It was on the ride to work when I realized I’d made a huge mistake. In my rush to beat traffic and grab coffee before the shoot, I had forgotten my earphones. For most people, that’s nothing. For me and my anxiety, it felt like a small disaster. Music or a podcast had always been my shield, softening the edges of the outside world.

But silence has its own agenda. Fidgeting in the back seat, avoiding small talk with a driver who seemed just as happy to stay quiet, I let the stillness settle in. That’s when the ghosts show up. Not the kind draped in white sheets, but the ones you already know: the trip you keep postponing, the words you never say, the friendships you let drift. Sometimes it’s the ghost of the blank page you’ve been avoiding, quietly judging you from your desk.

That morning, my ghost was what could be: the life I might have had if we had stayed in Europe.

Over the past seven years of marriage, my husband and I have lived in the Philippines, Cyprus, and Germany. We first left for Cyprus, returned to the Philippines when my mother became ill, then found ourselves back in Cyprus before finally moving to Germany for my husband’s job. At the time, it felt like the right choice: a chance to live in central Europe, travel with ease, and open the door to new experiences. But by then, our son was with us, and each move carried more weight. Living abroad no longer meant simply adjusting to a new place; it also meant being far from family, missing milestones, and raising him without the everyday presence of people who loved him.

Germany was exciting at first. We explored new neighborhoods, sampled food from all over the world, and wandered through Christmas markets that looked like they belonged in storybooks. But the charm began to fade. There were days when navigating life there made us feel like children on our first day of school, unsure of the rules, and fumbling through the simplest tasks. For our son, who was still figuring out the world, it was even harder. The cold was relentless, the language barrier turned simple errands into drawn-out challenges, and even the most ordinary tasks sometimes felt like mini-adventures you weren’t always in the mood for. Loneliness crept in quietly, despite the beauty.

When we decided to return to the Philippines, the reactions were mixed. Some were surprised, others disappointed, and a few warned us we’d regret it. More than once, I heard, “Sayang, tiisin niyo na lang.” But over a year later, I see what we’ve gained.

Now, I wake up to the steady hum of the electric fan, sunlight spilling through the curtains and warming my face. I can have sinigang for lunch without hunting for specialty stores. I hear my language everywhere and smile when my husband earns a few laughs for his “po” and “opo.” My son plays tag with the building guards, plays in the park with his cousins, and is surrounded by the noise and warmth of family. The markets are full of food that tastes like home, and the rhythm of life here feels familiar in a way that settles you.

Still, the ghost visits. I think of crisp autumn mornings, bread from our favorite Bäckerei, and the steady rhythm of trams and trains. I remember long walks through streets lined with old buildings, the hush of a city on Sunday mornings—and yes, the health insurance!

The ghost of what could be is the most seductive one of all. It stitches together the best pieces of a place and quietly deletes the hard parts. It remembers selectively.

There are other ghosts too: the job interview I couldn’t show up for, the city I left without saying goodbye, the version of myself that might have thrived somewhere else. And always, the blank page. But ghosts don’t give answers, they only ask questions.

That morning, without my earphones, I had no choice but to sit with the silence and let the ghosts visit. Maybe that’s the point. Every so often, we need to hear them out, then step out of the car, into the day we’ve chosen, and live in the life we have —not the one that might have been.