Growing up Filipino, I used to think independence was a destination. A condo unit. A job that paid for weekend groceries. Maybe even a passport full of stamps . What I didn’t realize back then was that the real work wasn’t in finally being able to afford my own place; it was in unlearning the idea that I needed to ask permission to live my own life.
It’s funny, no one ever sits you down to explain how to be an adult in a Filipino household. One day you’re graduating. The next, you’re still explaining where you’re going, with who, and what time you’ll be home. The shift doesn’t come quickly or cleanly. For some of us, it doesn’t even come with age. It comes with one quiet decision at a time.
Independence started in my head before it ever reached my feet
Long before I ever packed a bag or dreamed of moving out, I had to confront the fact that I didn’t feel free even in my own home. I still tiptoed around basic things: privacy, opinions, or even just being quiet without being asked what was wrong.
When you hit 25, maybe 30, and you still feel like you have to ask, “Pwede po ba [Is it okay if I do]?” before going out for dinner with friends, it’s going to feel strange somehow. That is, to be a grown adult living under someone else’s rules.
I had to admit it to myself first: this isn’t how I want to live. And that was hard. Because I wasn’t raised to question things. I was raised to be grateful. To consider other people’s feelings first.
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So I learned to think more critically. Is this rule about care or control? Am I agreeing just to avoid conflict, or do I actually believe this is what’s best for me? I didn’t always have answers and honestly, it felt disloyal to even ask. But asking, even just in my head, felt like the first small win.
Why it’s hard for many of us to break free
In a typical Filipino fashion, love is often expressed through control.
“Bawal umalis [You can’t leave].”
“Text mo ako pag andiyan ka na [Text me once you get there].”
“Wag mo nang gawin ‘yan, delikado [Don’t do it. It sounds dangerous].”
Sometimes it’s out of care. Other times, it’s fear. Many of our parents grew up in survival mode, where every choice was a risk, and safety always meant staying close. They worry because the world feels unfamiliar to them, even when it’s the same place we live in now.
But love doesn’t mean never growing up. Respect doesn’t mean never choosing yourself. And being a “good” son or daughter doesn’t mean never saying no.
For me, it wasn’t about rebelling or proving anything. It was about peace. The kind of peace where I could make a decision and not have to explain it like a court case. The kind of peace where I could sit alone and feel like my time was mine.
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But of course in my family, that didn’t always come easy.
There were days when I felt guilty for even wanting space. For closing the door. For eating a meal without sharing. That quiet voice would creep in: “Selfish ka na ba?” But I had to rewire that voice. Wanting space wasn’t selfish. It was part of growing.
I started small (and quietly)
I didn’t wake up one day and announce that I was taking charge of my life. I didn’t even know how to put it into words. I just started drawing invisible lines.
A set bedtime. Small budgeting goals. Learning to cook for myself even when food was ready on the table. Making little routines that gave me a sense of agency; a feeling that even if I couldn’t control the whole house, I could control one corner of it
One night, I cooked dinner for myself even if there was food on the table, and my mother noticed. “Ang arte mo naman ngayon [You’re so fussy now].” she said, half-joking, but I felt the sting. I laughed it off, but in my head, I wondered, Am I changing too much? Or just finally becoming who I’ve always been?
And then I worked. Not just for money, but for options. There’s a difference. I took jobs that helped me save slowly, not just survive. I said yes to freelance gigs that gave me flexibility. Eventually, I had a little cushion; not enough for a grand lifestyle, but enough to pay rent if the time came. And that gave me confidence, the quiet assurance that if I had to go, I could.
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I also began asking, not for permission, but for understanding. Not always successful, but worth trying. One time, I wrote out what I wanted to say because speaking it felt too loaded. Sometimes the conversation went sideways. Sometimes it was met with silence. But I kept showing up anyway. Calmly. Respectfully. Over time, that helped.
The guilt may not go away but it doesn’t have to rule me
Even now, I carry a bit of guilt whenever I make decisions my parents might not fully agree with. I still hear their voices in my head. I still wonder if I’m doing right by them.
But what I’ve learned is this: guilt can sit in the room, but it doesn’t get to drive the car.
I’ve earned the right to make choices. I can still care for them, honor them, send money even. But that doesn’t mean I have to live under their roof forever. That doesn’t mean I owe them every minute of my day.
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It took a long time for me to believe this. But when I did, things started to change. I could show up for them from a place of love, not obligation. And somehow, that made my love feel more real because it was mine to give, not just something I was taught to hand over.
Filipino-style independence isn’t Western-style freedom
In other cultures, moving out at 18 is expected. In ours, staying home at 35 is sometimes still considered “being a good child.” That doesn’t mean either is wrong; it just means the path looks different.
So I didn’t aim to cut ties. I aimed to loosen the knots. To create room for me to breathe while still holding onto the values I was raised with. To become someone I was proud of, and someone they could be proud of, too, even if the path looked different.
Parting thoughts from someone who gets it
I know how tempting it is to just pack your bags and leave. To imagine a version of your life where you don’t have to explain or apologize. And maybe one day, that will happen. But if I’ve learned anything, it’s this:
Real independence is more than just about having your own space. It’s about self-trust. It’s knowing that even if no one claps, you’re still proud of yourself. It’s choosing your peace even when it’s inconvenient. And it’s building a life where you’re no longer waiting for permission to live.
So if you’re just starting, be patient. You’re just learning to be your own person – quietly, carefully, in your own Filipino way.
