Every year, as Ramadhan approaches, I find myself filled with both anticipation and a quiet sense of longing. Fasting has always been more than just an act of devotion—it is a time of reflection, renewal, and most importantly, togetherness. But living in a fast-paced city, away from family and the traditions I grew up with, has reshaped the experience in ways I never expected.
Growing up, Ramadhan meant waking up to the comforting sounds of either my dad, sisters or workers (whom we treat as family) preparing suhoor, the smell of freshly cooked meals filling the air, and the quiet laughter of my nephews as we shared those early-morning moments. Iftar was even more special—plates filled with dishes made from family recipes, the table surrounded by loved ones, and the feeling of warmth that came with every bite.
When I studied in Manila, those traditions are no longer part of my daily reality. Instead of the familiar embrace of home-cooked meals, I often find myself breaking my fast with food from restaurants or quick store-bought options. The experience is functional, not emotional. There’s no gathering around the table, no dishes infused with the love and care of family, and no shared joy in breaking fast together.
Beyond the emotional loss, I’ve come to realize another challenge—one that concerns my health being in my mid-40s. In a city where everything is about speed and efficiency, food is no exception. Restaurants, even those that offer halal options, rely heavily on processed ingredients. The more I look into what I consume, the more I realize that much of it is not just processed but ultra-processed—packed with preservatives, artificial additives, and unhealthy fats.
Back home, we never worried about what was in our food. Every ingredient was chosen with care, every dish was prepared with fresh, whole foods. But living in a big city, I find myself questioning everything. Is this truly halal? What oils are they using? How much sugar or sodium is hidden in this seemingly harmless meal? Instead of feeling nourished after iftar, I often feel sluggish, knowing that what I just ate probably lacked the nutrients my body
I know I’m not alone in this struggle. Many of us who observe Ramadhan while living away from family face the same challenges—missing the warmth of home, questioning the integrity of our food, and worrying about the long-term impact on our health. But over time, I’ve learned that while I can’t completely recreate the experience of home, I can still make choices that align with my values and well-being.
Prioritizing Home Cooking – Even with a busy schedule, I’ve started preparing simple meals at home. It may not be the elaborate dishes I grew up with, but at least I know exactly what’s going into my food.
Being Selective About Halal Food – Instead of blindly trusting restaurant menus, I take time to research places that are truly halal-certified and use quality ingredients. It takes effort, but it’s worth the peace of mind.
Creating My Own Community – I may not have my family nearby, but I’ve started inviting friends over for iftar or joining community events. It brings back some of the togetherness that Ramadhan is meant to foster.
Focusing on Nutrition – Fasting is supposed to cleanse the body, not harm it. I’ve become more mindful of choosing whole foods—fresh fruits, vegetables, lean proteins—rather than relying on processed convenience.
Fasting in a city has taught me that Ramadhan is not just about food; it’s about intention. Yes, I miss the flavors of home, the laughter of family, and the comfort of tradition. But I also realize that the essence of fasting goes beyond the physical. It’s about discipline, gratitude, and making the best choices with what we have.
So while I may not always have a home-cooked iftar waiting for me, I can still honor the spirit of Ramadhan in my own way—by being mindful of what I eat, by creating new traditions, and by remembering that the true nourishment of fasting comes not just from food, but from faith and reflection.