A Glimpse at my Migratory Grief Experience

(An excerpt from “Realizing Diasporic Filipino/a/x Migratory Grief” originally published by Kasamahan on February 24, 2025.)

What would you like to share about your Filipino background and identity?

    I was born in the Philippines, in a small home in Crame San Juan, Metro Manila. My dad’s family is from Batangas, and my mom’s from Legazpi, Albay, Bicol.

    Growing up in early 2000s Toronto, my family was lucky to have a large Filipino community for support. The congregation at Glencairn Baptist Church holds a special place in my heart, yet it was also where I first felt the weight of cultural expectations. When my father became a deacon, I suddenly found myself under even more scrutiny—his leadership position meant that our family had to model propriety, and I felt like my every move was being watched.

    Despite being so young, I learned that being "respectful" meant being agreeable, even when elders made remarks that were unkind, invasive, or unconstructive. I was too loud. I asked too many questions. I "talked back." And when puberty hit, I felt even more out of place—my changing body drew unwanted attention, and I was made to feel that something about me was inherently wrong.

    It wasn’t just about behaviour; it was about fitting a specific mould of a demure, fair-skinned Filipina. But I was never content with that. I played under the sun (laging amoy araw, always smelling like the sun), my skin darkening in a way that felt like defiance. I used my voice however I saw fit. I wasn’t afraid of physicality—or even a little violence.

    Looking back now, I realize most of these criticisms weren’t just about me. They were echoes of something bigger, fears that had long shaped our community. Maybe my parents reinforced them out of concern like they were trying to shield me and to protect our family from judgment. But the unspoken rules of what it meant to be a "good" Filipina clashed with who I was, and for the first time, I wondered if I would ever be enough.

    For years, I carried that anger, building walls to keep my community at a distance—so they couldn’t reject me first. Whether it was my morena skin, my posture, my voice, or my defiant stare, I feared being found lacking. It wasn’t until I witnessed Indigenous, First Nations, and Black diasporic communities reclaiming their identities that I even considered redefining what it meant to be Filipino.

    That journey led me inward, where I uncovered something unexpected: grief and loss woven into my very sense of self.

What are your personal experiences of immigration and migratory grief that you are willing to share?

    My father was fortunate to immigrate to Canada with most of his siblings and parents (Inay and Tatay), while my mother and I remained in the Philippines until our sponsorship was approved. We reunited as a family in 1996. I was three—too young to understand what was happening, too young to remember. What I know of that time was pieced together from stories shared by the ates and kuyas I met at church.

    When I ask my dad about our migration, he mentions the family farm we left behind. We laugh at the absurdity of that alternate reality. “You’d be washing pigs… riding carabao,” he jokes, smiling. As naturalized citizens, we find joy in the thought, but in the realm of migratory grief, such recollections often carry the weight of loss.

    For me, the loss was in inheriting a dream that wasn’t mine. My migration was decided for me, involuntary like most children who migrate. Every choice felt like an answer to an unspoken question: Was I honouring the sacrifices that brought me here? Success wasn’t just personal—it felt like a duty, a way to prove the journey was justified. What career would honour the act of leaving home? What path would justify walking away from the Philippines? My parents never pushed me toward a specific career, but they did require me to explain my choices. To this day, articulating my desires is a fear-inducing experience. The more I was asked, the less certain I became.

    By high school, I felt like I was canoeing without an oar. My dreams weren’t entirely mine—they were shaped by the echoes of expectation, by the invisible boundaries of what would make migration ‘worth it.’ Yet, despite the weight of those expectations, Toronto grounded me. It wasn’t just home; it was a reflection of who I was. The familiar streets, seeing my Filipino friends and family at least twice a week, the mix of Tagalog and English in passing conversations—these things made me feel known. Place is more than just geography; it’s a container for identity. Even when I questioned who I was, I never had to question where I belonged.

    My parents knew I wouldn’t be a nurse, but beyond that, I had no direction. I was drawn to history and art, but I couldn’t explain to my parents how those degrees would put food on the table. I even considered carpentry, but I lacked the conviction to pursue it. It was bad enough that I wasn’t going into business or the sciences—university wasn’t just encouraged; it was expected.

    Eventually, I left Toronto for Ottawa to pursue a BA in Sociology. That, too, became an unexpected experience of migratory grief. Everything familiar—my family, my daily routines, the sense of belonging I took for granted—was gone. I had always assumed identity was something internal, something I carried within me. But in Ottawa, I felt rootless, as if distance from my community had stripped me of something essential. Suddenly, I was just Charlene from Toronto, fumbling through social interactions, overwhelmed by loneliness, crying over how much harder life had become.

    The heartbreak deepened when I realized that home was no longer home in the way I had left it. The harmony and regularity I had with my friends had all but evaporated while I was away, to the point where visits back felt more isolating than comforting. I had left in search of something—education, independence, maybe even a sense of self—but I returned to something unrecognizable. It was the first time I understood how place can be both grounding and objectifying—rooting us in belonging while also defining us in ways beyond our control.

    And yet, despite the ache of loss, I couldn’t express that sadness. How could I struggle when my parents had done the same thing on a much grander scale?

    When I say my academic journey was traumatic, I mean my migratory grief is woven into it. I learned to stretch a meal for days, to smile through exhaustion, to push through papers with a mind too hungry to think. When graduate school slipped from my grasp, it wasn’t just a lost opportunity—it felt like proof that I had failed the sacrifices made for me. Losing that dream didn’t just shake my confidence; it deepened the grief I already carried from leaving Toronto. A solid sense of identity and the hope of something greater had kept me going, but when those dreams slipped away, so did a piece of who I was. Without them, I felt untethered, like I had lost not just a future, but another home.

    "If I came all this way to get into grad school and I can’t even complete it, what am I doing here?" Would failing mean I had wasted the sacrifices my family made?

    That voice—the fear of failure—still lingers. It shapes my decisions, whispers doubt, and questions my worth. But now, I recognize it. And in that recognition, I reclaim a measure of control. I can choose to listen, or I can prove that particular voice wrong by taking action.

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If this resonates with you, you don’t have to navigate it alone. I offer individual counselling, group support, and consultation to help diasporic Filipinos find clarity and healing. Reach out to start the conversation.