Maricel Gutierrez stood in front of her classroom in Chiang Mai, Tailand, holding a whiteboard marker and a lesson plan about verbs. Her twenty students, mostly Thai fourth-graders, looked up at her with wide eyes, mimicking her pronunciation and laughing at their own attempts to say “elephant” correctly. It was a familiar scene, one that Maricel had come to love.
But her journey to this classroom began far from the polished whiteboard and air-conditioned room back in a tiny barangay in Nueva Ecija.
Maricel, 33, had always wanted to teach. She graduated with a degree in education and worked as a public school teacher for six years. But the salary, barely enough to cover food, electricity, and transportation, was not enough to support her ailing mother and two younger siblings. She loved her students, but she could no longer ignore the weight of unpaid bills and a leaking roof.
When a former colleague messaged her about a teaching opportunity in Thailand, she was skeptical. The idea of starting over in another country scared her. But the thought of missing another medical appointment for her mother because of money made the decision for her.
She took the leap.
Thailand was beautiful, but unfamiliar. The food was spicy, the language confusing, and the culture both warm and distant. Her first month was a blur of lesson preparations, visa paperwork, and late-night phone calls home, where she often cried quietly so her mother wouldn’t hear the worry in her voice.
Her job as a English teacher in a private elementary school was demanding. She taught five classes a day, created learning materials from scratch, and stayed late to check notebooks and help struggling students. Yet, despite the pressure, she felt a renewed purpose. Her students adored her. They called her “Teacher Mari” and loved when she brought small Filipino treats for them to try.
Slowly, she found her rhythm. She joined a Filipino community at a local church and made friends with teachers from different provinces who, like her, were working hard to support families back home. On weekends, they cooked sinigang together and shared stories of missed birthdays, online graduations, and hopes of coming home with savings to start a small business or build a house.
Maricel sent 70% of her salary home each month. With it, her sister enrolled in nursing school, her brother finished high school, and her mother began receiving regular treatment. On video calls, her mother always said, “Anak, sobra na ang sakripisyo mo. Umuwi ka na kung kailan ka handa.”
After three years, Maricel took a short vacation back to the Philippines. She was welcomed with banners, hugs, and the smell of adobo in the air. Her old room had been repaired, her siblings taller, and her mother, though frailer, still smiling.
But even as she unpacked, she knew she wasn’t home for good yet. Maricel had signed one more contract in Thailand. Not because she had to, but because she wanted to. She had goals now not just survival, but stability. A dream to open her own tutorial center back in Nueva Ecija.
She returned to Thailand not with fear, but with clarity.
Because sometimes, beings an OFW isn’t about escaping poverty it’s about choosing to build something better, one small, hopeful step at a time.
