Sabik: The Hunger of Hope

This is part of my blog series, Uyayi: A Lullaby Across Generations — an homage to our roots started from the month we mark Araw ng Kalayaan [Philippine Independence Day]. Each post explores the title of four picture books 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:

Inip. Gigil. Hiya. Sabik. 

I gift these words to my children, one page at a time.

. . .

There’s a special kind of ache that comes not from pain, but from yearning. 

That’s sabik.

It’s my toddler squealing when she hears the key turning in the lock.
It’s my seven-year-old counting down the days until the weekend.
It’s my husband who watches me rush around and jokes that someday, when the children are grown, he’ll finally have me to himself again. I laugh and roll my eyes, but I know exactly what he means.

Many times in my life, it was me too:
The child who couldn’t wait to leave her tiny hometown.
The young girl packing her bags for the city and other countries.

More recently, it was me in the tender first trimester of pregnancy – when no one else sees the tiny life forming inside you, but your heart already does. 

And like my children, I count down to the moment I am reunited with my parents; and sabik runs deeper knowing that each visit is precious... and time is a gift we shouldn't take for granted.

Sabik has always been part of my story – sometimes restless, sometimes tender, but always reminding me who and what I long for most.

. . .

Sabik is not the same as inip.
Inip is restless, weary and impatient. 
Sabik is alive with longing.
Where inip slouches, sabik leans forward.
We are all sabik for something.

. . .

Sabik as a Window into the Filipino Soul

Language reveals what a culture values. That we Filipinos have a word like sabik shows that we are a people of hope. We know waiting. We know distance. And yet, we endure it with love.

For most Overseas Filipino Workers (OFW), sabik is the heartbeat that sustains daily sacrifices – waking up before dawn, clocking in and doing the hidden, hard work in lands far from home. Each day is powered by the thought of children growing tall and strong, parents aging with dignity, dreams inching closer, and the family reuniting.

In many Western cultures, longing often feels like dissatisfaction. But sabik is different: it is born of connection, and the ache of anticipation rooted in love.

It is what keeps us going when days are long and nights are lonely; what keeps us soft, even when the world feels hard.

Because sabik is underpinned by hope: that sacrifice is worth it, that the faces we love will still be there when we return, and that everything we’ve worked for will mean something.

. . .

We wait, and in the waiting,

our hearts grow roots.

We ache, and in the aching,

love finds its room.

. . .

Why, Lord?

Maybe God allows sabik not to tease us, but to prepare us; to stretch our soul toward something good and coming, and deepen our joy when the promise is fulfilled.

In the faith many of us share, this sense of longing is honoured. Advent and Lent are seasons of holy anticipation – where waiting becomes a posture of the heart.

Sabik stretches our hearts. It teaches us to lean into hope, and that not everything good comes instantly; some of the best things are worth waiting for.

Because waiting can be holy. And longing can be a prayer.

. . .

Because our God is a God of promises... 
and promises involve waiting.

. . .

The Ache that Makes Room

When we let sabik soften us, it becomes a kind of grace.

We teach our children how to live in the not yet, how to find joy in counting down, and how to stay tender while waiting.

We teach them that longing is not weakness, but evidence of love. That it is okay to yearn, to hope, to look forward with joy. To be excited for what’s next – all without rushing the now.

Because sabik means there is something worth waiting for. And that is a beautiful thing.

. . .

Someday, I hope my children see 
that sabik is not something to rush away from,
but a feeling worth holding. 
A signpost of what matters.

Because to be sabik is to be fully alive
to the moment before something beautiful.

 . . .

✨ Ending Reflection: My Hope for Our Children and Country

As I close this Uyayi series, I realise sabik is the perfect word to end with.

Because what is parenthood, if not a holy kind of sabik? A constant leaning forward, hoping and believing that the best is yet to come for our children.

And what is love for our motherland, if not sabik? The hope that despite the challenges, there will be a day when justice, dignity and peace will flourish in the Philippines. That even if we live far from Inang Bayan, its scattered children remain bound by love, and we will continue to hope for a brighter future.

Because sabik is not naive. It is faith in motion; a refusal to let cynicism have the final word, and the gentlest rebellion against despair.

And so, as this series ends, I leave this word with you: sabik.

May it live in your family stories, prayers and hopes for your children.

May it remind you that every small act of love is worth it.
That building a home rooted in faith, heritage and tenderness is worth it.
That raising children who know who they are, and where they come from, is worth it.

Because the Philippines we long for will be built not only by grand gestures, but by parents who whisper heritage into bedtime stories, who teach their children the words that once made us a people and will keep us a people.

Because even one tender syllable, whispered with love, is enough to carry a culture forward.

Sabik will remain.

And so will we.

. . .

🌾 Sabik is the final reflection in my Uyayi series — a quiet revolution of words, memory, and culture from the heart of a mother reclaiming her heritage to pass on its treasures to her children. You can revisit the journey:

👉 Uyayi: A Lullaby Across Generations
👉 Inip: The Ache We Carry
👉 Gigil: An Untranslatable Overflow
👉 Hiya: The Quiet Strength We Carry

I didn’t grow up using these words, but now I reclaim them with intention.

Because to speak these words is to root them. To live these words is to pass on a heritage. And to explore it deeper in writing is my own fierce kind of love.

To every parent raising roots far from home:
Keep hoping. Keep building. Keep passing on what matters.
The sabik you carry is not in vain.