My Papa’s Love Transcends Oceans: A Tribute to OFW Fathers
This Father’s Day, we honor OFW dads whose love, support, and presence have never once been diminished by distance.
I never have to call my Papa twice. He always picks up on the first ring. Whether he’s driving, in a meeting, at work, eating, or even sleeping, he has never once told me, “I’m too busy.” One ring, and he’s there. With how consistently he shows up for me, you’d never guess we’re separated by more than 10,000 kilometers of land and sea.
But the truth is, my father has been working abroad for almost 20 years now. I was just five when he left for his first job overseas. And even as a child, I understood why. I’d hear Mama say he had to make sacrifices so we could have food on the table, go to good schools, and live lives they never got to live. So that’s how it’s always been: He’s abroad almost the entire year, and comes home once or twice for short vacations.
He’s missed birthdays, holidays, graduations. But not once have I ever felt like I didn’t have a father. Because even from thousands of kilometers away, he has always been there—truly, deeply, emotionally present.
My anchor
When I moved to Manila for senior high school, and was feeling alone, anxious, and homesick, he was the first person I’d call. (Or most of the time, he’d beat me to it.) I’d tell him how I wanted to go home to Pampanga because the city felt overwhelming. And he’d comfort me, with a calmness I didn’t yet know I needed.
What he didn’t say—but what I now realize—is that he probably felt the same. He’s been living far from home, far from us, for two decades. The difference is, I could hop on a bus and be home in three hours. He couldn’t just hop on a plane whenever it got too hard. But he never made me feel guilty for feeling what I felt. He always gave me space to be vulnerable. He taught me resilience, but also reminded me that being soft doesn’t make me weak.
During the pandemic, when I wanted to drop out of college because I was mentally drowning (dealing with crippling anxiety and an unbearable workload), he didn’t tell me to push through blindly. He listened. He offered wisdom. He reminded me that my feelings were valid, even though he himself was also alone in a foreign country, facing his own fears with no family nearby. I didn’t drop out, and it was his voice that helped me hang on.
When I wanted to resign from my first job because I was struggling mentally, I called him crying: “Pa, bisa nakung magresign.” (Pa, I want to resign.) He didn’t hesitate. He said, “Write the letter. Submit it. Don’t regret it.” He told me to choose what’s best for my mental health. To choose myself. To choose peace. To take a break if that’s what I needed.
He gave me permission to pause—something I know he can’t easily give himself. Because unlike me, he doesn’t have the luxury to walk away when it gets too heavy. He has a family to provide for. And yet, he never made me feel like I owed him anything for it. Only that I had his unconditional support. Like what he always tells me, “Nung nokarin ka masaya, suportan daka.” (“Wherever you’re happy, I’ll support you.”) Even when I know he hasn’t always had the same freedom to choose his own happiness.
Courtesy of Leira Aquino
I can afford to fail, because he believes I’ll rise.
My father didn’t grow up with much. He started working young, put himself through school, and worked his way to where he is now. He gave us a life he never had, and never once made us feel like we lacked anything.
He made sure I never felt limited—not by money, not by circumstance, not by fear. Even over the phone, I could hear his belief in me, in the language I love and understand the most: Kapampangan. “Gawan mu mu ing agyu mu.” (Just do what you can.) “Eme pepressurean ing sarili mu.” (Don’t pressure yourself.)
He reminds me that I’m young and free. That I have time. That my life is worth living, even on the days I don’t believe it is. Because he believes in me when I can’t believe in myself.
He built a life where his children could fail safely, love freely, and live fully, even if he didn’t get to do the same. He created room for us to grow (softly, slowly) while he kept carrying the weight of our dreams. He reminds me, over and over, that I can afford to fail, to pause, to try again. Because he’s built a life that allows me to. Because even though he didn’t have the same safety nets growing up, he made sure we did.
My father grew flowers with his words, in a garden we get to live in. He gave me emotional safety despite being physically absent. And that is something only a truly present father can do.
More than a provider
My father is still abroad. Still working. Still answering on the first ring. And I’m still here, living a life made possible by all the things he’s given up. But more than the food on the table or the education he paid for, it’s the quiet, steady love that’s shaped me the most.
My Papa shows up in every decision I make, every moment I choose myself, and every time I remember that it’s okay to rest, okay to feel, okay to ask for help. He taught me that strength isn’t just about endurance. It’s about compassion, too.
No matter how far away he is, I know I’m just one call away from the person who makes me feel safe, whether I’m making a life-changing decision or simply riding a Grab late at night, needing to hear a familiar voice to feel a little less lonely.
He reminds me, in the simplest but most powerful ways, that I am not alone. That I am deeply, unconditionally loved–even from across the ocean. And that kind of presence? That kind of love? It never fades. It doesn’t get lost in time zones or missed holidays. It lives in me. Every single day.
