How shared spaces reveal more about yourself.

I've always thought I already know how to adjust living in a shared space. During my 5 years in college, I stayed in a dormitory with 5 more girls - sharing 1 room and 1 toilet. After graduating, I shared again a condo flat with college friends, and then moved out again and shared another condo flat with workmates. I admit, all those years combined, I had to make adjustments to live comfortably with other people. Filipino have a specific term for that: "pakikisama". And it's part of life, you also have to do it in school, in the workplace, and even on your own house, with your family. 

Living in shared spaces teaches you a lot of things. Like how long someone's hair can clog a drain. Or how people pretend that they are not the last person to use the stove or microwave so they're not required to clean them. Or how absurdly specific people can get about kitchen cloth usage—yes, there’s a designated microfiber cloth for cleaning and a forbidden one that apparently comes with spiritual significance.

But mostly, shared spaces teach you things about yourself. Not the filtered version of yourself you post online or offer to coworkers in polite conversation. No, I mean the version of you that emerges when someone left used and unwashed plates in the kitchen sink for the whole day and now you can't help but wash them yourself.

You discover how much noise you can tolerate before you start fantasizing about burning the house down (quietly, of course). You figure out your emotional attachment to laundry schedules, how far your social battery really goes, and the deeply personal way you arrange items in the fridge and kitchen cupboard as a form of territorial dominance.

Living in a shared flat with people from your own country has its pros and cons. But living with other people from different country is quite a different story. Before my husband and I first moved into this shared flat with other nationalities, I thought I was adaptable. Reasonable. Laid-back. Fast-forward a few months, and I’m hiding in my room like a medieval hermit, cursing at a washing machine that lives in a bedroom I have to stealth-crawl through. I started noticing how “cozy” turned into “cluttered,” how framed photos started looking like surveillance, and how my internal monologue got progressively meaner.

Turns out, it’s not just about sharing space—it’s about sharing discomfort. You bump into people’s quirks, habits, and unresolved childhood traumas. And in doing so, you bump into yours.

But here's the twist: I'm still grateful for it. For all the weirdness, the passive-aggressive group chats, the awkward kitchen dances—weirdly, I came out knowing myself better. Less idealized. More human. Slightly more feral.

In a few weeks, we are leaving this place. The thought of a quieter, more private space is thrilling. But a part of me will always remember this flat as the place where I discovered that, apparently, I have a deep-seated emotional response to unwrapped bread kept in the plate cabinet.