1/17

My story is different being Kiwi-born and also being Pakeha and Māori, but as a Filipino, we went through some things. For example, Mum never wanted to teach us Tagalog because she believed that to be successful in the Western world we should only know English. That same colonised mindset also impacted my Māori side too.

Times were growing up when I struggled to find my identity as well. Even though I was a Kiwi born and raised, I faced discrimination and racial remarks based on the look of my face and the colour of my skin—been told several times to go back to my own country, even tho I was already home. But even so, we got by because of the small Filipino communities we were a part of and our hard-working mother. Fiestas, family, singing, dancing, basketball—growing up, that’s what being a Filipino was like.

2/17

My youngest called my sister ‘Mama’ the other day. I could barely keep it together on the call. My sister’s raising them, loving them, holding them when they cry, and I can’t be mad at her for it. But to think I’m slowly fading from their lives. I’m just the woman who sends money and gifts. Will they even know me when I finally come home?

3/17

Every night, I come home with calloused, aching hands. I close my eyes, and I can still feel the day’s work in my bones, in my skin.

4/17

In the 1980s, life was very different. I was a young woman in the Philippines, full of hope but facing a lot of limitations. Opportunities for a better life felt so out of reach back then, and there weren’t many options for someone like me. When I met my husband through a marriage agency, as a mail-ordered bride, I saw it as a chance—a way to give my future children a life with more security and possibilities. I never expected it to be easy, but I couldn’t have prepared myself for the changes.

Moving abroad was a wow moment talaga. The city was different and busy, and I felt like an outsider at every turn. I struggled with the language, understanding the culture, and most of all, loneliness. My husband and I hardly knew each other, and we had to learn how to build a life together with so many diffrences between us.

Some days, I felt trapped, like I’d traded one kind of hardship for another. I was a stranger in a foreign place, and I missed home so much it hurt. People didn’t understand my accent, they’d ask me strange questions, or worse, make assumptions about who I was. I was stereotyped as ‘the immigrant wife,’ and even in moments when I tried to fit in, I felt people looked right through me. I struggled with finding my identity in this new world, always feeling caught between where I’d come from and where I was.

Now, as a grandmother, I see the lives I helped create and shape. My grandchildren know me as their “Lola,” and they embrace their heritage with pride. I see them explore the world with confidence, taking the best of both cultures. It’s made me realise that my journey, though difficult and filled with pain, was meaningful. I went through all of this so that my children and grandchildren could have lives full of choices and freedom.

I still carry the scars, the memories of those early days when I felt invisible, misunderstood, and lonely. But now, I look at my family and see the impact of my strength, and I am proud. Life as a mail-ordered bride was not easy, but it brought me here, to this family and this life I cherish. Through it all, I’ve learned that our struggles shape us; sometimes, they shape the generations that come after us in ways we never imagined.

5/17

I am a female 29-year-old. I have been working in the United Arab Emirates for 5 years. I have a good career and a 3-year live-in relationship. Last April 2023, I lost my mom in a snap due to an aneurysm without seeing her for the past 5 years. I went home with her in a coma, and eventually, she passed the same day I arrived in the Philippines.

Suddenly my life changed from being a thriving corporate career woman to someone who has no direction, a purposeless individual who stays home to help my father manage our home, brothers, and dogs.

Since Mom passed, I do not know how to reset my life. I am tired of doing nothing, overthinking that I am now replacing my mom's place in the household. I have a 15-year-old brother diagnosed with autism. As much as I wanted to leave the country and start my career again, I can't leave him here again since I am one of the few persons he is closest with.

My dad is 58, working as a seafarer, and up to date, since I went back home, he has been providing for us. It's scary—once he is no longer allowed to work, am I able to handle being the breadwinner? How can I start my life again?

I'm scared, tired, and hesitant that I am no longer in demand since the Philippines' work life is terrible due to low salaries, expensive commodities, and a horrible commute. I feel scared to restart. I'm still lost. I don't know what or where I'm good at. Supposed to be at my age, I am building my own family, but in my case, I can't because my first family needs me.

It's scary to think how I will be after all this, if I will ever be living for me, or ever be given a chance. So if anyone has the heart and patience to provide me with a better blueprint of life, please help me out.

6/17

My dad would pack me Filipino food, and at home, I loved it. But at school, the other kids would wrinkle their noses and ask why my food ‘smelled weird’ or ‘looked gross.’ I’d start skipping lunch just to avoid the stares, hiding in the bathroom or just throwing it away.

7/17

New migrants have to be friendly and not shy to ask for help from their kababayan if they arrive and welcome any support some may offer. They should be open to joining Filipino groups and socializing more to gain friends. If they have children, they should teach them Tagalog at home from a young age and maintain their Filipino language while growing up until they are adults.

They have to instill in their children our inherent Filipino values such as respect for elders, faith in God, being hospitable, and love of family. They need to have a positive attitude and a strong desire to maintain cultural and social connections with other Filipinos and at the same time share their gifts if they feel they have something worthwhile to contribute to their adopted homeland.

8/17

When we first moved to Christchurch as kids, it felt like we were starting over, a whole new life. Back then, we didn’t understand the sacrifices our parents made to bring us here. All we knew was that it was different—new faces, new culture, and a cold we’d never felt before.

Over the years, this place became home. We grew up here, made friends, and found our footing. New Zealand shaped us in ways we couldn’t have imagined. But now that we’re adults, something feels… stagnant. Inflation is biting, the cost of living keeps rising, and every day feels like a loop of the same routines.

It’s strange to realize we’re now standing where our parents once stood, weighing the pros and cons of starting over somewhere else. Australia seems promising—better job opportunities, a different pace of life—but it also means leaving behind the comfort and stability of what we’ve known. In some ways, it feels like we’re becoming OFWs all over again, just like our parents, except this time, we understand the weight of what that means.

It’s not just about chasing a better life; it’s about the fear of the unknown, the longing for what you’ll leave behind, and the hope that it will all be worth it in the end. It’s like life has come full circle, and now it’s our turn to take that jump.

9/17

In the beginning, I kept thinking about going back home. It felt pointless working so hard here because every dollar I earned seemed to disappear just as quickly. Rent, food, bills, sending money back home—it all added up. I’d joke with myself, 'Earn dollar, spend a dollar,' but deep down, it wasn’t funny.

I wasn’t saving anything, and no matter how exhausting the work was, it felt like I wasn’t getting anywhere. My life didn’t feel like it was changing for the better.

But now, slowly, I’ve started to see things differently. At first, it was the little things—sending money for my siblings’ school fees, helping my family fix the roof back home, or just knowing they could eat three proper meals a day because of what I sent. It wasn’t much, but I realised that those small efforts were adding up over time. I could see the difference I was making, even if it wasn’t obvious at first.

10/17

My kids are growing up, and it feels like they’re slowly losing their connection to being Filipino. No matter what I do — sharing our traditions, cooking Filipino food, or teaching them Tagalog — they’re more interested in the New Zealand culture. I get it, I understand, because they grew up here, but as a parent, it hurts.

It’s like they’re slowly drifting away from our culture, and I can’t help but feel like I’m losing a part of them too.

11/17

Earning money overseas is really not easy — the hard work and loneliness. I feel lucky that my experience wasn’t that extreme. I sent my loved ones to school and gave them an allowance because I felt privileged. There was even secret help I couldn’t declare to avoid issues with others. Life is really hard when you’re alone and have no backup.

Overall, I’m grateful that I’ve finally freed myself from all the obligations, and I’m so thankful that everyone truly cooperated.

12/17

As a 45-year-old dad who moved my kids to New Zealand, there’s this overwhelming sense of relief, pride, and gratitude every single day. I look at my kids now—watching them grow up in a place where they can be safe, where they have opportunities I only dreamed of at their age—and it’s hard to put into words just how much it means to me.

Kahibaw ko nga pag-abot namo diri, akong nahatag nila ang kaugmaon nga lahi gyud kaysa kung naa pa mi sa Pinas, and that feeling… it’s like a weight has been lifted off my shoulders. I used to worry constantly about their safety, about what kind of lives they’d have, about whether I was doing enough for them. But here, those worries wala na gyud.

It’s in the little things—seeing them laugh with friends, hearing them speak with confidence about their goals, watching them explore hobbies and interests I could never have offered them back home. They’re showing me the world through fresh eyes, teaching me to embrace change, to be open, and to believe in the future.

Makaingon ko nga sakto akong gibuhat, nga tanang kahago ug sakripisyo sulod sa mga tuig, naa gyud diay kapadulngan. There’s no greater reward than seeing them happy and knowing I had a part in making that happen.

13/17

When I first moved to New Zealand, everything felt overwhelming. I came from a small barangay in the Philippines where everyone knew each other, and suddenly, I was in a place where I was just another immigrant, another face in the crowd.

My first job was at a local bakery — early mornings, long hours, and every day I felt like I had to prove myself. I’d hear customers complain about my accent or see them hesitate when they realized I wasn’t a local. I brushed it off, telling myself, ‘Be grateful. You’re here now.’ But inside, I felt small, like I had to apologise for who I was.

One day, during a break, my Kiwi co-worker asked why I always seemed so hesitant to speak up. I didn’t know how to explain the deeply ingrained idea of utang na loob, this sense of debt I felt just for being allowed to exist in this new country. I told her, ‘In the Philippines, we’re taught to be grateful, to endure.’ She laughed, not unkindly, and said, ‘Gratitude’s good, but it doesn’t mean you shouldn’t stand up for yourself.’

That moment stuck with me. I started noticing how differently people here approached life—they prioritized self-care, set boundaries, and didn’t think twice about speaking their minds. Meanwhile, I was working overtime, saying yes to everything, and even feeling guilty for taking a day off when I was sick. I realized I’d internalised this idea that my worth was tied to how much I could endure, how much I could sacrifice.

One specific moment hit me hard. I sent most of my paycheck home every month, leaving myself just enough to get by. When my siblings asked for more money to buy gadgets for school, I said yes, even though it meant skipping meals for a week. My Kiwi flatmate saw me eating instant noodles again and asked why I didn’t just say no. I remember crying because I didn’t know how to explain that saying no felt like failing as a child, as a Filipino.

Over time, I started to unlearn this. I joined a Filipino community group and began talking about these struggles. It was comforting to hear that others felt the same way, that we were all carrying this invisible weight. Slowly, I learned to set boundaries. I started keeping a portion of my salary for myself, allowing myself small joys—a good meal, a warm jacket, a trip to the beach. It felt selfish at first, but it also felt freeing.

Decolonization for me has been about recognizing these patterns and letting go of the idea that I have to prove my worth through suffering. It’s a journey, and I’m still on it, but I’ve come to realise that being Filipino doesn’t mean I have to carry the world on my shoulders. It means embracing my roots while also giving myself the space to thrive, to rest, and to simply be.

14/17

One moment I’ll never forget was when a patient asked me where I was from. When I said the Philippines, they smiled and said, ‘Filipinos are always so hardworking. Always so kind.’ At first, I felt proud—this was what we were known for, right?

But then they added, ‘You’re all such good helpers.’ And that stuck with me. Helpers. It wasn’t meant as an insult, but it felt like a box I couldn’t step out of. Was that all I was—a helper? Was that all people saw?

15/17

I used to be a doctor. Back in the Philippines, people would call me 'Doc,' and it meant something. I spent years studying, and sleepless nights in the hospital, helping save lives. But when I moved overseas, none of that mattered.

My first job here was cleaning toilets in an office building. I can still remember the smell of bleach, the mop in my hands, and how it felt like I’d left everything I worked so hard for behind. I’d scrub floors and think, ‘This isn’t what I imagined for myself.’ I wanted to cry every time someone walked past me without a second glance, not knowing who I was, or what I’d achieved.

Back home, people respected me. Here, I felt invisible. It wasn’t about the job—I knew I had to start somewhere—but it was the ache of losing a part of myself. I wasn’t ‘Doc’ anymore. I was just someone cleaning up after others.

16/17

Bro, I can’t even believe I’m saying this now, but back in the Philippines, I was a total wreck. Drugs were my escape from everything—the stress of not having enough money, the pressure of trying to provide for my family, and even just the noise of daily life.

You know how it is back home—puro problema, di ba? It started with small stuff , just hanging out with the wrong crowd, drinking after work, then someone off ered shabu, and before I knew it, I was hooked.

There were nights when I’d come home and my wife would be crying, begging me to stop. My kid, man, he’d run to me with his arms wide open, and I couldn’t even look him in the eye because I felt like such a failure. And those times I’d blow what little money we had for groceries just to score? That haunts me. I told myself, ‘Bukas, titigil na ako,’ but tomorrow never came. I was in too deep.

Then this chance to move overseas came up. My wife pushed me to go, saying it was my chance to start fresh. At first, I thought, ‘Para lang itong palusot,’ but bro, getting out of there—away from all the influences and the easy access—was the wake-up call I needed. My first few months abroad were hell.

I’d get cravings while scrubbing toilets or packing boxes, and I’d think, ‘Bakit ganito? Para sa pamilya ko ‘to pero ang bigat.’ But then, I’d see my kid’s face on video calls, smiling because I could finally send money for his school and decent food, and it kept me going.

Now, I’m clean. It’s been years since I touched drugs, and every day I remind myself why I’m doing this. You know what hits the hardest? Being able to buy my kid a new pair of shoes without feeling guilty, without wondering where the money went. I still think about those nights in the Philippines, sitting in the sari-sari store with guys who didn’t care if we ruined our lives. But I’m not that guy anymore.