Hiya: The Quiet Strength We Carry
This is part of my blog series, Uyayi: A Lullaby Across Generations — a homage to our roots started from the month we mark Araw ng Kalayaan [Philippine Independence Day]. Each post explores a single word from a picture book we brought home after our last visit to the motherland. Filipino words I didn’t grow up using, but now read aloud with love and intention. Words I now gift to my children, one page at a time.
Inip. Gigil. Hiya. Sabik.
Even one word, spoken often enough, can begin to root a child.
There are words we inherit without knowing it.
Words that live in our bones before they ever cross our lips.
Hiya is one of those words.
. . .
Hiya. A word often misunderstood as shame. But in the depth of our culture, it is also humility, reverence, and relational awareness. It is the quiet that follows reflection. The pause before we speak. The breath before we act.
Hiya is what I feel posting this, weeks after I meant to. Hiya, not as guilt, but as humility – a reminder that some seasons call for silence, for tending to our hearts and our families first.
Hiya is what I see in my children when they shyly approach, their cheeks warm with honesty. It’s what I feel in myself as I stumble toward living with intention, often failing, but trying again.
In a world that can feel loud and harsh, hiya reminds us to walk gently, to see others, to see ourselves.
Hiya is the warmth in the cheeks when receiving a kindness. The quiet inner knowing that we are part of a bigger story. That our actions ripple outward.
Hiya is not weakness. It is a strength born of respect — for others, for ourselves, for the world we are shaping for our children.
. . .
🌿 Hiya as an Ate
Hiya has shaped me deeply as an Ate [big sister].
Growing up, I was the dependable one. The one expected to perform at peak level as the prime example for your siblings. The achiever. The one who looked out for everyone else. As an adult, and now a mother with a family of my own, I still carry that instinct — to bear it all, to meet every need, to never ask for help.
And when I couldn’t anymore, I felt hiya.
Hiya that I couldn’t carry everything for my retired parents.
Hiya that I needed to ask my siblings for help.
Hiya that I, the Ate who helped fund them through college and got our parents a car when it finally broke down, now had to admit I could not do it alone.
I remember watching Encanto with my daughter and finding myself in tears during Luisa’s song, “Surface Pressure.”
That was me. The Ate who felt she could never break, who measured her worth by how much she could carry, how well she could serve, how much she could sacrifice.
And the fear that if I ever said hindi ko na kaya, I would disappoint everyone.
But hiya taught me something else too:
That it’s not shameful to need help.
That I am part of a family; not the sole bearer of its weight.
That I, too, am worth protecting, prioritising, and making space for.
So I asked for help. And my sisters rose with grace, stepping in as companions on this journey of caring for our parents — whether in financial needs or physical presence.
And I am beyond grateful.
Hiya, in this light, is not a wall but a doorway. A reminder that love is not just in giving, but in allowing ourselves to receive.
. . .
Hiya as a Window
Anthropologists say language reveals what a culture values.
That we Filipinos have a word like hiya shows we value humility, community, and relational harmony.
It is often misunderstood as mere shame, but hiya is layered. It is consideration, respect, relational awareness.
It reminds us that we are part of something bigger than ourselves, and that our actions ripple outward.
In a world that prizes assertiveness, hiya reminds us of gentleness. In a culture of individualism, it keeps us tied to community.
. . .
Turning Hiya from a Curse to a Blessing
Hiya can be heavy, even paralysing, if left unchecked. It can keep us from asking for help, from advocating for ourselves, from moving forward when we need to.
But it doesn’t have to be a curse.
Hiya becomes a blessing when it moves us to act with consideration, but not to shrink in fear.
When it makes us aware of others, but not at the expense of ourselves.
When it teaches us humility, but not self-erasure.
We can teach our children that hiya is not about silencing themselves, but about moving through the world with grace.
That it is okay to ask for help.
That it is holy to take up space, gently but firmly.
That we can honour others without dishonouring ourselves.
Hiya can become a guide, reminding us that we are connected, and that our dignity does not diminish when we need others.
. . .
✨ Reflection
As this new month begins, may we carry hiya not as fear, but as reverence.
May we teach our children that true humility is not erasing ourselves, but remembering we are connected — to our family, our faith, our history, our people.
. . .
The Gift of Hiya
I want my children to know that hiya can coexist with courage.
That it is possible to be kind and strong, to live softly and bravely.
That they do not need to carry everything alone to be worthy of love.
Because hiya does not need to be erased for us to thrive. It can be carried well.
. . .
🌾 Hiya is the fourth reflection in my Uyayi series — a quiet revolution of words, memory, and culture for parents raising children far from home.
You can start from the beginning with:
I didn’t grow up using these words, but now I am reclaiming them with intention.
Because to speak these words is to root them. To live these words is to pass on a heritage. And to write them — in a quiet post like this — is my own fierce kind of love.
To every parent raising roots far from home: Your gentle, thoughtful love is enough. The culture you carry in your everyday choices is enough. The legacy you pass on, one word at a time, is enough.
Even one tender syllable, whispered with love, is enough to carry a culture forward.
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