I never once thought my home was broken in any sense of the word. As a young child, I assumed my parents’ shouting matches were a result of hearing problems that stemmed from old age. My brother is 11 years older than me, and I always wished he would step in and act like the mature, older sibling I imagined he was. It turned out that a lot of the shouting was actually about him. But, as a kid, I didn’t yet understand that he was the root of many of our family’s issues. If my family were a house, it would look like this: broken sinks, falling roofs, blown-up walls: a structure crumbling. But back then, I didn’t give a shit. Ignorance is bliss.
When I turned 18, it became impossible to ignore my surroundings. So I ran, and I ran very far (9000 miles to be exact), from The Philippines to New York City. Somehow, though I was on another continent, I could still feel the tension, the trauma, and all the unresolved issues circling my family. Despite my new and exciting environment, I was weighed down by the emotional baggage I carried with me. It was a constant struggle to let go of the past and move forward with my life, but I knew that it was something I needed to do if I wanted to find happiness.
Coming home for Christmas was always a rollercoaster of emotions. I never knew what was going to unfold; perhaps another screaming match? A drunken rage rant? Threats of annulment? Who knows, but I was always prepared to desensitize myself. On the eve of Christmas back in 2019, I caught a fever from going straight to the club as soon as I got off my 17-hour flight from JFK airport to Manila (I thought it would fix my jet lag). Everyone was wary about COVID then (Yes, we were already concerned about a looming virus breakout during that time), so we decided to stay in. I remember laying on the couch, weak as a stray kitten, while my family bustled around me, preparing a makeshift noche buena feast after canceling our dinner reservations.
After our meal, my brother started playing music to liven up the house. They were all dressed to the nines, and I was in my college hoodie and sweatpants shivering like a wet dog. Spirits were high after exchanging gifts, and my brother queued up Bella Ciao after getting a very nice present from my mom. As he started dancing, he pulled my mom up from her seat and began twirling her around. My dad brought out his phone to take a video of the moment, but they instead invited him to join in on the fun. “Wish you could dance with us, Maia,” they said.
Laying on the couch watching my family dance together was probably the happiest memory I have with them. No arguing, no crying, just dancing, drinking, and enjoying each other’s company. That moment remains crystal clear in my memory; their matching maroon ensembles, our three French bulldogs jumping along with them, and the joy and laughter that filled the air. It was a strange feeling, being so physically ill but emotionally relieved to see my home begin the renovation process: we were healing, with a clean slate.
Looking back on that moment now, I realize that happiness doesn’t have to be something grand or extravagant. It can be found in the simple things, like preparing a meal together or dancing to an Italian protest anthem. At that moment, I felt a sense of hope and optimism for the future of our family. Despite the fact that our bad moments together outweighed the good, the memory of them dancing together remains a beacon of light in the midst of a difficult and tumultuous time in my life. It taught me that even when things seem hopeless, there is always a possibility for change and growth.
I also realized that healing takes time, as well as effort and commitment. My family and I still have a long way to go, but that night was a small step towards a better future. It was a moment of unity and happiness that I will always hold dear to my heart. It’s a reminder that even in the darkest of times, there is always a glimmer of hope, and that hope can lead to healing.