Maansi Singh

When I signed up for Project Luminaire, I knew I wanted to serve the community. What I didn't expect was how much the community would end up changing me. Living alongside the people in Zambales for almost two weeks gave me a perspective that no classroom or short volunteering session ever could. What once felt unfamiliar quietly became our new normal as we slowly settled into their rhythm of life. I began to understand that every family, every child, every person I met carried a different story. It reminded me how easy it is to take our own lives for granted, and how important it is to approach others with empathy rather than assumptions.

The children completely stole my heart.

They showed a kind of love that didn't need words. They affectionately called me "Ate Calamansi," after the little Filipino citrus fruit, and somehow that nickname became one of the things I'll treasure most. We barely spoke the same language, but it never seemed to matter. We spent hours playing games, laughing at things that needed no translation, teaching each other words, or simply sitting together. Even after long, tiring days, I always found myself wanting to spend just a little more time with them. They reminded me that love is one of the few things that never really needs a common language.

One afternoon, I was exhausted and rested my head down for what couldn't have been more than a few seconds. Almost immediately, I heard voices calling, "Ate Maansi! Ate Maansi!" I looked up to find fifteen or twenty children gathered around me, asking if I was okay. It was such a simple gesture that could have easily gone unnoticed, but to me, it said everything. Their instinct wasn't curiosity. It was care.

I've never been someone who cries easily. Yet on the last day, with children sitting on my lap, hugging me tightly and refusing to let go, I found myself crying with them. I had arrived expecting to leave behind installed streetlights. Instead, I was leaving behind people who, in less than two weeks, had quietly found a place in my heart.

The experience changed the way I think about comfort in ways I never expected. I never thought I'd come home genuinely excited to use a flushing toilet. It sounds almost funny now, but after living there, those conditions no longer felt unusual; they had simply become normal. Coming home made me realise how many things I had always considered "basic" were, in fact, privileges I had stopped noticing. What surprised me most, though, wasn't the lack of material comfort. It was the abundance of joy.

Community service has always been something close to my heart, but Project Luminaire gave it a  new meaning. It wasn't just about completing a project or installing lights. It was about sharing everyday life with a community, learning from them, and realising that love and human connection are at the heart of everything we do. I left the Philippines incredibly grateful, with a broader perspective, a fuller heart, and memories with the cutest kids.