Children don’t remember the presents, they remember the presence

When I was around 8 to 10 years old, I entered a pivotal phase of my life, a time when I began to understand more about the world around me. My parents were already separated, and I found myself living in different homes—sometimes with my mom, sometimes with my grandma, Lola Aning, or my aunt. Occasionally, I stayed with my grandfather, Lolo Marcial. Life was a whirlwind, and looking back, I can see how much it shaped who I’ve become. 

My mom was in and out of our lives. She was always busy, hustling and grinding to provide for us, but her business ventures came at a cost. She ran bars and clubs, and at one point, she got caught up in the world of drugs and alcohol. Despite her struggles, she always made sure we had what we needed, even when it felt like she wasn’t really there. My father had moved on and started a new life with his own family, so my brother and I were separated. He lived with our grandfather, and I stayed with my mom or lola. Even though we had everything we needed in terms of material things—thanks to my mom and grandma’s hard work—it didn’t fill the void. It’s true what they say: . I can’t recall a single gift I received during that time, but I do remember the feeling of my mom being gone, always out at night managing her businesses. During the day, my lola would be asleep from her long hours, leaving me to figure things out on my own. I learned how to skip school at a young age. Bullying wasn’t something that was talked about much back then, but it was something I dealt with daily. I moved from one school to another, searching for a place where I could feel safe and understood. Eventually, I ended up living with my aunt Nanay for a while because she was the more successful one in our family. My mom’s addiction had taken hold, and she became a distant figure, both emotionally and physically. I saw her less and less, and even when she was around, she felt unreachable. My relationship with my dad was strained. I didn’t know why at the time, but I harbored a deep grudge against him. No one told me to feel that way, but as a child, I didn’t feel his love. He was always strict, always grumpy, and our interactions were usually tense. The only time he ever showed a softer side was when he was drunk. In those moments, he would become sweet and caring, as if the liquor gave him the courage to express the love he didn’t know how to show sober. I guess that was his way of being brave—alcohol was his escape, his way of coping. But as a child, I couldn’t understand that. Looking back now, I realize how much all of these experiences shaped me. I grew up fast, learning to navigate a world that often felt unstable. 

It wasn’t easy, but it taught me resilience. It taught me that love isn’t always shown in the ways we expect, and that sometimes the people we need the most are doing their best, even when it doesn’t feel like enough. It’s only as an adult that I’ve come to terms with these memories, and I’m still learning how to heal from them. 

But through it all, I’ve learned that presence—real, loving presence—is what truly matters.