know in a place that still feels unfamiliar. I was reminded that not everything had to be learned again. Some things, like music and prayer, followed you.
And the streets that were made for walking—well, that became a kind of sanctuary. I started walking without purpose. Just to breathe. Just to look at something beautiful. I didn’t expect the stillness of nature to echo my inner life, but it did. Not in profound ways all the time, but in tiny nudges: you’re here, you’re okay, just keep walking.
Anchors in the Storm
There were a few things that held me when everything else felt like drifting. My wife, without question, was one of them. Her steadiness helped me stay rooted when I wanted to dissolve into uncertainty. It’s hard to overstate what a steady presence can do when the ground keeps shifting.
Faith, too, kept me tethered, not with thunderous conviction but with quiet reminders. I would wake up anxious some mornings, pray half-heartedly, and feel no immediate peace. But I kept praying. And somewhere in that repetition, my soul settled. Not always. But enough.
My blog also surprised me. I didn’t think I had much to say. But putting thoughts into words helped me listen to myself better. Even a single post, half-formed or messy, was a small declaration: I am still here. I am still becoming. I still care. That meant more than I expected.
Embracing the Unknown with Gentle Confidence
I used to think I needed answers before I could feel at peace. That if I could just line up the steps—pass the exams, get certified, land a job—then I’d feel okay again. But life isn’t a checklist. Some boxes don’t get ticked for months, maybe years. And oddly enough, I’m starting to be okay with that.
There are still days I feel behind. Days I question if I made the right decision coming here. But those questions don’t paralyze me like they used to. I’ve learned that even in uncertainty, you can build something meaningful. You don’t have to wait for clarity to start. You can start anyway.
Maybe that’s what this season is for: not for fixing everything, but for finding what matters when nothing feels secure. I’m not who I was a year ago, but I’m not lost either. I’m just in motion, reshaping, realigning, but still deeply, stubbornly me.
To You Who Kept on Going
Dear Ian,
I know it’s still hard some days. You’re tired. You wonder if your story is on pause while everyone else is fast-forwarding. But I hope you can look back at this moment and see what it really was: not wasted time, but the soil where something new was quietly taking root.
You didn’t have to do it all. You just had to show up. And you did. You took the walk, wrote the paragraph, brewed the coffee, and prayed the shaky prayer. That’s not failure. That’s faith. Keep going.
Whatever happens next: career, exams, community, calling, you won’t arrive empty. You’ll carry this with you. All of it.