Slice of Life: I Miss Her Most

February 14, 2026
By Cliff Potts, CSO, and Editor-in-Chief of WPS News

I’ve been in the Philippines for more than two years now. Long enough that this isn’t culture shock. Long enough that it isn’t novelty. It’s just life.

And today—Valentine’s Day, of all days—I keep thinking about what I miss.

I miss a microwave. Not as a luxury item, but as a small mercy. The ability to reheat food without turning it into a project. Leftovers shouldn’t require planning or improvisation.

I miss a warm bath. Or even a reliably warm shower. Hot water isn’t indulgence—it’s recovery. It’s the moment when your shoulders finally drop and your body remembers what relief feels like.

I miss access to medicine that I know exists. Medicine that is ordinary, available, and predictable. When you’ve spent a lifetime assuming treatment is just there, discovering it suddenly isn’t feels like the ground shifting under your feet.

I miss knowing where to get the equipment I need. A UPS unit. A dependable computer. A large monitor that doesn’t require a scavenger hunt, a gamble, or a prayer. When your mind is your primary tool, the tools around it matter.

I miss competent banking. That one deserves to be said plainly. Banking here isn’t merely inconvenient—it’s exhausting. Fragmented systems. Conflicting rules. Arbitrary limits. Every transaction feels like a negotiation with a bureaucracy that doesn’t care if you’re tired, stranded, or stuck. This isn’t a personal failure. It’s structural friction, and over time it wears you thin.

All of these things add up. Not dramatically. Quietly.

But if I’m honest—and I am—none of that is the real loss.

What I miss most is my wife.

She loved me. And that love made everything else tolerable.

When you have someone who acts as your buffer against the world, the rough edges don’t cut as deeply. Systems fail. Plans fall apart. Inconveniences pile up. And still, you feel anchored. When that person is gone, the tolerable becomes intolerable. The small stuff stops being small.

This isn’t nostalgia. It’s recognition.

She wasn’t just companionship. She was stability. She was the reason the world felt navigable.

Living abroad teaches you a lot about adaptation and patience. It also teaches you what infrastructure really means—not just roads and wires, but predictability, access, and dignity. You don’t notice those things when they work. You notice them constantly when they don’t.

Grief changes the math. It removes the margin for error. It makes every friction point louder.

I’m still here. I’m still writing. I’m still building.

But today, I’m allowing myself to say this plainly: missing these things doesn’t make me weak. Missing her doesn’t mean I’m stuck in the past.

It means I’m human.

And on February 14, that feels like the most honest thing I can say.