Words by Rosa Molina

When people ask where I’m from, my answer unravels like an old Visayan folk song: layered, meandering, echoing with places and faces that linger in memory. My life has danced through different cities, each with its own rhythm, each shaping a new version of me. Born in Escalante, a small city in Negros Occidental, I left before I could remember its streets. Life swept me to Manila, then to General Santos, and back to Manila, and my memories took root far from where my story began. For years, Negros was just a line in my biography, not a place I carried in my heart. It was a distant melody, waiting for me to remember its tune. This essay is about how, after years away, returning to Bacolod helped me rediscover my roots and find the belonging I had been quietly yearning for.

And then, in 2018, I returned. It wasn’t a grand homecoming or whatever. I went to Bacolod for work, nothing dramatic, nothing poetic at first glance. Just eight months in a city I had technically belonged to but never really known. But sometimes the most important chapters of our lives begin quietly, like the first notes of a kulintang, soft but unmistakable. Mine started the moment I settled into the rhythm of Bacolod, and somehow, without realizing it at first, I found myself feeling something I hadn’t felt anywhere else before: I felt like I was exactly where I was supposed to be.

Bacolod is known as the City of Smiles, but its warmth is more than a slogan. It lives in the way people greet you, as if you’re an old friend. It’s in laughter that bubbles up between strangers, in the gentle, unhurried pace that stands in quiet defiance of the rush of bigger cities.

In Bacolod, life breathes, and for the first time in a long time, so did I. Maybe it felt so natural because of the language. I speak both Hiligaynon and Binisaya, and in the Negros province, those words are woven into daily life: in the tiendahan, crowded jeepneys, and tiny eateries hidden between busy streets. There’s a deep comfort in speaking the language that lives closest to your heart. Words soften, jokes find their mark, laughter rings out in that familiar Visayan rhythm, and every conversation feels like home.

Language is more than communication; it’s belonging. In Bacolod, I never felt like an outsider learning to fit in. I became part of the city’s current, laughing at the same jokes, echoing the same expressions, sharing stories that felt both new and deeply familiar. That sense of belonging wrapped around me like a memory I’d carried all along, even if I’d been away for years, and then there was the food. If Bacolod spoke a love language, it would be food. My memories there are stitched together by meals that felt like celebrations, even on ordinary days. Fresh scallops, oysters, and seaweeds arrived at the table as if the ocean itself was feeling generous. Chicken inasal, smoky and juicy, always found its perfect match in garlic rice. Bowls of chicken binakol, fragrant with ginger and coconut, tasted like pure comfort, conjuring memories of home kitchens and Sunday lunches, the air heavy with lemongrass and laughter.

But if there’s one dish that captures Bacolod for me, it’s cansi.

The first time I had it at Sharyn’s Cansi House, I understood why people talk about it with reverence. The sourness of the broth, the richness of the beef shank, the warmth that spreads through you with every spoonful, it’s the kind of dish that makes you pause for a moment just to appreciate it.

Then there was dessert, which Bacolod takes just as seriously as its savory dishes.

Calea’s caramel cheesecake deserves its own chapter in my story. Creamy, rich, and perfectly sweet, it’s the kind of dessert that makes you close your eyes after the first bite, savoring the moment. It almost felt unfair that something so exquisite could be found in such a humble café.

And then there were the small discoveries: the best unlimited chicken wings I’ve ever tasted, fresh rau ram brightening dishes with its peppery bite, and tiny eateries where the food needed no decoration; the flavors spoke for themselves.

In Bacolod, food is more than nourishment. It is a living archive of culture, community, and comfort, each dish telling a story in the tapestry of our shared Visayan heritage.

Yet what lingers with me even more than the food or language is the personal growth I experienced in Bacolod. Living there nudged me to reflect on who I am, to embrace new routines, and to savor a slower pace. That season of self-discovery deepened my understanding of belonging and inspired me to engage more thoughtfully with my heritage and dreams.

It’s the pace of life. Bacolod moves to a different rhythm than any city I’ve known. Days are not a race against the clock. People pause to talk, to laugh, to truly savor their meals. Life here is not something to chase, but something to experience fully.

In Manila, everything rushes forward, urgency woven into every moment, as if the city itself is always nudging you ahead. In Bacolod, the world slows just enough for you to notice: the scent of grilled chicken floating on the breeze, Hiligaynon voices weaving through the streets, the gentle warmth of the sun settling over the city in the late afternoon.

For eight months, that rhythm became my life, and I was happy. Not the fleeting happiness that comes from excitement or quick wins, but the quiet, steady kind that seeps into your daily routines. The kind that turns ordinary days into something meaningful. Sometimes I think about how strange it is that the place where I felt most like myself is also the place where I spent the least amount of time.

Eight months is a brief moment in the long story of a life. Yet somehow, Bacolod became one of its most beautiful chapters. Maybe it’s because Bacolod reminded me of something I had forgotten: home is not always where you grew up or spent the most years. Sometimes, home is where your language flows easily, where food tastes like comfort, where you find your reflection in the faces around you, and where the stories you hear echo those your elders once shared beneath a Visayan sunset.

Sometimes home is simply the place where your heart feels light. If life ever gives me the chance to choose where I want to be, if work becomes something I can do from anywhere, I know exactly where I would go.

I would return to Bacolod. Not just to visit, not just for a fleeting chapter, but to stay long enough to watch the seasons of my life unfold there. I would wander those familiar streets, order cansi from Sharyn’s, linger in Calea with caramel cheesecake, and let the rhythm of Hiligaynon conversations fill the air around me.

Because somewhere between the language, the food, the warmth of its people, and the gentle pace of daily life, Bacolod offered me something I never realized I was searching for. It gave me a place where I felt like I belonged.