What I Didn’t Understand About My Father—Until Now

 My father was already 58 when I was born. He was born in 1933, though his official records showed 1938. He had to adjust his documents back then to qualify for a government post. By the time I was in elementary school, he had already retired.

His retirement years were spent supporting my siblings’ wants and investing in our farm. It was his dream to raise chickens and other farm animals, and to grow crops, building something meaningful for the family with what he had left.

Unfortunately, he wasn’t able to sustain it. Because of that, I had to transfer to a public school to continue my education. At the time, I was angry. I was doing well. I had always been a consistent honor student, and that was something I took pride in.

Growing up, I didn’t see myself as artistic or athletic. As a gay kid, I often felt like I didn’t belong in those spaces. Academics became the one thing I could hold on to, the one place where I felt seen, where I felt I was enough.

I didn’t want to transfer, but I had no choice. There was no steady income coming in aside from the small earnings from our rentals. No one in the family was working. That was all we had.

I carried a lot of anger toward my father for how he handled his retirement. To me, it felt poorly planned, and the consequences affected all of us.

So I pushed myself. I made sure to finish my degree because I knew that was my way out, my way forward.

But my father passed away before I even graduated. He never got to see me achieve the things I once prayed so hard for.

It took me years to come to terms with that anger.

Now, at this point in my life when everything feels busy and the world grows louder. I’ve found peace in something simple: planting, growing, and quietly witnessing the miracles of nature unfold.

In the Philippines, we call ourselves “plantita” or “plantito.” Somewhere along the way, I became one too. I don’t mind plowing the land, getting my hands dirty, or being drenched in sweat. For me, it isn’t work—it’s love. It’s passion.

I still work in a BPO, but during my rest days, I make time for the things that ground me.

And sometimes, I think… maybe this is what my father wanted too.

Maybe he longed for simplicity. Maybe he loved the idea of farming, of raising animals, of stepping away from the noise of the city. He had been a workaholic for so long. His job was his world. And when he finally had the chance to slow down, he chose to be away from the crowd. He chose peace.

It took me 23 years to understand that.

Isn’t it funny how we all once dreamed of becoming professionals with degrees, only to grow older and realize that what we really want is to garden, to bake, and to live quietly in peace on a farm?

Overlooking the Farm My Father Built

This is the simple farmhouse my father once built. I visited it back in 2015. Already weathered and worn, yet still filled with memories that never faded.

I hope I can continue his legacy, now that I finally share the same dream he once had.