Happiness is like a packet waiting to be opened. All the years that have passed on my way to becoming an adult have taught me one simple truth: we are truly happy only when we take the initiative and put in the effort to find it. This realization came slowly in my life. When it finally hit me, I hadn’t anticipated it at all. I realized that we often find happiness in the moments when we aren’t actively searching for it. One such experience opened my eyes to things I will never forget. Growing up in a serene country, you never seem to appreciate what you have because it’s always there in front of you. But when it’s gone, that’s when you start to miss and long for it.
I come from a family of three kids, cradled in the unconditional love of our parents and steeped in happiness. Every morning, my two sisters and I would fight over the best piece of toast at the breakfast table. Our cook wasn’t the best in the world, but he always managed to toast one piece of bread to perfection. Time has passed, and now when I’m alone at home, I always get the best piece of bread—but I no longer enjoy it as much because I miss the struggle that came with earning it. In the same way, all the time spent with friends feels timeless, and those memories are precious.
I went to college far from home—hundreds of miles away. It was during this time that my friends and I decided to take a trip to explore the new country we found ourselves in. We left behind our responsibilities and embarked on a journey in a second-hand Toyota Corolla, a journey I will always cherish. The day began with all of us hungover from a party the night before. It was a warm Sunday, and waking up drained half the energy we got from our breakfast of coffee, *pandesal* (local bread), and scrambled eggs. After a slow start, the five of us decided to go out for lunch. We piled into the car and drove to a local restaurant. The food was good, and after we’d eaten, one of my friends suggested going for a ride. We all agreed, and thus began our epic journey to nowhere in particular.
The hot tropical sun of the Philippines beat down on us like an angry beast, but we protected ourselves by rolling down the windows and letting the cool breeze in. This battle with the sun continued until it finally sank into the ocean, its orange glow a reminder that it would return for another round tomorrow. As the light dimmed, we saw new sights. I remember seeing a small child by the roadside picking up trash among stray dogs scavenging for scraps. I felt a wave of gratitude wash over me—I was lucky to be in the car and not on the street like so many less fortunate children. That feeling lasted only a moment, though, as our next stop was a bar by the roadside. The neon lights promised us a good time, and the sight of pretty girls going in and out was enough to lure us in. Beer and food flowed freely, but the same couldn’t be said for the money in our pockets. Buzzed and broke, we left the bar. In my drunken state, I suggested a night drive, and everyone agreed. But in our excitement, we forgot to refuel the car, and before we knew it, the Toyota sputtered to a stop in the middle of nowhere.
At first, we were angry, then we laughed it off, but soon, each of us was lost in our own thoughts as we lay on the ground, gazing up at the starry, moonless sky. Sometimes, alcohol has a way of bringing out clear emotions and thoughts. That was one of those nights. We talked about our failures, our concerns, our pain, and our dreams. We slept uncomfortably huddled together in the car, but that was the best sleep I had during my four years in the Philippines.
The sun, not forgetting the battle of the previous day, woke us up with a vengeance, making our sticky, sweaty bodies feel even worse. The arguments started—someone had to fetch gas for the car, and thankfully, it wasn’t me. When my friend returned with the gas, he looked even angrier than the sun. But once we were on the road again, all was forgotten. Something had changed; none of us wanted to go back. We continued along the winding roads, hoping to reach the end—or at least run out of money first. ATM machines, which had seemed like a luxury before, became a necessity. After restocking our funds, we kept going, stopping whenever we pleased. Our phones were dead since none of us had brought chargers, but it was a blessing in disguise—we were completely cut off from our responsibilities. Cigarette butts flew out the car windows, and we made frequent bathroom stops. By now, we had made peace with the sun, enjoying the warmth from the comfort of the car.
As the week wore on, the weight of our college obligations began to creep back in. On our last night, we emptied our remaining funds and splurged at a nearby beach resort that had been tempting us throughout the trip with its enticing billboards and McDonald’s ads. Amid the tourists who had come to relax, we found a place to go wild. We did nearly everything there was to do, and a few things I’m not proud of—but that’s a story for another time. Suffice it to say, we had a good night.
The real struggle began on the way back. We were almost out of money and had no choice but to drive straight home. Exhausted, we longed to stop and rest, but our empty pockets wouldn’t allow it. The comfortable car ride now felt like a prison, and the songs on the radio, which had once been fun, were so repetitive I wanted to throw the CDs out the window. We passed by the same sights we had seen before, but this time we were tired and irritable. The carefree joy of the trip had been replaced by fatigue and frustration.
We finally reached Manila the next day. The long queue of cars felt like a bottle of emotions waiting to burst. Then, in the midst of our frustration, something caught my eye. I saw a child, no more than 5 or 6 years old, standing by the road. He was thinner than the nearly empty wallets we carried, wearing nothing but a pair of torn shorts. He was stooped over, picking up a piece of discarded paper. My heart sank as I watched him carefully dust it off. The paper was a fast food wrapper, and he examined the tiny bits of food stuck to it as if they were treasures. I rolled down the window, intending to give him some money, but he didn’t even glance my way. Instead, he ran to the side of the road, where an even smaller child lay on the pavement. With bright eyes, the little girl took the paper from him and licked it clean with such delight. Tears filled my eyes. I hadn’t even noticed the honking of the driver behind us. I closed my eyes and thanked God for the life I had been given.
We reached home, four hours away from that scene in Manila. I took a shower, grabbed some food from the fridge, and collapsed into bed. As I lay there, I started thinking. I was lucky—lucky compared to many, to so many. That trip was three years ago, and now, looking back, I’m glad we went. I struggled with my college attendance afterward, but it was worth it. It was a spontaneous adventure that brought me closer to my friends. The conversations we shared have bonded us in ways nothing else could. And most importantly, that trip made me grateful. I have heat in my room, water to drink, a roof over my head, and food to eat.
Happiness is everywhere—in the walks we take, in the clothes we wear, in the food we eat, in the friends we have, and in the life we are given. As I said, happiness is like a packet—however small or insignificant—just waiting to be opened.
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