Becoming Celine

Daily writing prompt

If you could be a character from a book or film, who would you be? Why?

If I could be a character from a book or film, I would be Celine from the Before Trilogy. Yes, I’d love to be Celine—Julie Delpy’s character in Before Sunrise, Before Sunset, and Before Midnight.

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Those films stayed with me for many years since I discovered Before Sunrise in the early 2000s. That movie was released in 1995, a year after Reality Bites—another hit movie starring Ethan Hawke. Its sequel, Before Sunset, was released nine years later in 2004, and the final installment, Before Midnight, another nine years later in 2013.

I adore the trilogy for its dreamy long walks, the poetic ramblings, the agonizing feeling of time passing, and also Celine’s character development. In Before Sunrise, she begins as a charming, idealistic Sorbonne undergraduate, wide-eyed and open-hearted. She was sweet and willing to talk to an American traveler, Jesse Wallace (Ethan Hawke), on a Eurail. They disembarked in Vienna to spend the night together and explore the mystery of what-if.

And then nine years pass.

By Before Sunset, she has grown sharper. Her voice is steelier, and her eyes are more guarded. Life has touched and damaged her in many ways. But behind it all, she has the same curiosity, the desire to comprehend life, and what it means to belong to someone or not at all. Jesse is married and a writer now and has published a book about his experiences that fateful night nine years ago. Celine shows up at his book reading in Shakespeare & Co., watching and listening to him from the side of the room. And then their eyes met. That scene always gets me.

“I always feel this pressure of being a strong and independent icon of womanhood, and without making it look my whole life is revolving around some guy. But loving someone, and being loved means so much to me. We always make fun of it and stuff. But isn’t everything we do in life a way to be loved a little more?”

― Julie Delpy, Before Sunrise & Before Sunset: Two Screenplays

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Then came Before Midnight, another nine years later. Celine and Jesse are now in their forties and parents to twin daughters. Their conversations are no longer romantic musings under moonlight, but fueled by the reality of parenthood, aging, and the jadedness that settles into long-term love. They’re on holiday in Greece, but even the beautiful scenery can’t hide the fractures that have begun to appear. There’s tension, resentment, and emotional exhaustion.

They take long walks and talk like they always have, but their conversation is no longer about dreams and philosophies. Now they talk about regret, sacrifice, and voids that love couldn’t fill. There’s a scene in a hotel room that feels like a slow, approaching storm. You begin to wonder, did Jesse cheat on her? Did Celine ever fully forgive him? Did they lose parts of themselves in choosing to stay?

Despite their love, it’s evident that love isn’t always enough.

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That’s what makes Celine feel so authentic to me.

Perhaps I see myself in her because I, too, often live in my head. I question everything—especially love. I pay attention to details and cherish them.

“You can never replace anyone because everyone is made up of such beautiful specific details.”

― Julie Delpy, Before Sunset

I remember moments long after they have passed. I try to appear sensible, but I’m a huge romantic underneath it all. Like Celine, I struggle with guilt, restlessness, and the anguish of wanting something elusive. And like her, I strive to be honest, even if it hurts.

In another life, I could see myself in Paris. Walking by the Seine, notebook in hand, or perhaps sitting at Shakespeare & Co. with cold coffee beside me. I aspire to visit that bookstore one day. Just stand there and breathe in the pages.

Celine isn’t perfect. She’s charmingly imperfect, impetuous, and multifaceted. But she’s also deeply present. She listens and sees people. Perhaps it’s what I admire most about her—she doesn’t run from questions. She asks, even if there are no answers.

“I believe if there’s any kind of God it wouldn’t be in any of us, not you or me but just this little space in between. If there’s any kind of magic in this world it must be in the attempt of understanding someone sharing something. I know, it’s almost impossible to succeed but who cares really? The answer must be in the attempt.”

― Julie Delpy, Before Sunrise & Before Sunset: Two Screenplays

And, if I could become her for a while, I wouldn’t do it for the romance or the cities. I’d choose it because of the way she continues to ask, feel, and try—even when the answers are ambiguous and love falters.

That is exactly what I’m hoping for as well.

To keep on walking.
To keep on asking.
To keep on becoming.

On Owning the Sacred Flesh & Plus-Size Olympians

Daily writing prompt

What Olympic sports do you enjoy watching the most?

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That’s me. I’m not obese but since I’m petite, a little weight gain would be very noticeable and I’m a lot heavier than I used to be. I boxed for fitness to maintain my weight and build muscles; however, since I’m struggling with perimenopausal fatigue, it has been difficult to stay consistent.

Since having children, I’ve spent most of my time learning how to hide my body. I learned to suck in my belly when I walked past mirrors or when I snapped selfies. I wore black to appear slimmer. When eating out, I chose a seat next to a wall so no one could stare at my belly roll. I smiled when someone talked about losing weight, even though internally, I felt diminished for other reasons.

But lately, something is changing. It began slowly, insinuating itself into my thoughts like a new language.

It began with a figurine I read about somewhere on the Internet. The Venus of Willendorf.

She’s only four inches tall, carved from oolitic limestone more than 25,000 years ago. Her breasts are full, her belly rotund, her hips wide. She has no face, but that doesn’t matter because she represents everything I felt insecure about.

Scholars have proposed various interpretations for her purpose—fertility symbolism, a goddess, or an idealized female form.

She looked like me, though I’m not as chubby. And for the first time, that didn’t feel like an insult. She somehow validated me after years of shame and “before” pictures had silenced me.

But the Venus of Willendorf wasn’t the only one.

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There are others like her found across Europe. These Venus figurines were carved from stone, bone, or ivory; their bodies were voluptuous, soft, and round.

Venus of Laussel—holding a cornucopia as if commanding attention.
The Black Venus of Dolní Věstonice—dark and earthy and one of the oldest known ceramic figures.
Venus of Hohle Fels—she was worn as a pendant. Her legs widely apart, flaunting her exaggerated vulva.
The Seated Woman of Çatalhöyük—she rested on her throne like a supreme ruler.
The Fat Court Lady of ancient China—elegant in her defiance of slim ideals.

Each of them is a declaration of what womanhood looked like—and what it still looks like today.

I am Iban. My ancestors were women who moved with strength and dignity. They never counted calories. They planted paddy, fished in the river, foraged for food, carried firewood, and cooked over open flames. Their bodies were lean, skin tanned, breasts bared. Their bodies were shaped for survival.

Obesity is a modern thing. It’s often a byproduct of modern conveniences like fast food, desk jobs, and little exercise. Many modern Iban women are overweight—some from young, and some after motherhood. I was never overweight until I had children. And then my body changed in ways I couldn’t control.

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My belly stretched, my skin thinned, my hormones fluctuated, and my fatigue made it difficult to exercise regularly.

And with those changes came something crueler—self-hate.

I started to avoid mirrors altogether. I admired other plus-size women who carried their softness with confidence. I thought they were beautiful and sexy. However, that admiration never extended inward.

But Venus is opening my eyes to the truth: my worth is not defined by my body. She doesn’t ask to be smaller or apologize for taking up space. She was carved by people who believed she was sacred and to be revered.

Perhaps this belly, bearing life, surgery scars, and years of shame, merits a sacred touch. Maybe these dimpled thighs still deserve to be kissed. Maybe my body is a home to return to—and not a failure or an embarrassment.

But the Venus figurines weren’t the only ones teaching me to love myself again.

Maybe it’s also the man who sees me with undiluted devotion. He who touches my body tenderly before dawn. He who tells me I’m beautiful when I can’t bear to look in the mirror. His love—ever so tender, constant, and full of reverence—has become the mirror I trust the most. In his eyes, I’m not broken but whole.

The glorious Olympian weightlifter, Sarah Robles. Image source.

Lately, I’ve even found myself moved by things I never paid attention to before—like Olympic weightlifting. I’ve never been big on sports, but when it comes to the Olympics or Paralympics, I always make sure to follow events like badminton, boxing, diving, and weightlifting. Badminton is a national love in Malaysia, especially since some of the world’s top players are Malaysian. As for diving and weightlifting, we have incredible athletes who come from my own home state of Sarawak.

But what truly strikes me are the women weightlifters. These plus-size Olympians don’t get the credit they deserve. The world tends to picture women Olympians as thin-waisted, with sculpted abs and long, lean legs. But what about the women who lift more than twice their weight? What about Sarah Robles, Emily Campbell, Holley Mangold, Li Wenwen, and so many others?

They are powerful, confident, and glorious. These beautiful Olympians remind me that strength does not look just one way. It comes in every size and shape.

I’m still learning, still grieving the body I used to have. I’m learning to be grateful, to appreciate the body that has endured trauma—and survived. I’m done hiding because I’ve looked into the past, and I saw Venus there. And in her and his gaze, I truly saw myself—beautiful and worthy.

And here’s a poem I wrote to accompany this post.

Venus

This belly
needs a tuck—
wrinkled, stretched,
after birthing our
warren of rabbits.
It’s a map of every time I broke
but kept going—
still, it asks to be kissed.

This skin—
salted, soft, and scratched
by fingers that fed, held, bled—
still dares to shimmer.

I am not
a before,
or an after.
I am the altar
where you kneel
at my temple,
again and again,
falling apart in my hands.

A Gentle Offering to the Quiet Ones

Daily writing prompt

How would you improve your community?

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I don’t have a community in the traditional sense. There’s no physical space to which I belong where people gather on a regular basis to exchange pleasantries and check in on one another. However, I have a discreet online presence where I build a slow-growing digital connection through words, art, and vulnerability.

If I could improve any community, it would be the invisible one. Women who write in the darkness. The silent creatives. Mothers who are stretched thin. Those who carry shame in their bodies, fear in their voices, and tenderness that they rarely express.

I want to spread gentleness where the world has been harsh.

I hope that my honest, imperfect, emotionally raw writing may help others feel less alone. They can breathe a bit better knowing that someone else understands how they feel. I aim to create a body of work that not only informs but also offers understanding. I want it to be a place where truth may exist unpolished.

My poetry, art, blog posts, essays, and even my online presence aren’t intended to impress. They are invitations to everyone to slow down, to feel, and to remember.

I come from a culture that seldom discusses grief, shame, or women’s private lives. By sharing my truths, I hope to offer people the freedom to explore their own. I want to be a part of a peaceful movement promoting honesty. It’s a movement in which we say to each other, “You are not broken. You are just human.”

So, how can I improve my community? By showing up with words, with heart, and with everything I used to hide. I don’t set out to fix anyone, but to say:

I see you. I’m still here and I understand.

When I Was Five, I Was Just Trying to Survive 5 Languages

Daily writing prompt

When you were five, what did you want to be when you grew up?

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Anne Sexton, one of my favorite poets. Image source.

I don’t remember what I wanted to be when I was five.

Maybe that’s because nobody asked. Or maybe because the word “ambition” didn’t exist in my world yet. It wasn’t a concept that came naturally to me. At five, I was navigating five languages all at once.

I started kindergarten at five, never dreaming of jobs or what I wanted to be when I grew up. I didn’t see it as something odd back then, but living in a multicultural country, I (and every Malaysian kid) was already exposed to different languages at a young age. My mother tongue was Iban and Malay was the national language. However, I was sent to a Chinese (Mandarin) speaking kindergarten. At the same time, I was learning English, my third language. On top of all that, many of my classmates spoke in another dialect—Sarawak Malay, which sounded nothing like the formal Malay I read in books. At the tender age of five, I was exposed to five different languages or dialects all at once: Iban, Malay, Mandarin, English, and Sarawak Malay.

I was grappling with words. My head was full of unfamiliar sounds, new rules, and foreign grammar. Maybe I didn’t have space for dreams then because I was too busy trying to understand the world through different languages.

Things started to shift when I turned eight. That’s when my mother made me a library card.

I was too young to go to the library on my own, so every couple of weeks, she borrowed two books for me—one in Malay, the other in English. I don’t remember what the first books were, but I remember how it felt—the excitement of holding stories in my hands. This is when I learned to lose myself in other people’s words and slowly began to find my own. I was a voracious reader and continued to devour books after books in the years to come.

I didn’t know I wanted to be a writer until my teens. And even then, it wasn’t ambition—it was longing. Since the age of 10, I had started to write poems and stories on the side. I never imagined it could be more than a hobby. I come from a place where literature isn’t part of daily life, where writing isn’t seen as a real path. Writers, I believed, didn’t make money and there was no future in it. So I studied computing instead because it was practical and could land me a great career—which it did.

But I kept writing. Privately. For fun.

Then the era of the Internet came, and with it, a different kind of freedom. I started blogging in 2008, but when the children came, I had to set it aside to raise them. However, I went back to it in 2017 and wrote actively on a platform for years. I gained a decent following (2000+) and was getting paid for my work. It was a very nice side gig until the platform’s new policy made me rethink my direction. When you were using a platform that wasn’t yours, you had to endure the whims of those in charge. So I started this little home here, in my own corner of the internet.

Since the pandemic, I’ve published four poems in literary journals and am currently working on a novella. I’m writing more poems and submitting them to literary journals for publication.

Writing may not pay the bills, but it pays in ways that matter more. It connects me to myself and gives me the courage to face my truths and share them with the world. Writing fills me in the ways that matter most.

So no, I don’t remember what I wanted to be when I was five.

But maybe I’m becoming it now.

The Loneliness That Lives Inside Love

Daily writing prompt

What’s something most people don’t understand?

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Most people don’t understand that you can love someone deeply, share a life with them, raise children together, sleep side by side every night—and still feel alone.

You still feel alone—not because they don’t love you or they don’t try. It’s because they can’t meet some of your deepest needs. Again, this is not because they’re unwilling or are dense but because that’s not how they’re built. That’s not who they are. You can’t force people to be what they are not.

This post is not meant to bash my husband.

My husband and I had been together for 26 years. That’s a long time to share a life. Throughout our marriage, he carries many burdens. He works hard and often under tremendous pressure. He provides and makes sure we have what we need. The kids and I never lack anything and I see that and never take it for granted. Every time he comes home from work, no matter how exhausted he is, he still smiles and gives me a warm hug. When the kids were little, they would race to the door to greet him. And sometimes they still do, even as teenagers. I know what that kind of weight does to a person—the pressure of being the provider and the silent burden of responsibility.

But I carry a lot of weight too. And most of them are invisible. It’s emotional and mental load. The labor of noticing, of anticipating needs, of asking questions to diffuse stress, soothing tensions, bridging gaps.

People rarely see that part. They think that if a marriage lasts, it must be balanced. But many don’t realize that love doesn’t always mean symmetry.

My husband is a sweet, sweet man. He is not cruel or careless. He simply wasn’t taught how to sit inside discomfort and witness pain without attempting to fix or fleeing from it. He tries in his own way by cracking awkward jokes, physical closeness, showing up with food or spoiling me rotten. And I’ve learned, over the years, to see the love in those things.

But I must be honest and as a writer, confronting my deepest truth is necessary. I want more than physical efforts or gestures. I want to be seen and not just supported. I want conversations that delve deep and not just coexistence. I want someone to meet me at the door of my inner world and not be afraid to come in.

Am I being bitter and writing all these down under the cloak of anonymity? Certainly not. We discussed this many times and he’s admitted he can’t meet me there because he is who he is and not built that way. And I acknowledge and accept him as who he truly is. And with acceptance, there is peace. Because I know I haven’t met all of his needs either. Marriage always goes both ways.

Most people don’t understand that kind of grief. It’s the grief that comes with loving someone who can’t meet you where you are. It’s bittersweet and lonely. That loneliness doesn’t scream—it’s just there, aches, and lingers.

But even within that grief, there is love. There’s kindness, history, forgiveness, effort, sacrifice, and acceptance of all that is good and bad. I love him so much. We are trying. Maybe not always in the same way, but still—we try each and every day.

We both carry weight. His is visible, important, and perhaps measurable in the eyes of the world. Mine is not. And that’s what most people don’t understand.

I wrote this poem to accompany this post. Here you go:

Marriage

I fold the laundry—
his shirts, inside out,
boxers with holes,
T-shirts over-stretched,
but we wear them anyway—
like this marriage—
flawed, warm in its own weather.

My mind jumbled with lists—
he doesn’t see them.

He brings home groceries
but forgets the eggs.
The kale is yellowing on the edges.
When good mood returns
he touches my hip like a question,
but never waits for the answer.

Still, he comes home.

Every night,
hanging his silence next to mine.
We sit.
We eat.
Scroll through our newsfeed.

I carry the emotional X-rays,
the careful calibration of my moods
to his weather.

But he carries things too—
numbers, bills,
the fear of shame
of not being the man
his father never taught him to be.

We are not broken,
only bruised by expectation.

And still,
he holds the child when I break,
warms the bed before I slip in.
Calls me “babe”.
In return,
I still reach for his length
to soothe myself to sleep.

So no—
I don’t need rescue.
This is the truthful
opening of the hearts
of two people
carrying what they can.

He lifts the roof.
I hold the floor.

And in the middle,
we meet.

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When I Am an Older Woman, I Shall Continue to Write with AI

Daily writing prompt

How has technology changed your job?

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I know my title is going to ruffle some feathers, but hear me out.

“When I am an old woman, I shall wear purple…” Jenny Joseph wrote these words in her best-loved poem, Warning. She wrote it as a form of rebellion and a declaration that she no longer needed permission to be who she is. She used the poem to assert her freedom to live, dress, and speak on her own terms.

I found this poem after stumbling upon a video of Helena Bonham Carter reading it.

As someone in her late 40s, I think about that poem more often these days. No, I don’t feel old (well, slightly). I’m no spring chicken anymore, but I think of that poem because I feel done. Done asking for permission, done explaining myself, done seeking validation—to and from anyone. This sentiment is especially true when it comes to how I write.

Here is my declaration: I use AI, and I am not ashamed of it.

I’ve written about this before—here—when I discussed the growing tendency to shame people for using AI in their creative work. I’ve watched from the sidelines as creatives everywhere bickered among themselves about who is original versus who is not (read: cheaters). Right versus wrong.

It’s as if we’re all secretly cheating on some literary or art exam, as if the tools we use somehow invalidate the core essence or soul of what we’re trying to say or illustrate.

Let me be clear: I don’t condone copying and pasting from a chatbot and claiming it as your own. That’s not my message. I advocate for the ethical use of AI—as a thinking partner, a sounding board, a tool that helps me do the work I’ve always done, just faster and more efficiently.

I’m a portrait artist too. This is one of my past works.

AI helps me brainstorm. It guides me in structuring my ideas, refining my voice, and clarifying my points. It helps me generate new angles I might have overlooked when I’m struggling with perimenopausal brain fog. AI also reminds me to be grateful that I live in an era where I have access to high-tech tools and that my creativity doesn’t have to work alone.

Could I do all these things without AI? Absolutely. But it would take me days. And often, time is a luxury I can’t afford—not with work, family, responsibilities, and a thousand other things that make up my life. I’ve written this before and I’m repeating it again:

AI is helping more people to express themselves than ever before. Why are we writing? We write to express our emotions, share stories, and communicate ideas. I enjoy writing, and I do so on a daily basis. I want everyone to have that right and that joy, regardless of their circumstances. We can’t all go on long writing retreats by the sea, with our spouses pouring us delicious cups of coffee. The reality for most of us is that writing can be difficult. Maybe we have kids tugging at our clothes, maybe we’re exhausted from a full-time job, maybe we didn’t have great opportunities in school. Maybe English isn’t our first language—like me, an indigenous woman from an obscure tribe in Borneo—or maybe we’re fighting dyslexia, ADHD, or arthritis just to get the words on the page.

So I use what’s available, with intention and discernment. And I keep writing and making art.

AI is a tool, just like Photoshop is to photographers. No one accuses a skilled photographer of cheating when they enhance their work using Photoshop. The tool doesn’t make the art, but it helps bring the artist’s vision to life. It’s the same with me. I brainstorm and discuss my ideas with a chatbot (ChatGPT, Gemini, DeepSeek) before writing my own work. Then I refine it using tools like QuillBot or Grammarly. Others might prefer ProWriting Aid. These are just part of the process—like spellcheck, revision, or editing.

To my fellow middle-aged friends—especially those of us who’ve lived long enough to know what we want but are still figuring out how to say it—don’t be afraid of AI or feel ashamed of using it. Never let someone else’s discomfort dictate how you create. We have to speak boldly, not shrink.

The truth is, AI is here to stay. We can’t put it back in the box and pretend it doesn’t exist. There is no going back to a world before it. And if you can’t go against it, make it your ally. Use it wisely, and with integrity.

That’s what Jenny Joseph was really talking about, wasn’t she? The unapologetic freedom.

When I am an older woman—well, older than I am now—I shall continue to write with AI. I shall ignore the gatekeepers and the purists. I shall write freely, fiercely, authentically, and without shame. And I shall wear purple.

Just because I can.

I handwrote all of my writing, including this blog post, before editing it using QuillBot.

The Word He Chose for Me

Daily writing prompt

What is one word that describes you?

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I’ve never been able to describe myself in just one word. Maybe because I am too many things at once. Or maybe because I don’t see myself the way others do. The way I feel changes depending on the circumstances in my life, and often these circumstances involve family and those I hold dear. My feelings also shift depending on the things that weigh heavily on my mind. They could be anything—the weather, financial challenges, the news, or health issues. Some days, I am quiet and contemplative. Other days, I am restless with anxiety, burning with the need to create, to write, or to complete whatever in my to-do list. How could I ever reduce myself to a single word?

As an INFJ, I am made of many layers, each one revealing itself to different people in different ways. To some, I am reserved and intense. To others, I am something else entirely. I exist in fragments—never fully visible all at once. Perhaps that’s why I struggle to define myself. I am never just one thing.

So I asked him.

One word that describes me without hesitation. I want him to tell me the first thing that comes to mind when he thinks of me.

The room is quiet. The late afternoon light is slipping through the curtains and spilling across the floorboards. It illuminates the dust dancing in the air. The breeze blows the curtain gently, playing with the edge, lifting it, and letting it fall. It cools down my skin where the sweat still clings. His chest rises and falls under my cheek. The sheets lie twisted. Half are on the floor, while the remaining ones are still clinging to us.

I don’t know why I ask, but the question comes out before I can stop them.

“Tell me. One word only. What’s one word to describe me?”

He pauses for a second. “Unforgettable.”

I didn’t expect that. I don’t move or look up. I let it sink into me before curiosity bubbles up.

“Why?”

“Because once someone knows you, they can’t go back to a time before you.”

The curtain lifts again. The breeze is brushing over us. His hand moves to my back, caressing. The light is fading now. I close my eyes and press my cheek closer to his heart.

Unforgettable.

It caught me off guard because I had never thought of myself that way. I had never thought that I could leave an impression on someone so deeply that the idea of me could never be erased. It made me wonder how much of myself I have left behind—in the places I’ve been, in the people I’ve met and loved. It made me question if I truly see my worth and accept and love myself as I truly am.

We all go through many things in life that alter our perceptions of ourselves. And our brains have ‘negativity bias,’ where they are wired to process negative information more intensely than positive ones. So it is safe to say we internalized unflattering things about ourselves, including lies, more than our good qualities.

And maybe other people see us differently than how we perceive ourselves. And maybe that’s the tragedy of it—we spend our lives searching for the words to best describe ourselves when all along we are already leaving our impact in ways we don’t even realize.

Unforgettable is not a word I would have chosen for myself. But maybe he is right after all.

The Truth Hurts, But It Heals

Writing requires an intimacy few are ready for. To write with vulnerability on the page is to bare your soul, to peel back what protects you, to expose the raw truths of your life, some of which you may not, in fact, fully grasp yourself. It’s frightening, messy, and gut-wrenchingly human. But instead, it is that vulnerability that makes writing not just words on a page but a lifeline that connects us to other people. This is the fundamental truth of vulnerability that enables stories to resonate, yet achieving it is not effortless.

For the majority of us, the fear of being judged is ever present. Vulnerability means revealing your fears, desires, and truths—and thus relinquishing control over how others see you. You are declaring to the world, “This is who I am,” and inviting the world to respond. Do they embrace you, or do they consider your words mere piffle and your truths undesirable? This fear silences many writers, imprisoning their deepest truths.

“Write what disturbs you, what you fear, what you have not been willing to speak about. Be willing to be split open.” ~ Natalie Goldberg

I know this fear very well because I am still struggling with it. And I want to dig deep; I want to uncover what is beneath the surface. But whenever I come close to it, I waver. What happens if I face judgment? What if what I expose is too much? And yet, I also recognized that my writing without vulnerability will never touch the depths I so admire in others.

Recently, I wrote in my journal about this struggle, attempting to give shape to my thoughts. Here is an excerpt:

I have a muse, and I don’t know how long this affair with him will last. Let’s call him a “he.” He has inspired me in ways I never anticipated, uncovering memories and stories I had buried deep within myself for nearly 30 years. These memories are ripe with potential, rich material for my writing. But they are also deeply personal. Writing them down makes me feel exposed, as if I’ve peeled back the protective layers I’ve spent decades building.

For so long, I felt compelled to bury these memories, weighed down by a profound sense of shame. Even though many of these experiences were beautiful in their time, I couldn’t separate them from the shame I carried. Now, as I write them down one by one, I’m finally allowing myself to face them. If you ever read these stories, you may think of them as trash, boring, or mediocre. That’s okay. It doesn’t matter. What matters is that I am writing them as honestly as I can. I’m capturing the vulnerability, the yearning, the fear, the exhilaration, the fantasy, the lust, the love. I don’t know where these words will take me, but for now, I’m writing for myself. I’m writing the truth.

Reading back on this, I see how much I have hidden myself over the years. No one taught me to embrace vulnerability. Instead, I learned to shield myself, to appear strong and impervious. But writing requires the opposite. It invites you to soften, to let down your defenses, and to allow the world in. For me, this process resembles the gradual opening of a long-closed door.

Writing with vulnerability is akin to navigating a narrow path. It asks you to face your own truths without self-censorship and resist the temptation to embellish or dramatize for effect. Authentic vulnerability is subtle; it doesn’t shout, “Look at me!” It tells truths—truths that ring true because they’re passionately felt.

And despite this knowledge, vulnerability remains elusive. Writing for myself, as I have done with my journal, is one thing; it’s another to share that writing with others. This process of exposing your vulnerability is analogous to entering a stage naked under the bright glare of a spotlight. It is terrifying, but it is also necessary.

I frequently reflect on my reasons for writing. Do I write to make myself heard, to understand others, or just to connect? Perhaps it’s all three. What I do know is that the writers I admire most are those who are unafraid to be vulnerable. Their words linger, because they have the bravery to speak their truths, however flawed or uncomfortable. This is the kind of writer I aspire to be—one who writes with honesty and heart, one who has enough courage to be exposed.

The process of getting to this level of openness is ongoing. There are days when I feel courageous enough to face my truths and days when I slink back, too scared to face judgment. But every word I write brings me a little closer to that ideal. Vulnerability is not weakness but strength, I tell myself. It’s what makes us human, and it’s what makes writing worth reading.

So here I am, writing my truths, one hesitant word at a time. I don’t know where I’ll go from here, but I do know that I’m finally beginning to embrace the vulnerability that once terrified me. And in doing so, I hope to uncover not only the stories within me but also the courage to share them with the world.

Reflection | On Being Enough As I Am

I spent years believing I had to measure up to something or to someone. Like many people, the idea that I wasn’t good enough was planted early by well-meaning adults who thought comparisons were a form of encouragement. I believe the term was “reverse psychology.” This is especially prevalent in Asian households. Asian parents love comparing their kids to their peers. We have to study hard so we can be at the top of the class or outshine so-and-so’s son or daughter. We have to be more obedient, more successful, and more beautiful. The adults meant well, but what they didn’t realize was that they reinforced the belief that being “enough” is conditional. It’s exhausting. I spent years trying to prove I was enough. But enough for who?

I remember hints of comparison were occasionally discussed among the adults. I was a plain-looking child and didn’t resemble my siblings. My mom was a beauty in her younger days. And there was I, an awkward, sullen, pimply, tomboyish teenager who always scowled. I wasn’t graceful or dainty; I hated skirts and dresses. I was always wearing sneakers. I believed I was lacking in so many ways. To compensate for my perceived lack, I vowed to excel in school and get good grades—which I did, graduating magna cum laude with a BSc. (Hons) in Information Technology in 2002. And later on career successes and many other achievements. They became the measure of my worth.

After these impressive achievements, did I feel enough? Not even close. When I inevitably fell short, the voice in my head whispered, “See? You’re still not enough.”

It took me well into my 40s to realize that no finish line existed. I wish I could say that I woke up one day and felt instantly enlightened—“Stop this b******t. I am enough as I am!” No. The realization came gradually.

This happened after years of some pretty impressive achievements—publishing books, radio interviews, being featured in magazines and a newspaper, collaborating on projects with artists worldwide, and publishing my poems. Despite all of that, I always felt a huge void in my heart because I felt I needed to achieve more and more things in life. No final achievement or external approval would ever silence the feeling of not being enough. Even when I reached milestones, the goalposts moved. Even when I improved, it still wasn’t enough—because the world always demands more. I was completely burned out. I had reached my lowest point and required months of counseling to achieve a breakthrough. Writing and making art helped. I channeled my frustrations and heartbreak into my work.

Then I quit.

I quit chasing an undefined version of “more.” I quit tying my worth to productivity, praise, validation, or comparisons. Along with that decision, I asked myself, “What if I was enough exactly as I am?”

I started to ask myself, what does being enough mean to me? Not according to the eyes of society, family, or anyone else, but me? This is what I discovered: enough is waking up and existing with all my flaws, my fears, my joys, and my struggles. Enough is embracing my experiences, my voice, my thoughts, my pace, my perspectives, and my opinions—without feeling ashamed and the need for external validation. Enough is understanding that I don’t have to prove my worth or anything to anyone because I exist simply as I am, complete as God intended me to be.

It’s a radical shift but a necessary one. And believe me, it doesn’t happen overnight. Some days the negative thoughts return, but I’m learning to meet them with kindness and grace. I keep reminding myself every day, like a mantra—even when I’m unproductive, have no achievements, think lustful thoughts, write explicit fictions, gain weight, have more and more gray hairs, financially struggle, be perimenopausal, not pray or read my Bible, curse, hate, or love—I am still enough.

Change is not sustainable without changing old habits. This includes rewiring my brain to speak kindly to myself. Instead of chastising myself for not doing better, I remind myself, “That was a good experience. You’re learning, and that is enough.” I also started to be mindful of my excuses and my sense of guilt and shame. I stop over-explaining things to people or bending to meet expectations that don’t align with me. And most important of all, I give myself the love, kindness, and grace to be fully human. I am not a robot. I have emotions, I make mistakes, and I get tired. It’s okay if I can’t anymore. I am free to rest without guilt.

There is nothing more exhausting than trying to justify your existence. And nothing more freeing than realizing you never had to. Here is a poem I wrote months ago that encapsulates this whole thing.

Enough

I peel the mask,
layers like sunburned skin—
soft, blistered—beneath
the face forgotten in mirrors.

Naked,
I walk into the jaws of daylight,
each step a confession,
bones rattling truth
like marbles in a jar,
heavy with silence,
weighted with breath.

I wear the scars like medals,
silvered lines map the wars
I never won—
but here,
in the raw air—
I am enough.

I am enough, as I am. And so are you.

Becoming Me | A Journey Through Love, Heritage, and Doubt

Daily writing prompt

What experiences in life helped you grow the most?

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It’s funny how the experiences that change us the most often slip by quietly. There is little fanfare, and we rarely recognize them until much later. However, in retrospect, I can trace my growth to the struggles and the soft, persistent ways life nudged me forward.

I believe it started with loneliness. Growing up, I often felt invisible and alone. I wasn’t the most outgoing, pretty, or popular. I was just…there, among other outstanding siblings and peers. It’s strange, but loneliness formed the foundation of who I am now. It taught me to listen to both myself and others. It taught me to be more observant and sensitive to details that most people overlook, which I now use in my art and writing.

Then later came love. It was messy, imperfect, but glorious nonetheless. My relationship with my husband—my lover—has been one of my biggest teachers. We’re opposites in so many ways, and those differences have forced me to stretch, to compromise, and to forgive. Being married this long (two decades), going through joys, heartbreaks, financial strains, and raising kids has all been a daily practice of choosing love, even when it’s hard. Especially when it’s hard.

However, I believe that reconnecting with my Iban roots has been the most transforming experience for me. For a long time, I felt detached from my cultural identity, as if I were witnessing it from afar. It was not intentional. Life was tugging me in different directions. But being a mother changed that. I realized how much I wanted my children to know where they came from. I want them to learn and feel that deep connection I had almost let go of. Teaching them about my Iban heritage has been like teaching myself again by rediscovering the stories, the poetry, and the parts of me I had tucked away.

I am currently working on a collection of poems that explores my Iban roots and traditions, weaving together memories, folklore, and the cultural theme that continues to shape who I am today.

And then there’s the lifetime of inner journey: the insecurities, the doubts, and the fear of not being good enough. Those have been some of my hardest teachers. I’ve struggled with impostor syndrome more times than I can remember, particularly when it comes to my art and writing. Moments such as being harshly criticized for lack of originality, feeling misunderstood, or being dismissed had a deep effect on me. But these experiences also pushed me to create a space where I feel free without fear of judgment, like starting this blog.

All of these experiences—loneliness, love, the return to my Iban roots, and issues with self-doubt—have influenced me the most. These experiences didn’t come with shiny lessons, but they taught me to be more compassionate, patient, and a little kinder to myself.

I’m still growing and figuring things out. But if there’s one thing I’ve learned, it’s that growth doesn’t always happen in the big, loud moments. Sometimes it is in the moments you least expect, gently nudging you forward, one tentative step at a time.