Portland pulled me in like some reckless lover I thought would change my life. I was ready for a freak show, but it’s not that weird here—just slightly looser than the rest of Oregon. And Oregon, well, Oregon taught me what it’s like to be the only Filipino woman in a room. The racism’s not loud, just a constant hum in the background, the kind you can’t fully escape. It made me see myself differently—ways I didn’t have to back in San Diego, where Filipinos were visible, real, part of the atmosphere.

People ask why I moved, and I feed them the easy answers: nature, mountains, a slower rhythm. But the truth is I was running. I left San Diego to get away from the versions of myself that couldn’t breathe there. And it worked, kind of. Living in Portland lets me see everything more clearly, even how much I miss my family. The distance makes it cleaner. We talk more now, mostly over text—my preferred medium. Words feel safer than faces. From here, I love them better.

The people here—they’re different. I found friends who talk about the dark stuff, not in that performative way, but the real underbelly. Sometimes it’s trauma dumping, yeah, but mostly it’s tender, like finding people who won’t flinch when you show them your ugliest parts. Throw yourself into the unknown and you start craving connection that doesn’t need to be dressed up.

My therapist didn’t change. Still the same one from California. By some twist of fate, she got licensed in Oregon just when I moved. Like the universe didn’t want me to sever every tie, just the ones that had been suffocating me.

So no, Portland isn’t the chaotic, magical mess I thought it would be. It’s quieter, more layered, full of subtle surprises. And even if I don’t stay here forever, leaving San Diego was right. 

A place can hold you down, heavy as a bad memory. You get quieter, harder, almost without noticing. It’s only when you leave—when the scenery shifts—that you start to recognize yourself again, the version of you that had been waiting under all that weight.