The airport was alive with its usual bustle—crowds moving in every direction, the echo of announcements, and the hum of suitcase wheels over the tiled floor. I hoisted my oversized carry-on onto my shoulder, my other hand pulling a suitcase that had become more like a lifeline than luggage. There was a time I would have breezed through here with a small duffel bag, moving as if I could take on the world with just a few essentials. But that version of me was long gone.

Traveling light? I didn’t even remember what that felt like.

Now, my bags were packed to cover every “just in case” scenario. Extra medication, carefully selected foods that I knew wouldn’t trigger my body, and a travel-size first aid kit tucked in with the snacks. After years of adjusting to this chronic illness, I knew better than to rely on anything but what I brought myself.

I finally made it to the counter, barely masking the effort it took to lift my bag onto the scale. The attendant glanced at me, then my bags, with a hint of sympathy I could’ve done without.

“No other bags?” she asked politely.

“Nope, just these.” I forced a polite smile, taking back my ID and boarding pass as she handed them over. “All set?”

“All set, Ms. Santos. Enjoy your flight.”

I nodded, muttering a quick “thank you” before moving toward security. My phone buzzed just as I was shoving my ID back into my wallet—a text from Mom.

Mom: “Cassie, don’t forget to rest during your layover, okay?”

I rolled my eyes but texted her back anyway.

Me: “Yes, Mom, I will. All good.”

Her texts had started coming in every few minutes after I left the house, and I could practically hear her fussing from here. She knew that I could handle it all, and yet, as always, I’d catch that hint of worry in her voice. Part of me wanted to tell her that I was fine, that this wasn’t my first time traveling under these circumstances. But I also knew that being the only child meant Mom would worry no matter what I said.

I glanced up at the departures board and took a deep breath, grounding myself in the comforting chaos of the airport. I loved it here—the way the world seemed to be in constant motion, everyone heading somewhere. Another work trip was on the horizon, this time to represent my boss at the European Chamber’s AGM. I’d volunteered for it, mostly because the idea of staying stuck behind my desk for another week sounded like a punishment.

Just as I took a seat near the gate, a new message popped up from my boss, Mr. Reyes.

Mr. Reyes: “Cassie, all set? Reminder: make a strong impression at the AGM—don’t let them forget PHILCO.”

Me: “Absolutely. I’ve got it under control.”

Mr. Reyes: “Good. I’m counting on you.”

That was classic Mr. Reyes—direct, focused. He expected nothing less than perfection, and usually, I could manage that, even if it meant bending myself in uncomfortable directions to get there. But this trip wasn’t about him or the AGM, really. It was about the way travel helped me break free from routine, even if only for a little while.

Boarding began, and I felt the usual flicker of anticipation as I stood and readjusted the weight of my bags. I could feel the familiar tension between my shoulder blades, but the thought of the journey ahead made it all worth it.

As I settled into my seat, I allowed myself a small sigh of relief, tucking my phone away as the engines hummed to life. Sure, the next few days would be busy with work, but at least it was a change—a reprieve from the endless cycle of tasks and responsibilities back home. Maybe even a chance to think about something other than managing every small detail of my life.

Just as the plane began to taxi down the runway, I felt my phone buzz one last time.

Mom: “Text me when you land, Cassie. And be careful.”

Me: “I will. Don’t worry.”

And with that, I finally let myself relax, feeling the weight of my bags pressing into the floor, but the weight of everything else slowly lifting. For now, I had everything I needed.

Manila’s energy always hit me the same way: overwhelming, chaotic, alive. There was a time I could handle it like it was nothing. But the last few years had changed me. The city I once moved through like a second skin now felt different—a place I visited, a place I passed through, but never the one I’d call home. And yet, every time I landed here, I couldn’t help but feel like it was giving me a little bit of my old self back.

When I stepped out of the arrivals area, there was Tita Liza, practically beaming as she caught sight of me. “Cassie! Finally!” she called, pulling me into a hug that felt like a small break from the world. She was the kind of person whose optimism could charge up a whole room, and in this case, a whole terminal. I knew what came next—her usual welcome, half-teasing and half-sincere.

“Look at you, dragging enough bags to move in for good,” she said, eyeing my luggage with a grin. “And why aren’t you moving here again?”

I shook my head, laughing. “Manila’s great, Tita, but only when I know I’m leaving in a few days. You know me.”

She rolled her eyes, already laughing. “You and that provincial mindset,” she said, patting my back. “One day, you’ll realize the city’s where you belong.”

The idea made me smile, but I knew my answer would always be the same. Manila was electric, full of possibility, but I’d always been grounded somewhere smaller, somewhere simpler. Tita Liza never truly understood, though she respected it, and that was enough.

Once we were back at her apartment, I unloaded my bags, setting out the food I’d packed on the counter. It was part of my new routine—bringing my own stash instead of risking restaurants. Gone were the days when we’d tour the city’s newest food spots, hopping from hole-in-the-wall cafes to open-air food markets. Now, every bite was a calculated risk, every meal carefully considered.

Tita Liza looked at my bags, my packed food, my spare meds, all of it with the same gentle understanding I’d come to expect from her. “Cassie,” she said, her tone serious but warm, “you’re incredible, you know that? Three years of this, and now you’re out here about to work a full trip, and you’ve got two standing concerts on the itinerary.” She grinned, giving me an approving nod. “As you should.”

I laughed, the words hitting closer to my heart than I’d let on. “What can I say? I missed it. I missed me.”

In truth, it had been three years since I’d done anything like this. When I first got sick, I stopped doing everything that made me feel like myself—no concerts, no traveling, barely any social life. But here I was, in Manila again, trying to reclaim even just a piece of the life I’d had to leave behind. Tita Liza knew what this meant to me, and that meant everything.

“Let me get this straight,” she said, crossing her arms as she watched me unpack, “You’re planning to go to these concerts alone? Standing?”

I nodded, a spark of excitement lighting up inside me. “Yep. Just like old times.”

She raised an eyebrow, impressed. “Well, if anyone can pull it off, it’s you. But don’t you go overdoing it, Cassie.”

I waved off her concern, though I knew she was right to worry. My energy wasn’t what it used to be, but the stubborn part of me had decided I wasn’t going to let that stop me. Not this time. “I’ll be fine, Tita. I know my limits,” I said, a half-truth at best.

She nodded, a look of pride flashing in her eyes. “You know what? You’re doing exactly what you need to be doing—enjoying life again. So go and live a little, Cassie. Take that life back.”

I felt the same way. This trip wasn’t just work; it was a small rebellion, a return to the things that made me feel like me. As I settled in, my mind was already on the days ahead—the meetings, the late nights, and, yes, those two concerts I’d planned to attend on my own.

The excitement had been building up all week. Tonight was the first of two concerts I’d planned to attend, a bit of an experiment to see if I still had it in me. I didn’t know 80% of this artist’s songs, but that didn’t matter—I was there for the experience, the feeling of being in a crowd, music pulsing through my chest. It had been three long years since my last standing concert, and tonight was about testing my limits, seeing if I could handle the noise, the standing, and the crowd without getting completely wiped out.

But with this chronic illness, preparation was everything. I ate well before leaving, knowing there was no chance I’d find anything I could safely eat once I was out. A full, balanced meal to keep my energy steady, and a few protein bars tucked in my bag just in case. Nervous energy buzzed in me as I got ready, and I felt the mix of anticipation and apprehension. Could I stand the entire time? Would the noise be too much? The old me would have jumped at this night without a second thought. But tonight, I was both excited and a little scared. I could only hope my body would cooperate.

I hurriedly popped a few pills during queue just to make sure I’m set to rummage through the pumping crowd in a bit. A funny looking man of what seemed to be a foreigner caught me and to be honest, stares like that don’t bother me anymore. Did he laugh at me? Like I could care less.

The concert hall was already packed when I arrived. The energy was electric, people buzzing with anticipation, conversations mixing in a low hum that filled the space. The lights dimmed, and the crowd roared as the first beat dropped, sweeping the whole room into a wave of movement. I held back just a bit, limiting my own movements, careful not to burn myself out in the first ten minutes. Even with these little restrictions, I felt alive in a way I hadn’t in a long time. I was part of something again, standing shoulder to shoulder with strangers, lost in the music.

It was incredible—better than I’d imagined. For a couple of hours, I let myself get swept up in it, just enough to feel free but not enough to wear myself down. I had the best time, and I savored every beat, every flash of the lights, every note that echoed through the hall. I felt like I was reclaiming a part of myself I’d thought was lost forever.

When the show finally ended, I felt a little tired but not drained. I had energy left, a surprising little spark that felt like pure victory. I decided to go for a quick spin through the shopping district nearby, indulging in a little retail therapy to celebrate. Nothing extravagant, just a few small things—a notebook, a bracelet, tiny mementos to remind me of this night.

As I was walking out of the store, I pulled out my phone and shot a quick text to my friend, my confidante through all these ups and downs.

“Guess what? I survived a standing concert. And I loved every minute.”

A reply came almost instantly.

“Oh my gosh, Cassie! Look at you, living your best life! I’m so proud of you.”

I could practically hear her excitement through the screen. She’d been there since day one of my diagnosis, through every doctor’s appointment and every day spent in bed when it felt like I’d never have a normal life again. And now, here I was, back at a concert, standing, moving, even going for a little shopping after. It felt like a victory, one small but solid win.

The night air felt cool as I made my way back, the streets still alive with people and lights. It was a perfect ending to the evening, a reminder that even with all the changes in my life, some parts of me were still here, ready to take back the pieces bit by bit. I didn’t need to dance wildly or sing every lyric to have a great night. I just needed to be here, standing, living, in the middle of it all.