IT HAPPENED during my first year of high school in Manila. A classmate noticed my distinct, provincial accent and asked where I was from. When I mentioned Cebu, they asked me to say something in Cebuano. It was a lighthearted conversation, but I froze. Despite having lived in Cebu for eleven years, with Cebuano as the norm, I could not say a word. 

Now, it has become increasingly difficult for me to claim Cebu as my province when the language has long left my tongue. I always thought that speaking the language was required to be a “local.” While this struggle is not unique to language, I continue to doubt whether I can call myself a Cebuano.

Looking back, life in Cebu was much simpler. I was surrounded by childhood friends and relatives united by one language. There, Cebuano was reserved for more casual and intimate scenarios: inside jokes that lost meaning when translated, games that followed local rules, and secrets told in the same language. I used English and Mandarin Chinese in school, but Cebuano was the language of home.

Moving to Manila at age eleven was difficult. I was ostracized for not knowing Tagalog. Meanwhile, my English was laced with a thick, provincial accent I had never even noticed. As someone who spoke Cebuano throughout adolescence, learning Tagalog became necessary for social survival.

Soon enough, I found myself forgetting the language I once spoke at home. As communication with friends back home dwindled, I lost familiarity with common Cebuano phrases. My understanding also shrank to translations of conversations I was never part of, until the language of my childhood slowly faded into an echo—a tune I could no longer sing.

I noticed the gradual loss of connection with being a Cebuano when I began hesitating to answer where I came from, unsure whether I could still claim Cebu as my province. Frankly, I have not spoken an entire sentence in Cebuano for almost a decade now.

This hesitation led to imposter syndrome, as I feared being classified as a fraud. With the years piling up, my life became split between two places, with one half slowly losing its grip on me. Because of this, I was left wondering whether that half was still mine to claim.

Eventually, after interacting with people with other dialects, I found a different kind of solace. I found joy in aiding peers with translating phrases, laughing at errors made due to confusing terminology between our languages, and simply accepting that this loss is also a part of my identity. My struggle made me a bridge between my friends and the language I cherished, not an isolated failure.

I realized that the measure of my Cebuano identity did not require me to fulfill a checklist. My memories of growing up in Cebu, my familial ties, the connections I maintain with my childhood friends, and the taste of the local cuisine are languages in and of themselves. These are the vocabularies of the heart, and they are enough to claim half of mine. 

I cannot claim to know the recipe for losing self-doubt, but I found that my identity is not simply measured by fluency of the tongue, but by the strength of my roots. My life began in Cebu, and that alone is the only language I need to claim it.

Giuliana is a Computer Science senior expecting to graduate in 2026. Specializing in Data Science and Analytics, she integrates her knowledge of data analytics with her growing affinity for journalism to amplify calls for women’s rights and accessible information.

Editor’s Note: The views and opinions expressed by the opinion writer do not necessarily state or reflect those of the publication.