It was April 1999, when I had arrived in Melbourne as an eleven-year-old all the way from Small Tabinay Beach, Puerto Galera, Mindoro. For the first eleven years of my life, I had lived in a small village. I had only known one layer of the world—an island of simplicity and bayanihan of people. Like a young calamansi tree planted in soil under plenty of sun in order to grow, home was an island where you would be woken up by sunrise through your bedroom window with sounds of the waves and roosters.

My father, an Englishman, had worked in Australia whilst my mother, a Filipina, had looked after myself and my four other siblings in the Philippines. My childhood was defined by many simple things. Going to school during the day. Swimming in the dagat and ilog. Exploring the bundok. Joining other villagers in pulling the pukot and being given fish for our dinner. Neighbours sharing their food. Calamansi for the pancit. Life was so simple. Until it was time to come to Australia for better access to opportunities for the pamilya. It had meant letting go of a world that we did not know extended past the little island we had lived in.

I remember the day of our arrival in Australia so well. It was so cold and so very gloomy. Calamansi struggles most in cold weather. I too struggled and missed the warmer climate. I struggled with everything, really— the language, the environment, the missing bayanihan. I missed the village, the island, the sea, the mountains, the people, and the freedom.

Like calamansi that has not ripened yet, the first few years felt like I was not able to grow. It was hard in that stormy weather. Why was everything so different? Why is it so cold? Why is there so much distance? Where is the sea? How do I get back? How much of my pocket money can I save to get back? Why don't I sound like everyone else? Why are the neighbours not talking to each other? Where can I find a community?

For many years, it became a journey of trying to find a sense of belonging. It was the most important thing. It still is. Whether at school, with your relationships, your career, or your community. It was going to be the only way to grow and to know oneself. Fortunately, there are others who will extend the bayanihan you have missed and help you find your way. I would later learn that bayanihan starts from me, and through this kindness, can find roots in others who you encounter along the way.

As I reflect upon my journey, I am like a ripe calamansi that has survived the seasons. Without the experiences, there would have been no growth. My sense of belonging had to start within myself. And that means never forgetting who you are. Never forgetting home. The eleven year-old Filipina girl from Puerto Galera, Philippines. Consisting of different layers much like a calamansi, always growing, taking root in far off places, and never giving up.