The Cry of the Koklir | An Iban Ghost Story

Before I share my experiences, I’d want to clarify who the koklir is and what she represents in Iban belief.

People often think of the Iban people of Sarawak as headhunters, which is a part of our history, but it tends to eclipse the deeper aspects of who we are. However, our culture is not only based on headhunting. We have a strong spiritual connection to the natural world, which is rich in stories about spirits that live in rivers, lands, mountains, and dreams. Our folklores are alive with omens, taboos, and the spirits of people who have departed. Some spirits protect, some guide, and others, like the koklir, are said to return because something in their death was left unresolved.

In Iban culture, the koklir is one of the most feared spirits. She is believed to be the spirit of a woman who died during childbirth or shortly thereafter, specifically during the vulnerable bekindu period, which lasts for forty days of healing and recuperation. Her death is known as busong mati, or a spiritually unfortunate death, and her soul is considered to become jai (malevolent). Her soul is malevolent not because she did something wrong in life, but because her death was unnatural and tragic. Her spirit doesn’t cross over to the other side in peace; instead, it lingers behind, transformed by pain and grief.

As a ritual precaution, lime thorns (duri limau) are poked into her hands and soles before she is buried. It’s a symbolic act aimed at weakening her spirit and preventing her from becoming a koklir. Some people allege that her tongue is also pierced.

Then a prayer is being offered, asking her to rest and not come back to bother the living. But if the ritual isn’t done or if the death is really violent or sudden, people say she might still come back to haunt, seek, and punish.

The koklir is believed to target men. Most of the time, you can hear her presence through a chilling cry that starts out like a hen calling her chicks: “kok, kok, kok…” and ends with a piercing, terrifying “haiiiiii waiiiiii!” Before she attacked her victim, she would scream “kokliiiiiiiiiiiiiiirrrrrrrrrr”. She sometimes takes the form of a beautiful woman, hiding her face with a tanggui serawong (woven sunhat) or a kubong leaf. Sometimes she manifests as an enturun, a shaggy, nocturnal bearcat with long claws. Some men say they’ve heard her voice in the jungle or by the river at night. Some people say they’ve seen her scratch at windows or doors with fingers that look like claws. The stories are shared quietly among men, usually late at night, and sometimes with fear or bravado.

I’ve never seen her. But would you believe me if I told you I heard her twice? And I remember it very well both times.

First Encounter

I was fourteen. It was the first day of the school break. Because my flight home was later that night, I was the only student left at the girls’ hostel at my boarding school. Everyone else had left throughout the day. The hostel was quiet and empty.

That morning, the warden told me to turn off the lights and close all the doors before I left. I said I would. After dinner, at about 6 PM, I took my bags outside and waited for my cousin to pick me up. It was getting dark already.

Before leaving, I went back in to do what I promised: turn off the lights and close the doors. I went up to the first floor, strolled through the empty corridor, and did what I had to do. The only sound was the rustling leaves blowing in the breeze. Everything else was still and quiet.

I heard something as I came back down, near the bathroom on the ground floor.

“Kok… kok… kok…”

It was soft and faint, exactly like a hen calling its chicks.

But this was a school compound. No nearby houses, no chickens. Just trees and a greenhouse. I stopped and listened again. I thought maybe I imagined it. I finished what I was doing and went back to the entrance. I stood there in the light of the corridor, looking out at the road. Everything else around me was dark.

Then, around 7PM, I heard it again.

“Kok… kok… kok… kok…”

It was slower and closer.

I felt chills and goosebumps all over my body. I was too scared to look around. I just kept my eyes on the road, expecting to see my cousin’s headlights. He came soon after that. I hastily loaded my bags into the car and drove away. I never looked back.

I didn’t see her, but I know what I heard. We believe that the koklir doesn’t harm girls or women because she only targets men. That gave me some comfort, but the sound stuck with me for years.

Second Encounter

I was still living in the same hostel a year later. I didn’t hear her voice this time, but I did hear something else. My bed was next to the door. Sometimes, I would wake up to a loud scratching sound at the door. I believed it was stray dogs trying to get in, so I went back to sleep.

However, I looked at the door one morning because I was curious. There were scratch marks, but they weren’t at the bottom where a dog could reach them. They were higher up, around chest height. That detail stuck with me. What kind of dog can scratch that high?

I didn’t say anything to anyone. I didn’t want to scare the others, especially the younger girls. But I remembered what the elders used to say: the koklir scratches at doors and windows with her long nails to find a way in.

After that, the scratching happened every now and then. I didn’t say anything about it until much later. I told the story years later in our WhatsApp group for former dormmates. I was surprised to learn that I wasn’t the only one. Others remembered the same sounds from the same door and that same feeling of unease. However, we all stayed quiet, but we were all scared.

Some people might not believe these stories. They can argue it’s merely animals, wind, imagination, or ridiculous stories from the natives. But I don’t think I made anything up since I know what I heard.

These encounters aren’t just stories about ghosts. She is a reminder of how deeply the Iban people see death and life as intertwined, how even grief has a place in our stories. As Iban people, we understand spiritual realms that involve death, grief, and the things that linger. The koklir is a reminder of women who died too young or too soon, often forgotten or feared, yet still searching for peace. She didn’t show herself to me. But I heard her cry and have never forgotten it, even after decades have passed.

I write about Iban culture, ancestral rituals, creative life, emotional truths, and the quiet transformations of love, motherhood, and identity. If this speaks to you, subscribe and journey with me.

The Story Behind My Name | Pop Culture, Ancestral Power, and the Pua Kumbu

My first name, Olivia, was given to me by my aunt, who was an avid Olivia Newton-John fan. She loved the music and for her, the name represented something beautiful and worth passing on. So I became Olivia, named after a beautiful and talented singer.

Growing up, I didn’t think much about it. It was just my name, four syllables, easy enough to pronounce, and slightly more trendy than the names around me. But back then it was common to see kids with names such as Donny Osmond or Cliff Richard. It was tacky, I admit, but I still take the compliment of being named after a superstar. However, over time, I began to notice how names carry stories and I realized mine was only half told.

While Olivia came from pop culture, my second name came from something far older, deeper, and more spiritual. It was given to me in honor of a woman in my family, a great-grand-aunt who was once an early 20th-century Iban master weaver of the sacred pua kumbu (ceremonial cloth). She was not only skilled in her craft but also legendary. In our culture, women like her were known as “indu takar, indu ngar.” These were women who could receive weaving patterns in dreams from the supreme deity, Kumang, and translate them into woven cloths imbued with spiritual power.

In days of old, the pua kumbu held a sacred role in the ritual and festival of enchaboh arung, where severed enemy heads were received. These clothes were woven by the wives or mothers of Iban warriors, guided by spiritual forces from the heavenly realms of Panggau Libau and Gelong. Upon their husbands’ and sons’ return from war, the women would spread the pua kumbu across their arms, welcoming them home and placing the enemy heads upon the cloth. (Refer to the footnote for more details).

For Iban women, including my great-grand-aunt, weaving was more than just a craft. It was their “warpath,” parallel in sacredness and risk to the men’s headhunting expeditions. Before they could begin a new ceremonial piece, they needed to receive it in a dream and enter a specific spiritual state. One wrong move, even in how they prepared their threads, may lead to misfortune or even death. Their work carried great responsibility and risk. It required focus, discipline, and faith in the divine.

I may not entirely understand the weight my great-grand-aunt bore, but I have always felt an echo of it. Receiving her name was an inheritance. It connected me not only to her but also to the spirit of her work and her path.

I don’t weave cloth, but I do write and draw. Often it begins with a dreamy vision, like a found phrase or an emotion that I can’t fully articulate. There’s always that strong urge to make sense of it and mold it into something tangible. When I started my blog, I named it Olivia’s Atelier because I wanted it to be a personal and meaningful space. As Virginia Woolf once said, this is a room of my own. This is a space where I could shape something substantial based on my truths.

Recently, I updated the blog header to reflect more of where I come from. I didn’t want anything generic or trendy but I wanted something that expressed my culture and heritage. So I chose an image of pua kumbu, the sacred textile woven by women like my great-grand-aunt. It carries more than visual beauty, with rich deep reds, blacks, and intricate patterns throughout. It holds power, dignity, and sacredness.

To some, it may just look decorative. However, for me, it serves as a subtle way to assert my identity and heritage in this fast-moving, globalized world.

My great-grand-aunt likely never imagined her name and legacy would live on in a digital space, passed down to a woman who lives a century apart. But I think of her often when I work, especially late at night when the house is quiet and I am writing or drawing. I wonder if this page I write or draw on is my version of the loom.

That thought changes the way I approach my work. I don’t follow trends or write for algorithms. I build my work and portfolio slowly and with care. I try to create things that have meaning, even if they are simple. This is my way of remembering and continuing a legacy that is otherwise pushed aside by the more flashy things the crowd chases.

I won’t mention my great-grand-aunt’s or my second name here. Some things should be kept private but rest assured, I carry her with me. She is part of my story and also why this blog exists.

I was named after a singer whose voice brought joy to many. And I was also named after a woman whose hands transformed dreams into sacred cloth. Both of those women live inside me. They influenced how I perceive the world and the way I write or create.

When you visit this blog and notice the patterned header, know that it holds a layer of memory and pride of a culture. It holds a legacy and strength that runs beneath everything I share.

I have a first and a second name. One name was given; the other inherited, and both live on in everything I write and create.

Footnote:
After returning from war expeditions, Iban warriors would spend about a week in huts away from the longhouse, cleansing themselves and preparing their “war trophies” (enemy heads). The heads were carefully skinned, the brains removed, and then smoked for several days. Once properly preserved, the warriors dressed in their finest regalia for a grand arrival during the enchaboh arung festival, where the skulls were placed into the waiting arms of their wives or mothers.

Olivia Atelier offers printables, templates, and art designed to inspire reflection, healing, and creativity. Visit Olivia’s Atelier for more.

What Motivates Me to Keep Creating as a Writer and Artist

I sometimes wonder if it’s foolish to keep doing this. I write, create, draw, and start all over again. There’s no assurance that anyone is listening or anything will come of it. But still, I keep coming back. I wake up before the world stirs and write. I build and dream out loud. Why? Because something inside me refuses to stay silent.

I believe my primary motivation is the need to express myself truthfully. I don’t do it for performance or to convince anyone. I just express myself either through writing or drawing without having any expectations. I’ve spent far too many years conforming to the expectations of others. I am a wife and a mother. I am reliable and strong. But when I write, I can be tender, unfiltered, and fully myself. Even if the words come out wrong or the idea is incomplete, it is still mine. Creating allows me to regain the parts of myself that were left behind. It’s how I come back to myself.

Writing helps me express things I can’t say out loud. It makes room for contradictions like guilt and delight, compassion and tiredness. It allows me to say things that I’ve been holding back for years. Some of my poems or essays contain silent confessions. Others are simply letters I’ve never sent. However, they all stem from the same place: a desire to live truthfully, even if just on the page.

And something wonderful happens when I release that into the world. My words reach out and connect with the right people. People crave connection. Everyone. You and me. My words may give comfort to those who scroll past the noise and pause at a sentence because it sounds like something they previously felt but never said out loud. I don’t share my writing for likes or analytics, but I have hopes that someone, somewhere, would read what I wrote and feel seen.

Connection doesn’t always mean interaction. Sometimes it’s just the feeling of being less alone. A stranger may read my words and find a piece of themselves in them. It may seem trivial and unimportant, but there’s something deeply rooted about it. It’s honest, authentic, even mundane.

And there’s something else that draws me in—my culture. Iban women weren’t always taught to speak up, though they did have important roles in the hierarchy of things. No matter where I am in the world, I carry my ancestors with me. I carry their strength and courage in my veins. And I want to record that because I want to remember. I want my children to remember too. Writing helps me to cling onto what the world keeps trying to erase.

When I write about Iban culture or way of life, I feel as if I am reconstructing myself. I know these stories matter even if just a handful of people read them.

I am also deeply motivated by creative freedom. I’ve had roles, jobs, and seasons where I adhered to the rules. It paid the bills, certainly, but it drained my spirit. This space I’ve built—my blogs, art, and shops—is mine. I don’t need to wait for anyone’s permission. I can write anything I want, like a parenting essay on Monday, publish a poem on Wednesday, and draw something for fun on Friday. The flexibility and ownership are essential for my creative spirit.

There’s something powerful about knowing I can change course if I need to. I don’t have to adhere to a specific niche or present a specific version of myself. All my creative work reflects every aspect of me, whether they are messy, raw, or incomplete, they are all mine.

Perhaps the most tender motivation is I do this for my children. Money is important, of course; I do earn from some of my work, but money is less important when it comes to showing my children who their mother truly is. It’s important for them to know that I have dreams and aspirations, and I wasn’t just the mother who prepared their meals and helped with homework. I want them to know that I was also someone who wrote her way through pain and hope. I want them to see me grow and not simply survive. This, I hope, may give them permission to do the same.

I want my children to know that it’s okay to change direction, to outgrow old narratives and start again. I want them to see that growth doesn’t always look like a straight line. Sometimes it’s slow, silent, or even invisible. But regardless of the progress, it’s still growth. And I want them to have the courage to follow their own paths, no matter how long or winding they get.

So when things become hard, and they do, I try to come back to these five truths. I don’t always get it right. There were days when I doubted or gave up, but the fire never completely went out. And when I return, it welcomes me back like a lover with wide open arms.

Olivia Atelier offers printables, templates, and art designed to inspire reflection, healing, and creativity. Visit Olivia’s Atelier for more.

What I Enjoy Most About Writing

I’ve been writing since I was a child, but it wasn’t until I was an adult that I figured out what I enjoyed most about it. It’s not always the act of writing itself, like filling up notebook after notebook or the satisfying click of the “publish” button. What I love most about writing is how it helps me understand myself and the world in ways that nothing else can.

Writing has always helped me see things more clearly. It calms my mind and helps me sort through complicated feelings and thoughts. I sometimes start writing without knowing what I want to say. But as the words come, my ideas begin to settle. The unpleasant feelings start to fade and the fog clears. Writing gives me a sanctuary to think, reflect, and heal.

I often write to work through feelings I haven’t fully processed, like grief, confusion, doubt, or painful memories. Writing gives those emotions a safe place to land. It helps me carry what would otherwise feel too heavy. Sometimes I don’t need a solution. Just putting the words down is enough. It becomes a form of release that quietly brings me back to myself.

Writing also helps me connect with others. Whether it’s a blog post, a poem, or a message on social media, it creates an invisible thread between me and someone else. I may not know who reads my work, but I write with the hope that my words might make someone feel seen, understood, or a little less alone. That subtle and honest connection has become something I deeply value.

Writing is also a wonderful way to leave a legacy. My Iban poems and cultural reflections are more than just creative expressions. They are a way to preserve and pass on language, traditions, and identity to the next generation. I want my kids to know where they came from when they grow up. I want them to read my words and experience a sense of recognition, rootedness, and curiosity about their heritage. This is how I use writing to become a bridge between generations.

I also love how writing lets me be creative. Fiction allows me to step into different characters and have different experiences. I can explore new points of view, see other possibilities, and live other lives without leaving my own. It stretches my thinking and enhances my sense of empathy. Writing fiction helps me deal with truths that I’m not ready to face head-on yet. And it sometimes leads me to discoveries I didn’t expect, like revealing emotions or insights I didn’t know I had.

Writing also makes me think more clearly. It helps me make sense of an issue or an argument by breaking it down and looking at it from different perspectives. It forces me to be honest, think more deeply, and clarify what I really believe. That process is good for my mind and heart. It helps me sit with complicated things without rushing to resolve them.

And then there’s the simple joy of making something that never existed before. It is satisfying to create something that has meaning for me and perhaps for others, whether it’s a poem, a blog post, or a whole collection of work. I like the feeling of completing a piece of writing and being proud of how I shaped it from start to finish.

Some days I write because I feel inspired and some days I write because I need to. But no matter what, writing never feels like work. It feels like returning to something that has always belonged to me. It’s a place where I don’t have to perform or pretend and can just be me.

So, when I think about what I enjoy most about writing, it comes down to this: it helps me live more honestly. It helps me think better, feel better, and observe the world better. It helps me connect, remember, and make sense of things. Writing has helped me heal, find clarity, find purpose, and build connection with others. I can’t think of anything more satisfying than that.

Olivia Atelier offers printables, templates, and art designed to inspire reflection, healing, and creativity. Visit Olivia’s Atelier for more.

How I’ve Been Moving My Own Goalposts

I’ve been creating and publishing my work for years, but if you heard me talk about my work, you might think I’m just getting started.

I have this strange habit that I’ve noticed. I always add a “but” to every milestone I reach. In 2015, I published my first coloring book. This was long before the age of AI and before everyone was selling and publishing coloring books in droves. It was a huge feat for me because I had no formal education in design or tools but in the back of my mind it wasn’t a big deal because it wasn’t a novel. I sold my art and designs to people all over the world, but it was only a few dollars at a time. I’ve been interviewed on the radio a couple of times…but they were only thirty minutes. I’ve been featured in a local newspaper (The Star) and magazines…but no one remembers them. Even my poems, two in a local online literary journal and one in an international one, also come with the quiet disclaimer that they weren’t in a fancy, hardbound anthology.

In 2018, two of my paintings were part of a group show in Lisbon, Portugal. At the time, I remember feeling honored…and then telling myself right away that they were only small pieces, as if that made it less important that people on the other side of the world had chosen and seen them.

My brain seems to be programmed to move the goalposts as soon as I score. Everything I’ve done immediately ceases to count because it wasn’t more extensive, profitable, or longer. It’s a silent erasure of my own work and not humility. And the more I consider it, the more I see how deeply ingrained it is. Somewhere along the way, I learned that worth could only be measured in extremes.

I think part of it stems from the way accomplishments are often celebrated. Best-sellers, award winners, and overnight sensations often make the headlines. Seldom do the slower, more steady steps receive the same attention. Perhaps that’s why I find it difficult to appreciate them in my own life because they’re not the kind of victories that garner much attention.

But lately, I’ve been thinking about the new voices I’ve seen online. People who are just starting out as artists or writers are celebrating their first novel draft, drawing, or Etsy sale. Their happiness is apparent. They aren’t comparing it to some unseen standard. They don’t say “but” after their announcement. I wish I could have that. And it makes me think about how many moments I’ve missed out on because I wouldn’t let myself be proud for more than a second.

The truth is that my creative life has been full. I’ve brought six coloring books from idea to market, my art and designs have traveled farther than I have, I’ve done an overseas group show, I’ve done radio interviews, print features, and years of steady blogging. It exists not because I waited for permission, but because I put it out there into the world. And yet, I’ve been the one who’s diminishing it.

Here’s another truth: I don’t share links to my interviews or published works on my blog or social media. They carry my real identity, but I want to stay anonymous for now. That gives me a sense of freedom because I can create without worrying about my name, my face, or the expectations that come with them. Without that attachment, I can try new things, explore, and even fail without worrying that my whole identity is at stake.

The price of this mindset, both the anonymity and the constant moving of the goalposts, isn’t just emotional. It seeps into motivation. You never feel like you’ve arrived when you keep moving the finish line. And without that rest and a moment of acknowledgement and gratitude, the trip starts to feel like an endless uphill climb.

I’ve been trying to change this by creating tangible reminders that my work is real and worth noticing, not by forcing myself to feel proud. I made a “Proof Folder.” I keep screenshots of kind messages from readers or buyers, pictures of my books and art in the world, sales confirmations, and links to features or interviews. It’s an effort to fight against my habit of forgetting. I’ll open the folder on days when the “but” tries to take over. I’ll remind myself that the work was done, that it mattered, and that it still does.

I don’t know if I’ll ever be able to completely silence the voice in my head that says, ‘It’s not enough.’ But I might be able to learn to say something more true: It’s all mine. I made it and that counts.

Olivia Atelier offers printables, templates, and art designed to inspire reflection, healing, and creativity. Visit Olivia’s Atelier for more.

If We Had Stayed | A Prose Poem from an Alternate Life

It was never loud between us. Our love never needed proof. Just subtle signs. A gaze that lasted too long. A jacket shrugged off without being asked. How his silence moved toward mine and made room.

We live above the bookstore near the station. The one with crooked shelves and a leaking pipe that drips near the poetry section. On quiet mornings, I wake first. The kettle whispers steam. He is still asleep, half-buried in the blankets, one arm flung across my side of the bed. I write before the city wakes up. One lamp on. My pen moves slowly and carefully across the page because some mornings are fragile.

Some days, we walk to the cafe where we first met. The one where the windows get foggy, and I forgot a pen once. He never mentions that he kept it. Never asks why I replaced it. But he returns it anyway, weeks later, as if it was never gone. The pen, not the moment we shared.

We have a habit of not explaining. He says it once, at the door, without turning around.

We often stroll to Yanping Riverside Park. It is our routine. We never call it that, but we keep coming back to it. On quieter days, we walk under trees that offer more than just shade. Kids dart past on scooters, while we walk slowly. His hand near mine. Sometimes he stops at the railing and looks at the river. I can feel him and the constellation he carries between us.

He rarely talks about work, and when he does, it’s only in fragments. Just enough to remind me that there are things that can’t be put into words. And that’s enough. I don’t have to know everything about him to love him.

I learn to read his silences. The way he checks the locks twice. The way his eyes drift when he’s too tired to pretend. I never think of his silence as distance. It’s a huge part of the whole.

We don’t talk about forever. We just stay.

There are rooftops and rain, the wind carrying jasmine from someone else’s balcony. Matcha soft-serve he buys without asking. The way he looks at me when I hand him a poem. How he holds it like a feather.

We don’t make any promises. But he and I stay.

He once told me that being around me hurt him like a third lung. I don’t say anything. I just trace my thumb over his knuckles and let the silence remain. There are no anniversaries. No statements. Just the ritual of being there.

He catches me when I slip on uneven pavement. His fingers wrap around my arm like the answer to the questions I’ve been too scared to ask. He says, “I guess I’m here to catch you.” I smile and file that sentence in the back of my mind, where the most important things live.

Our life together isn’t always perfect. We fight. We turn our backs in sleep. But we stay. He doesn’t save me. I don’t save him. We just stop pretending we don’t need each other.

And in this world we’ve carved our lives into, the silence isn’t absence—it’s alive, trembling like a living thing.

Olivia Atelier offers printables, templates, and art designed to inspire reflection, healing, and creativity. Visit Olivia’s Atelier for more.

When Entertainment Crosses the Line | On Exploiting Women’s Pain for Ratings

Something very disturbing happened on Malaysian live TV last night. During Anugerah Melodi, Bella Astillah was made to present an award to the woman her ex-husband had cheated on her with. It was like watching a slow-motion car crash; you want to look away, but you can’t because you can’t believe that something so cruel could be planned, aired, and packaged as entertainment.

And what’s worse? Some people had the nerve to call Bella unprofessional for walking away. Let me be clear: Bella didn’t overreact. She didn’t make a fuss and was able to hold back. And the fact that she had to hold back at all, in a situation that no woman should ever have to be in, is the real tragedy. What happened wasn’t entertainment. It was a public humiliation well-dressed with glitter and applause.

It’s absolutely shameful for a system to think it’s okay to put a woman in the same spotlight as the person who hurt her family, just for shock value. And then to show it live, knowing all the history and emotional turmoil that went into it? It’s bad taste with a total lack of respect for human dignity.

I usually don’t pay much attention to the entertainment industry, whether it’s local or international. I’ve never really been interested in it, and most news about celebrities goes right by me. But this incident made me livid. Because this wasn’t a drama for Slot Akasia (TV segment for local drama) but real pain being paraded as a spectacle. And as someone who has been through a lot of trauma myself, I couldn’t help but feel triggered by how easily that pain was exploited and dismissed.

This is where we need to have a larger conversation about the ethics of our entertainment industry. And it doesn’t stop there. What we show on TV isn’t a random thing. Our kids are watching. They’re learning how to treat people by watching how we treat them, especially how we treat people who are hurting. And in a country where bullying in schools is becoming all too common, moments like these send a dangerous message: that it’s okay to make fun of someone’s misfortune and to humiliate them in public for fun. We are showing our kids that it is okay to mock someone’s pain instead of showing compassion.

This was bullying, plain and simple, with stage lights and applause. And if we’re not careful, we’re teaching the next generation that being mean is acceptable and even rewarded. How did we end up here? When did we start treating other people’s pain as a show? Bella’s case is not one of a kind. We’ve seen this happen over and over again: trauma being used to get ratings, tears being turned into headlines, and women being told they have to keep it all together for the show.

Some might say that’s how show business works. But no, it isn’t. That’s exploitation and there’s nothing glamorous or entertaining about it.

We should talk about how the media often takes advantage of women’s shame. The pattern is disturbingly consistent, whether it’s reality TV setting women up to be shamed, talk shows baiting vulnerable guests for views, or award ceremonies like this one forcing a confrontation that never needed to happen. The main idea is that your pain is only worth as much as the clicks or views it gets.

The aftermath makes it worse. Many people who watched Bella instead of standing by her side mocked her, questioned her professionalism, and invalidated her trauma. Because it seems that when a woman doesn’t smile and appear “redha” through her sorrow, she becomes the problem.

But let’s turn the tables for a second. Think about how it would feel for a man to have to give an award to the man his wife cheated on him with. Would people think he was being dramatic? Or would we be outraged on his behalf?

People expect women to always be gracious and smile politely. Women are always expected to rise above and endure. But when they don’t, the reaction is quick. However, endurance is not the same as healing. And being polite when someone betrays you isn’t professionalism but emotional suppression that comes at a cost.

Mental health is not a joke. Emotional abuse leaves real scars on people. And being triggered on live TV is not something to be mocked or dissected for gossip. People should be kind and show empathy. But last night, there was no empathy to be found. Instead, we saw a media industry that cares more about viral moments than about people’s lives.

So let’s call this out for what it is: unethical, tone-deaf, and deeply irresponsible.

TV3 Malaysia, you had many opportunities to do better. You knew the history and what was at stake. And you still chose to be sensational over being sensitive. You didn’t read the room and let Bella down. And by doing that, you failed every woman who has ever been told to suck it up, “redha,” and move on.

If you defended the setup or laughed it off, I ask you to think more deeply. Would you have been as calm as she was if you were in her shoes? If the pain were yours, would you call it “just an award presentation”?

We need to stop making trauma into entertainment. And we really need to stop expecting women to be composed when they are badly betrayed. We need to make a clear distinction between storytelling and exploitation to increase ratings and views.

Bella, you didn’t do anything wrong. Your emotions were valid and it took a lot of courage to say her name out loud and present her that award. Many of us saw you as a person who deserved respect and dignity and not a humiliating headline.

To the rest of us: let this be a reminder that empathy should never be optional, especially when the cameras are rolling.

Olivia Atelier offers printables, templates, and art designed to inspire reflection, healing, and creativity. Visit Olivia’s Atelier for more.

Where Is God in a Universe That Expands?

A couple of nights ago, I found myself thinking about black holes and the curvature of spacetime. It wasn’t a planned deep dive into physics. It all started with a simple question: how can a black hole not be seen/invisible? That question led to one of the most intense conversations I’ve ever had. It started with astrophysics and then slowly turned into theology. And like most of the things I reflect on late at night, it made me more curious than it did give me answers.

I learned that space is not empty. It is a real piece of “fabric” that can bend, stretch, and ripple. This fabric curves because of mass, which is what we feel as gravity. The more mass there is, the stronger the curvature and the stronger the gravity. This is why a black hole’s pull is so strong: its mass is compressed into such a tiny point that even light can’t get away from it. The event horizon is the line that marks the end of visibility (what we can see). Beyond it, not even light can come back. It’s not that the black hole is an empty hole; it’s that our limited perception doesn’t allow us to see past a certain point.

But what excited me was finding out that time is also a part of this fabric. Time doesn’t flow evenly throughout the universe. Time slows down around massive objects because their gravity pulls on the fabric of space more strongly. Time goes by more slowly when there is more gravity. This means that time moves a little slower on Earth than it does in space. And time almost stops close to a black hole. Do you know that one hour near the black hole is equal to thousands of years on earth? That alone changes how I perceive reality. Time doesn’t go in a straight line; it bends or curves relative to the surrounding mass.

And then there’s the expansion of the universe. I used to believe that the galaxies are moving away from each other in some cosmic ocean. Little did I know that the space itself is stretching like an elastic fabric. Space isn’t moving galaxies through it; it’s actively growing and pulling them apart. And here’s the interesting part: this expansion is speeding up. But what or who did it? The scientists call it dark energy, and it’s a force in the universe that we don’t really understand. Dark energy makes up about 68% of the universe we know about. It pushes everything away from one another, making the space between galaxies grow bigger and bigger.

All of this left me thinking: where is God in all this?

What kind of God made the universe that keeps stretching, spacetime that is constantly changing, and stars that collapse and disappear into black holes that bend reality to the point of no return? What kind of God exists in that?

For a while now, I’ve been deconstructing my faith. I have questions that I’m sometimes scared to ask out loud. I grew up believing in a God who was all-knowing, all-loving, and in control. But the more I learn about suffering, physics, and history, the harder it is to hold on to that version of God.

But still… I still have faith in God but not necessarily the all-powerful entity on a throne somewhere above the universe. I still believe in a God that started all of this.

It’s possible that God isn’t outside the universe, looking in. It’s possible that God is the universe—the intelligence within the fabric of spacetime and the consciousness behind every expansion and collapse. He is not a puppeteer or a micromanager but a divine presence that orchestrated the cosmic mystery.

Two years ago, I bought a book by Daniel S. Zachary called “A Leap in Science and a Step of Faith.” He’s an astronomer. I went to one of his talks once, a couple of years ago. The subtitle of the book is “Seeking God for the Scientifically Curious”. I didn’t read it back then. Maybe I wasn’t ready or was still too scared to confess that I didn’t believe the version of God I had been raised up with. But what about now? I believe I’m ready to read it and slowly explore and find answers to my doubts.

The truth is that I’m not looking for a perfect theology anymore. I’m looking for a God who makes sense in a world where stars are born and die, time bends, and the universe is expanding to somewhere or nowhere. I’m looking for a God who can deal with my doubts and doesn’t get scared when I ask, are we the only intelligent beings in all of this?

The design is too accurate and intelligent so I tend to believe that we might not be the only ones. Some entity might be lying awake somewhere else, asking the same questions under a different sky. Or maybe we are alone, but I don’t think we have the capacity to figure it out. It’s just not possible.

I don’t believe in a God who needs me to do everything right anymore. I believe in a God who sees my reconstructing as a gift to myself. And if that means I have to float through this cosmic mystery for a while longer, so be it.

This drifting is holy.

And maybe God isn’t the answer I was searching for but the gravity that keeps pulling me back to the questions.

Olivia Atelier offers printables, templates, and art designed to inspire reflection, healing, and creativity. Visit Olivia’s Atelier for more.

Remembering Zara | What Boarding School Taught Me About Bullying

When I first read about Zara Qairina, I felt a sharp, sick pull in my chest. She was only thirteen.

They said she fell from the third floor of her dorm. Some concluded she had taken her own life. Others claimed she was bullied, and that her body had been placed on the ground to make it appear like she jumped. Her family believed there was more than met the eye. They said she had told them, more than once, that she was being bullied. And now she’s gone.

It brought me back to my own boarding school days. Like Zara, I was thirteen when I stepped into that world. I was still twelve when I received an offer to pursue my secondary education at one of the top schools in Sarawak. My parents didn’t want me to go, but I insisted. For three months, they said no—then, finally, they relented.

Back then, we didn’t use the word “bullying.” The term we heard more often was “ragging,” usually carried out by seniors. I can’t speak for others, and certainly not for what boys experienced, but I can tell you what I went through.

Had I ever been bullied? Yes. But I didn’t recognise it as bullying at the time. I wasn’t a timid student, though I was quiet. I always pushed back. So I didn’t label those moments as something serious. But they were.

The first time I was bullied was in Form 2, when I was fourteen. The girl who targeted me was also in Form 2 but from another class. She was one of the prettiest girls that year. I hadn’t paid much attention to her because I mostly kept to myself and my circle of friends.

We were both in PBSM (Red Cross, or Red Crescent in Malaysia). That year, there was a three-day camping event, and by chance, I ended up in the same group as a senior—a Form 4 boy she had a crush on. I didn’t think much of it. He was just another teammate. However, she was consumed with jealousy. She began spreading rumours about me and told others to avoid me. One by one, people pulled away. I didn’t notice at first, but eventually, it became clear. My belongings were misplaced. My cupboard was ransacked. I suspected someone had even read my diary.

Friends gave subtle hints, and my instincts pointed to her. They had proof, but none of them dared to confront her. Meanwhile, she continued to pursue the boy; however, it was unsuccessful. Then, one day, as quickly as it started, the bullying stopped. She became friendly again. I never asked why. Maybe she realised the boy was never going to be hers, or maybe she just grew tired. Eventually, we became friends throughout the school years. And guess what? We’re still in touch to this day. And yes, I forgave her.

The second time it happened, I was in Form 4. This time, it came from the boys in my class. They bullied everyone, and I was no exception. They called me names—some rude, some degrading. I was upset, of course. But again, I fought back. I reported them to the disciplinary teacher, and they were punished. The bullying stopped. And funny enough, we all became friends. Some of them now hold director-level positions in the public and private sectors. One of the most notorious is now a respectable police officer. I sometimes wonder if he remembers any of those incidents, but I’ve never bothered to ask.

So how did all of this affect me?

It taught me that the world can be a cruel place. It taught me that not everyone is your friend. It taught me that bullies often prey on the quiet ones. And it taught me that sometimes, the only way out is to speak up and push back.

I believe Zara was a brave girl, and I believe she fought back too. But the system failed her. Somewhere along the way, someone didn’t listen and take her seriously. And now, we are left with heartbreak and unanswered questions.

Many Malaysians are shaken by her death. The police are still investigating. Until the investigation concludes and all suspects are questioned, everything remains speculation. But whatever the outcome, I hope the truth surfaces and justice is served.

And I hope we learn something.

We cannot romanticize boarding schools as character-building institutions while ignoring the rot beneath. We cannot continue to let children suffer in silence because “that’s how it’s always been.” That was my mentality back then. I thought ragging was normal, just a part and parcel of school life. All I had to do was endure it and be courageous enough to fight back.

But I was wrong. Bullying, no matter the form—is never normal. It is cruel, and it should be recognized as a crime under any law.

We have to be better. Not just for Zara, but for the next thirteen-year-old girls or boys who still believe they are safe.

Olivia Atelier offers printables, templates, and art designed to inspire reflection, healing, and creativity. Visit Olivia’s Atelier for more.

When the Car Broke Down, So Did I | But Here’s What I Learned

The car broke down today. Again.

It’s my husband’s car, and this would be the third time this year. We’ve brought it to different workshops, different mechanics, each one poking around and shrugging like it’s just one of those ghosts in the machine. But today, the mechanics finally identified the issues: spark plugs, cooling gasket, weak battery, frayed cables, a clogged pipe, and a radiator that desperately needs cleaning.

RM2,000. That’s the estimate. We have savings, sure, but can we replenish that money in time? That question alone pulled me into a mental spiral I’ve come to know too well. A slow, heavy dread that swirls up in the pit of your stomach. But I caught myself. I reminded myself I had two choices: let that worry snowball and bury me, or breathe, look at the situation for what it is, and figure out what I can do.

We still need to fix the car and to keep living. And worrying, as familiar as it is, won’t do the fixing for me. What weighs heavier than the cost, though, is the guilt. There’s this stubborn voice inside whispering that I’m not doing enough. It keeps insisting I should be contributing more consistently. My husband works full-time, and I write, and I have small online hustles. Sometimes they bring in decent money but sometimes they don’t. But I squirrel away every ringgit I earn. And over the years, those small savings have paid for medical bills, groceries, furniture, school supplies, and, of course, rainy days that came without warning.

When I zoom out, I see that I’ve contributed steadily throughout the years. And yet, the guilt persists. Because we live in a world that ties a person’s worth to the size of their paycheck. Is that the only currency that matters? But what about everything else?

What about the sleepless nights, the emotional labor, the struggles of parenting and managing a household, especially when they are rarely acknowledged? What about the unpaid hours spent raising children into kind, curious humans? What about those people who hold things together behind the scenes? However, I’ve learned, slowly, not to compare. I tried not to look at working mothers and feel small. I make an intentional effort not to pit stay-at-home and working women against each other. We each make trade-offs and we all carry invisible costs. I’ve stopped wasting energy trying to measure myself against others. I’d rather pour that energy into things that feed my soul, like writing and making art.

Still, the financial anxiety is real. We’ve been living frugally for years. And yet, one broken part in a car can shake the balance. It’s a common story. Everywhere I look, people are stretched thin, in Malaysia or elsewhere around the world. Even in countries like the U.S., I read about 80-year-olds still working because they can’t afford not to. That article haunted me.

It reminded me how fragile things can be, how illness, aging, or a single emergency can drain years of careful saving. And it made me think, what kind of life do I want to build? What kind of resilience do I want to have? I don’t want to live in fear. So I’m choosing to stay patient, calm, and clear. I’m choosing to meet this setback with grace, even when it feels unfair. I tell myself this: take a deep breath. Don’t panic. Worry adds nothing. It just takes and drains. And right now, I need all my strength to stay grounded and keep creating and contributing, not just financially, but emotionally and meaningfully.

If you’re reading this in the middle of your own breakdown, whether mechanical or emotional, I want you to know: you’re not alone. It’s okay to feel overwhelmed and cry. It’s okay to spiral too. I did that often but when the tears dry, try again. If you’re like me, you have people who are depending on you for survival, and no matter how unfair it might sound, we have to keep going even when we feel like falling apart.

Sometimes, a broken car teaches you more than a working one ever could. It reminds you of what you’re capable of. And if you’re still standing after everything life has asked of you, then maybe you’re not broken at all. You’re probably just in the middle of building something unshakable.

Olivia Atelier offers printables, templates, and art designed to inspire reflection, healing, and creativity. Visit Olivia’s Atelier for more.