A Birthday Pause in Baguio

2026. New year, new me.

A tale as old as time, perhaps—but this year, it felt different. I decided to own my birthday. And for the first time, instead of making quiet wishes, I made a decision.

I’ve been scared to travel out of town alone. Scared of unfamiliar places, of relying on no one but myself. But something about the start of this year whispered that it was time—to step out of my comfort zone, to move toward something unfamiliar, and to try an organic encounter with people, nature, and experience.

It took me weeks to plan for what I jokingly called a “no-itinerary” trip. I researched for hours the different places considered safe for a female solo traveler. Again and again, Baguio City appeared on every list. Cool weather. Walkable streets. A gentle pace. I remembered visiting Baguio with my family a decade ago—a completely different version of me, holding onto familiar hands. Ten years later, I found myself returning. This time, alone.

I pre-booked my trip almost two weeks in advance, not realizing I would be traveling at the tail end of January and the start of February—right in the heart of Panagbenga season. The city was joyfully preparing for its annual celebration, and I unknowingly walked into a place blooming with color, anticipation, and life.

With my trusty luggage in tow, I braved the amihan and boarded my ride to Baguio—a city I didn’t know would capture me.

The cold welcomed me first. Not the harsh kind, but the kind that makes you pull your jacket closer and breathe deeper.

Staying in the city center turned out to be a good decision. Everything felt within reach. I walked more than I planned, wandered without pressure, and allowed myself to get lost without panic. SM Baguio and Skyranch was my first stop. I sat by the rides, watched families play, couples laugh softly, and strangers simply exist. There was comfort in observing life continue while I paused mine.

In the afternoon, I found myself at Ili-Likha Artist Village, a place that felt like a quiet rebellion against sameness. It was chaotic and creative, raw and alive. Hand-painted walls, narrow stairways, local art, and food made with care—it reminded me that beauty doesn’t have to be polished to be meaningful. I stayed longer than expected, letting time slip by without guilt.

Next morning came, felt like I woke up with the angels. Wrapped in layers, I headed to Mines View Park to watch the sunrise. There was something sacred about standing there in silence, watching the sky slowly change colors. No rush. No conversations. Just me and the promise of a new day. It felt symbolic—choosing to rise early, choosing to witness beginnings.

Of course, no Baguio trip is complete without pasalubong shopping. I lined up like everyone else, patiently waiting for my turn. Strawberry jam, ube jam, treats meant for my loved ones back home. It struck me how travel isn’t just about where you go, but also about what you bring back—memories for yourself, stories and sweetness for others.

Somewhere between walking in the city, I felt the buzz of Panagbenga preparations, and returning to my quiet condo, I realized something: I was okay. More than okay—I was happy. Not the loud, celebratory kind, but the calm, steady kind that sits gently in your chest.

Traveling alone didn’t make me lonely. It made me present. It made me listen—to my thoughts, my fears, my hopes. It taught me that courage doesn’t always roar. Sometimes, it’s simply booking the trip, showing up, and choosing to stay.

As I pack my things and prepare to go back to my reality, I carry more than souvenirs. I carry proof that I can do hard things. That I can be brave even when I’m alone. That it’s okay to pause, to reset, to step away from routine and remember who I am outside of it.

I return home stronger—but also more dreamy. Ready to face the familiar again, with a heart slightly wider, a spirit a little braver, and the comforting thought that whenever I need to find myself again, I already know how to begin.