Life Changes

Beep. Beep. Beep. 4:00 AM. Another day, another dollar, as they say. I roll out of my king-sized bed and head down the hall to my newly remodeled bathroom. Standing in the shower, preparing for another twelve or sixteen-hour day, I think to myself, "Is this it?"

I've worked hard to become the youngest Superintendent in my company's 70-year history. Now I've made it. Two Harleys in the garage. Every tool I could ask for. A newly purchased three-bedroom home in an upper-class part of Sacramento, California. The American dream—supposedly.

I turn off the shower and head to work. The school I'm building is nearly complete, and for the first time in my life, I’ll have some time off before the next job begins. My focus is on finishing the project before my month-long trip to the Philippines.

The day unfolds as usual—new problems arise, stressful decisions need to be made. A wrong choice could cost the company millions or cost me my job. By 4:00 PM, everyone else heads home. But not me. Now that the crew has put in their eight hours and left, I can finally get to my own work—the tasks put on hold all day while dealing with subcontractors and their issues.

Five hours later, I wrap up my paperwork. Another hour goes to walking the site, inspecting the day's work, making notes, and mentally preparing for tomorrow.

Then, just like that, I’m at the airport, still in work mode. After twenty years of ambition, it’s hard to just shut it off. I board my flight, settle in for the sixteen-hour journey, and close my eyes.

Landing in Manila, I get my first taste of the Philippines. Locals rush toward me with smiles, offering rides and asking where I’m going. Truth is, I don’t know. I never plan anything. I booked a flight, and that’s it. So, I ask for a ride to the nearest rental car shop.

I rent a scooter, find a nearby hotel for $20, and settle in for the night. Around 5:00 AM, loud drums echo down the main street. I step outside and see the local high school practicing—at 5:00 AM. "Oh shit," I think. "What have I gotten myself into?"

Now wide awake, I check out and take a ferry to a nearby island. A small place, rarely visited by foreigners. As I step off the boat, people smile and stare. It’s a little awkward having an entire town watching your every move.

Local children start following me, singing and laughing, like I’m the main attraction in a parade. For two hours, the group grows. I walk the entire island—there isn’t much there—then head back to the port to catch the next ferry.

“There is only one ferry a day, sir.”

No big deal. “Can you point me to a hotel or a room I can rent?”

“Sorry, sir, there are none on the island.”

Stumped, I ask, “Where can I stay if I can’t leave?”

“I don’t know, sir.”

Great.

I sit at the port, planning to sleep on a bench for the night. Then, some kids come up to me, smiling. “The principal is opening the school cafeteria for you. There’s a cot inside.”

Shocked and grateful, I accept.

The next morning, I return to the main island and head to an ATM—only to find a sign: "OUT OF CASH."

It’s 6:00 AM. The bank doesn’t open until 9:00 AM. I have no choice but to wait.

Half an hour later, the sky opens up. And I don’t mean a drizzle—I mean a downpour. Rain hits so hard it feels like needles.

A woman steps out of her house and waves me inside. Her home is simple—dirt floors, plastic yard furniture. She gestures to a chair. "Sit." Then, she starts making breakfast. I gratefully accept.

An hour passes. Her husband wakes up, comes downstairs. My stomach tightens—this could be a problem. But he just smiles. "Good morning, sir," he says and joins the conversation like I’m an old friend.

When the bank finally opens, I thank them and head out. Before leaving, I try to give them some money for the meal. After all, I watched her cook the last two eggs in her kitchen and serve them to me. I saw the empty cupboards.

She refuses.

For the next month, I hop from island to island. Everywhere I go, the people have very little, yet they smile, they share. I lose count of how many times I walk past a group of friends sharing one beer—passing a shot glass around—and they invite me to join. How many times people cooking outside call out, "Sir, please, eat with us."

I think about my life. How hard I worked. For what? Stress? Material possessions?

Then, I have a moment of clarity.

America might be rich in money, but it's selfish. Everyone is looking out for themselves, always chasing more. More money. More things. More status.

The Philippines is different. People here are rich in something else—community, kindness, contentment. They value family, friends, and making the best of every day.

I realized I had it all wrong.

When I got back home, the first thing I did was quit my job. Then, I put my house on the market and started selling everything I owned.

A month later, I was back in the Philippines.

That was six years ago. Now, I’m in my forties, working part-time online for a third of what I made in California. But I own a beachfront home, and my monthly expenses are less than $400.

Sure there are problems here. Constantly running into ATMs out of cash or normal everyday items you take for granted in the US being "Out Of Stock"

Little things though, the most stressful thing in my life now is the decision of whether I want pork or chicken for dinner.

Chasing the American Dream is a joke. Probably created by the government to keep people working longer and harder. What is the dream anyway? A better life? A better life means more money?

I disagree.

Spending your whole life chasing that dream is pointless when you can actually live it—with very little money—somewhere else. Surrounded by people with good morals and smiles on their faces.