Learning to Think for Myself

I used to think that this question would have a straightforward answer. If I were to answer directly without much thought, I would probably say, “Read more, write more, and get more exercise.” These pursuits are easily slotted into a daily routine. However, my answer doesn’t seem as solid lately.

What I wish I could do more every day is to live without that continual feeling of pressure in the background. There is always this subtle feeling that I should be accomplishing more, learning faster, doing things right, or staying within particular boundaries that I didn’t set for myself.

I began to notice how that pressure changed the way I think. For years, the teachings and expectations of the church shaped the way I thought. I read selectively and questioned things carefully. My curiosity came with hesitation, as though there were boundaries I wasn’t meant to cross. I didn’t see it as pressure back then. I thought I was just being responsible and doing the right thing to safeguard my faith.

Things are clearer to me now that I’m no longer coming to church. However, the difference is very subtle and happens in little things. When I pick up a book, I don’t feel the need to examine if it aligns with my Christian values. I can entertain an idea without immediately judging its worth. I can linger in uncertainty, not feeling the pressure to have an answer on the spot.

I see it in my reading and writing. I can tell since my thoughts move more slowly and aren’t as occupied. I also have a softness that I didn’t have previously. I don’t condemn myself as quickly as I used to. I feel less inclined to turn every mistake into something that needs to be fixed right away. I can accept my flaws without feeling like I’ve failed.

The process is still new. I’m still in the early stages. There are times when I go back into old habits, like when I start to think in ways that I’ve been taught in church for years. But unlike before, now I have the awareness and I can stop the thought or pattern before it escalates even further. And with time, I believe I can unlearn the patterns that were shaped during those years in the church.

This ability to think and live with a sense of ownership is what I desire more of every day. I want to read without guilt. I want to ask questions without being afraid. I want to make decisions based on understanding rather than obligation. But I can’t force it into a schedule or keep track of it all the time. From the outside, it appears unproductive because it doesn’t always show results right away. However, it changes the texture of my day because the changes are internal. It gives me a sense of stability. It also gives me a peaceful mind because I don’t have to prove or justify anything.

And in that peace, I notice that I am more present in what I am already doing, like cooking, reading, writing, or being with my family, without feeling the need to be somewhere else. Like I said, the change is internal and happens slowly. Some days I notice it more than others. Some days I lose it and have to find my way back. But when it’s there, even briefly, the day feels a lot different.

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.

Atsuko Watanabe and the Complications of Simple Living

In a previous post called The Essence of a Smaller Life, I wrote about reading Andy Couturier’s The Abundance of Less and how I became interested in the quiet lives of the people he profiles. The book talks about people in rural Japan who have chosen to live outside of the fast pace and high expectations of modern economic life. Their stories describe lives with less stress, fewer goals, and more focus on the rhythms of daily life.

But as I kept reading, one chapter triggered me in ways I didn’t expect. It was the chapter about Atsuko Watanabe, an environmental activist whose views on success, recognition, and the purpose of life challenged me rather than inspired me. At one point in the interview, she says that becoming famous, making money from painting (art), or winning prizes is not worth anything. She says that life isn’t about worrying about what other people think of you. The statement stuck with me.

It sounded absolute and almost dismissive. But I also reminded myself that the interview took place in the 1990s, long before the internet and social media changed how recognition and visibility operate today. The first edition of The Abundance of Less came out in 2010, and the second edition came out in 2017. Reading her words decades later offers a fresh perspective on their impact.

Watanabe’s philosophy is clear. She doesn’t believe in the common measures of success, like getting awards, being popular, and having financial achievement. Instead, she organizes her life around activism, getting involved in her community, and living by ethical standards. I admit that her choice demonstrates integrity; however, living by principles instead of seeking social rewards requires faith or strong conviction.

Even though I disagree with some of the things she said, I could relate to her desire for time to reflect, read, learn, and make art. Those are values that are important to me. I also found myself admiring another aspect of her life. As a Catholic living in rural Japan, Watanabe chose a spiritual path that was uncommon in her surroundings. It takes courage to have that kind of belief. It reminded me of my own complicated relationship with faith as an Iban, even though my path has gone in the opposite direction. But I couldn’t help but push back against the moral certainty in what she said.

From where I stand today, living in a modern city, I see that being part of the larger economy doesn’t always mean wanting to pursue fame or recognition. For a vast majority of people, it’s just the way things are to make a living. Families have to pay off mortgages, debts, and other obligations. Not everything you work on is about getting ahead or improving social standing. A lot of the time, it’s just how we support the people under our care.

Downtown Kuala Lumpur. A daily view for those who work in the city center. Photo taken inside my car heading towards KLCC.

When someone says that fame or recognition is meaningless, it can sound like they are judging people who live differently. A lot of people are just trying to make sense of the situations they have inherited. This chapter also made me think about the bigger idea of “simple living.”

For me, simplicity is not an abstract idea. I am Iban, and many Ibans in Borneo still maintain connections to communal life in longhouses. These communities are often in the rural areas, reachable by rivers, logging roads, or modern roads. Life there is closely tied to the land. People get their food from nature by planting rice, fishing in nearby rivers, and hunting in the jungle. For someone who lives in a city, that way of life might seem peaceful and romantic. It looks like the embodiment of simplicity. But simplicity in that context isn’t necessarily easy.

Early morning mist at my family longhouse in Sarawak, Borneo.

Planting rice under the blazing sun demands grueling physical effort. Hunting and fishing, too, come with their set of risks. In some rivers, crocodiles aren’t baseless rumors; they’re genuine threats. Jungles can harbor venomous snakes and other dangerous creatures. Living in a longhouse requires strength, teamwork, grit, and resilience. While many consider it a fulfilling way of life, it’s not something one casually adopts because it seems attractive.

You see, living simply isn’t always simple at all. It requires particular conditions like having access to land, strong ties to the community, and willingness to endure hardship and inconvenience. The philosophy can be difficult to follow, and sometimes even impossible, without those conditions.

In one way, I agree with Watanabe. She says that this kind of life might be good for someone who doesn’t mind being inconvenienced. There is truth in that observation. Living closer to the land often means accepting limits that modern city life tries to eliminate.

What makes me hesitate is the moral certainty that sometimes comes with these ideals. When simplicity is seen as the best way to live, it ignores the things that affect other people’s choices. When someone has already left the systems that make those goals necessary for others, it’s easy to reject recognition and material success. Many people are not chasing fame or recognition. They are simply doing their best to meet the responsibilities of their lives.

I doubt that simplicity is something that only exists in rural areas or outside of modern systems. I see it as something more personal and not necessarily needing to be away from our current situation. It is how we decide what is worth our time. It is also how we keep our lives from getting too complex and beyond control and how we stay connected to what matters even when we are stuck in places we can’t easily escape. I personally believe that simplicity today doesn’t mean completely shutting yourself off from the modern world and figuring out how to live with purpose in it.

Where Confidence Lives

Today’s writing prompt asks, “Who is the most confident person you know?” I paused reading it for a moment. The question assumes the existence of absolute confidence, as though an individual could navigate life with complete confidence in every circumstance. I’ve never met anyone like that. Based on what I’ve seen, confidence only shows up in some places. It comes from a mix of experience, knowledge, and familiarity. Even the smartest person can get confused outside of those areas.

A surgeon might seem calm and sure of themself in the operating room, but they might feel out of place in a room full of strangers. A history professor may not know what to say when asked about something that isn’t in their field. If you spend enough time with someone, even if they seem sure of themselves, you might see them show signs of doubt.

Knowing your subject well is a big part of confidence. When someone has been studying or practicing something for a long time, it’s clear that they know what they’re doing. They are more calm and they tend to not rush to fill silence or insist that they are right. They simply speak from their knowledge and experience.

Another form of confidence is performed. Some people project confidence loudly and often talk quickly and with authority about many things. It can look real from a distance but it becomes clear over time that the performance is based on very little knowledge. So what is the difference between the two? Real confidence doesn’t need to be reinforced all the time. It doesn’t need outside validation or praise.

When I write about Iban culture, I sometimes think about this. Because I grew up in that world, I feel confident I can talk about it in some ways. I experienced the culture instead of merely reading about it. I remember the stories told by the elders, things like the forest, the spirits, and the land. These things form a background that is difficult to separate from everyday life. But that doesn’t mean I understand everything about being Iban.

The culture is much bigger than what one person has experienced. It holds memories from many generations and traditions that had been passed down for a long time before written records existed. And customs or practices that vary from one region to another. Even now, I still come across stories, beliefs, and historical facts that I didn’t know before.

Some discoveries come through books written by researchers. At other times they also appear in conversations with older relatives who remember things that were never written down. Sometimes they emerge as fragments of memory that return out of the blue. These moments show that being a part of a culture doesn’t mean you know everything about it. It means starting the journey from the inside and experiencing it firsthand.

That’s where my confidence lies when I write about these things. It is not the confidence of someone who thinks they know everything about the subject. It’s the knowledge of someone who has lived in a certain world long enough to see its patterns, even though they know that most of it is still out of reach.

It seems that this kind of partial confidence is everywhere. People go through life with small areas of certainty and much larger areas of learning around them. Nobody is confident about everything in life. Most of us just know where our footing feels steady and where it does not.

On Heavy Feelings and Small Choices

Negative feelings often come and go, but some stay longer than we expect. I recently went through one of those stretches. It wasn’t just one feeling; it was a mix of many, including grief, boredom, loneliness, anger, and a silent existential restlessness that lasted longer than I anticipated. None of these feelings came on suddenly. They built up over time until I realized I had been sitting with them for days.

During these times, it’s easy for the mind to spiral out of control. It’s easy to give in to the heaviness and let despair take over the narrative. I have learned that negative feelings don’t just go away on their own. Sometimes they need an intentional response.

I often return to creativity first. I start with little things, like working on my zines, drawing, and making art cards. Working with my hands helps me get my thoughts back in order. It reminds me that even when life is unpredictable, something meaningful can still be created.

Watching documentaries is another thing that helps me when I’m feeling down. I often go to YouTube and watch stories about other places in the world and the lives of the people who live there. I recently watched several short documentaries about loneliness and social isolation in Japan. These documentaries made me reflect about how the feelings or struggles that we don’t talk about with others are often part of a bigger human experience.

That realization makes me think about my own experience in a different way. It helps me feel less alone in how I feel. It changes how I see things. When we step outside of our own thoughts and look at the world around us, our internal narrative becomes less intense and being curious opens up other options.

Those documentaries made me think of something else as well. There are many choices in life. I understand that clinical depression is real and that many people have to deal with it. Some of my own emotional states also change based on the choices I make. I have the option to create, learn, explore, or connect with others. If you stay in despair, it can become a habit that is difficult to break.

This doesn’t mean ignoring pain or pretending everything is fine. It means recognizing that even when things are hard, we can still respond in small ways. Some of these responses might be as simple as making art, writing a few lines in your journal, watching a thoughtful documentary, or getting in touch with a group of people who have similar interests.

The feelings may still be there, but they don’t have to decide our direction. When we have negative feelings, we can still choose how to deal with them. Even when things are difficult, we still have small choices that may gradually alter our course.

Are Iban Superstitious?

Embuas (banded kingfisher), one of the Iban’s omen bird. Photo taken at the Borneo Cultures Museum.

People sometimes ask whether I am superstitious. I never know how to answer that question. I grew up Iban in Sarawak, where the stories people carry about the world are different from those taught in textbooks. And these stories often include elements that some might consider superstitious. In many conversations today, the word “superstition” is used to describe beliefs that seem irrational or outdated. It implies a bygone era and a belief system that should be abandoned.

But the word doesn’t fit when I think about the beliefs I heard as a child growing up in Sarawak. Among the Iban, there was once a system of augury known as “beburong.” Certain birds were believed to carry messages from the spirit world. The Iban believed that these birds had a special purpose. People paid close attention to their calls, and the direction of the bird’s flight was important. People listened to them when deciding whether to begin a journey, clear land for farming, or carry out other important tasks such as headhunting.

These practices were linked to Sengalang Burong, a powerful god associated with war and omen birds. Iban people believed that he and his children watched over human affairs through the voices of these birds. The forest was never silent because every sound had a meaning. From the outside, it looks like superstition. People who depend on data, evidence, and measurable results find it hard to believe that birds could help individuals make important decisions.

The Iban once lived very closely with the land. Rivers determined travel. Forests provided food, medicine, and shelter. Paying attention to patterns in nature was part of daily life and also part of survival.

I don’t try to figure out if the birds really brought messages from the spirit world. These beliefs shaped how people saw the world and how they understood their connection to nature and the spiritual meaning of their surroundings. They taught people to pay attention and reminded communities that humans and the land that supported them were not separate.

Most Iban communities no longer depend on omens from birds. Electricity and internet connections power the longhouses that once practiced these beliefs. Younger generations leave for cities, universities, and office jobs. The old systems of interpretation are fading, and many people now refer to them as cultural history. However, the stories remain.

When elders talk about encountering certain birds, they do so with the same calm seriousness they would use to talk about a change in the weather or the flow of a river. These memories are not embarrassing for the elders to share. They are just a part of how earlier generations understood their lives.

Modern language often labels such beliefs as superstition. The word closes the conversation quickly, as if discussing it were shameful or in conflict with Abrahamic religious beliefs. It suggests that there is nothing more to examine. But as I grow older, I feel less certain about dismissing things so easily.

Beburong is part of my cultural heritage, but I never relied on omen birds to guide my decisions. Now, my days are filled with work, art, writing, family obligations, and the normal routines of modern life. But when I’m walking outdoors and hear certain birds, those beliefs return to my mind. It doesn’t ask for faith. It only reminds me that there were once other ways of listening to the world.

Learning to Trust My Own Mind

As I write this, the world feels tense and unstable. The escalating conflict involving the United States, Israel, and Iran weighs heavily on many of us watching from afar. I condemn war, bombing, and any form of oppression, because civilians absorb the damage. I do not support governments that enable violence, nor leaders who remain in power to control their people indefinitely. None of these positions justify harm. My thoughts are with the ordinary families, the displaced, the children, the elderly, and even the animals whose lives are disrupted or ended by decisions they did not make.

To be honest, writing this post is challenging for me, as it requires me to acknowledge some shortcomings and feelings of shame stemming from my past experiences with the church. For those who read my blog regularly, you might notice that I mentioned deconstructing my Christian faith and leaving the church several months ago. However, as a writer, I believe I should not only write about the rosy parts of life but also the ugly ones. So what experiences in life helped me grow the most?

Disorientation, not achievement or visible milestones, was what helped me grow the most. Five years ago, I thought I would fall apart without the church. I thought I needed other people to help me make important decisions. I used to think that being obedient would keep me safe. If I questioned advice given by church members or made a different choice, I thought something was wrong with me. I told myself I was hardheaded, rebellious, proud, and even divisive. I didn’t hear those labels yelled at me every day, but they were implied often enough that I absorbed them.

I kept those words to myself, and slowly, throughout the years, they changed the way I thought about my thoughts. I imagined how other people might see my choices before I made them. I believed that being humble meant following the rules, and I assumed that having doubts meant being morally weak. And yes, when you spend years in a highly controlled environment, you will have these toxic thinking patterns. I haven’t decided to write about it yet because I’m still processing my experiences over the last 20 years.

If I were being honest, I didn’t feel courageous leaving the church. In fact, it made me feel unstable. For a while, I thought things would fall apart and I waited for proof that I couldn’t steer my life without guidance from the church. I believed if I didn’t get regular feedback or advice, I would make mistakes. I closely monitored myself, expecting to fail.

Instead, something happened gradually. I started making decisions without checking with anyone first. I started with minor decisions and worked my way up to bigger ones. My judgment was correct. I wasn’t being careless or crazy, and I wasn’t falling apart. The world didn’t end because I trusted my own judgment.

Without constant guidance, I had to pay more attention to myself. I had to distinguish between fear and discernment. I had to deal with uncertainty without immediately looking for reassurance. The process was uncomfortable, and it made me realize that a lot of my previous obedience was based on fear rather than belief in Christian conviction.

Another area that helped me grow the most is being a mother. It changed me in ways I didn’t expect. It took a lot of strength to raise kids while dealing with fatigue, migraines, and changing health. This tedious work of mothering often happened in silence and without an audience. Perseverance didn’t happen overnight. I had to build it slowly throughout the years and without drama. Being a responsible parent meant making choices even when I wasn’t sure what to do.

Financial instability made things even worse. It showed me how much of my hesitation was due to fear of being wrong. When income is uncertain, every choice feels amplified. As time went on, I learned that instability doesn’t always mean you’re not good at what you do. It just means you are in a hard season, and the seasons will change.

However, the most significant change was internal. I no longer believe that being independent meant being rebellious. I stopped thinking that disagreeing was a sign of moral failure. I no longer believe that valid guidance must come from a single authority or religion. These days, I trust my reasoning with steadiness instead of pride or certainty.

The Essence of a Smaller Life

Daily writing prompt

If you could be someone else for a day, who would you be, and why?

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I have been reading The Abundance of Less by Andy Couturier. I’m only on the first few chapters, but the people he writes about stay with me long after I’ve put the book down. They live in the countryside of Japan, far away from the fast pace of cities and the demands of the digital world. The scenery isn’t what draws me in. What attracts me is how gracefully they go about their days. For anyone curious about the author’s thinking, his interview with Kyoto Journal offers a thoughtful look into the ideas behind the book: https://kyotojournal.org/conversations/making-a-life-not-merely-a-living/#top

Here are some of the people featured in this book:

San Oizumi is a potter who makes tea bowls, builds small structures, and allows his work to take the time it needs. His life unfolds at its own pace, shaped by intentional choices rather than external pressure.

Osamu Nakamura is a woodblock craftsman who carves slowly and on purpose keeps his world small. He rereads the same books for years. He commits to depth and does so quietly.

Atsuko Watanabe is an activist and mother who plans her days around what she can accommodate, not what she accumulates.

Kogan Murata, a Zen practitioner, sings the same songs repeatedly to make him more at ease with himself.

The artist Akira Ito studies ordinary objects and folk art. He sees the beauty in the work of unknown hands and in the little things that life leaves behind.

Gufu Watanabe, a traveler and journal keeper, writes down mundane things like a meal, a corner of a room, or the light on a plant just because they are there.

Koichi Yamashita, the gardener, understands how long one meal actually takes when you follow its beginnings back to the soil. Everything slows when traced back to its true starting point.

And throughout his life, Masanori Oe keeps asking the same questions, letting the act of asking change him instead of expecting clear answers.

They all live in different ways, but there is something that connects them. That connection doesn’t come from a common rule or way of thinking. It is a way of being with one’s own life. Their choices are calm and measured. They follow a rhythm that is shaped by staying focused. Everyone has a small world inside them, and their interior lives feel wide.

As I read, I have no desire to replace my life with theirs. What I want is the core of their choices: a way to get through the day without rushing to the next thing. It is a way of working that doesn’t require you to prove the worth of your work or put on a show for anyone else. I am drawn to the inner posture that lies beneath their rural setting.

I live in a city where I am surrounded by noise and responsibilities. My days are shaped by family, work, and all the challenges of living in a city. Sometimes I experience something similar to what these people embody, like when I go back to writing or my art without the need to explain myself. I sense it when I commit to my small routines and when I choose to keep my world manageable. The external environment may be different, but the intention seems to be the same.

The essence I admire exists independently of place. It has more to do with how time is held, what is noticed, and what is allowed to matter. I have no intention of becoming these people. A quieter rhythm has begun to take shape in my days, influencing how I move through the life I already inhabit.

Teaching Myself How to Be an Artist

The hardest DIY project I’ve ever done was teaching myself how to be an artist. I did not attend art school or take any formal art classes or workshops. I learned by watching YouTube videos, reading books, and continuing to draw or write throughout the years. I learned by drawing and writing badly and taking long breaks before going back to both. Most of the learning happened in solitude, without validation or fanfare.

For a long time, I thought of this as just something I kept doing regardless of the outcome. I drew, I wrote, and when life got too overwhelming, I stopped. Then I began again. Some tries took years to happen and every time I return to them, it always feels unnatural. My hands were stiff and my confidence weakened. I had to learn again how to sit still, pay attention, and believe that the work would eventually show me what it needed.

There were no external ways to measure progress without formal training. There were no grades or teachers to tell me if something worked. I had to decide when a piece was done, or if it had to be abandoned, or simply put aside. It wasn’t easy to make that kind of choice. It took me a long time to learn that, and I had to do it over and over again. I learned how to deal with uncertainty without rushing to fix anything.

The work grew over time to include more than just individual pieces. Instead of just adding to my writing, I learned how to edit existing pieces. I learned how to put together drawings, poems, and pieces of writing to become finished products. Sometimes I reworked my drawings or writings or redid them again if I wasn’t pleased with the results.

This project of teaching myself art happened at the same time as regular life. I have kids to raise, bills to pay, and a social life to attend to. At times, responsibilities, fatigue, and distractions pushed the art project to the periphery of my life. I often thought during those times that I had lost the drive I used to have. However, upon my return, I discovered that my skills and instincts remained intact, ready for action. When I resumed, the work started up again even if I encountered hiccups.

Teaching myself also meant I had to work within limits. I didn’t always have the vocabulary others had. I worked more slowly than others who had help or extra resources. I learned through repetition rather than progression. Sometimes I kept going back to the same themes for years and that used to bother me. However, I finally gave up on trying to change that pattern. I accepted that repetition turned into a way to learn instead of a sign of failure.

Looking back, the purpose of doing those things was to stick with the process, even when years went by without anyone noticing or championing my work. It was always a lonely pursuit, but the work continued anyway. It always changed with the seasons of life. I’m still teaching myself to this day, decades after I started. The methods might have changed, but the practice stays the same. And there is no end to this self-taught project until the day I die. The project goes on as a way of working, gradually evolving, moving forward without ceremony, and being shaped by whatever the day brings.

The Problem With “Should”

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If I could get rid of one word for good, it would be “should.” That word is not rude or offensive. When someone uses it in a sentence, it doesn’t hurt or shock on impact. What gives it power is its subtlety. “Should” sounds innocent and gets overlooked easily. It often comes up in conversations disguised as common sense, advice, or concern. It sounds reasonable and hardly ever raises alarm. However, it changes how people feel about themselves without their knowledge or consent. I have noticed many people say “should” when they talk about how to live, how to feel or respond, and how to move on from something bothering them. Here are some examples:

You should be grateful.

You should know better by now.

You should forgive.

You should stay.

You should want this.

The word has power without needing to explain itself. It makes an assumption without giving any context. When spoken, it compares someone’s current situation to an implied standard. My biggest concern about “should” is how sinister it could be. Like for example, solicited advice can be helpful when it is invited. However, the harm can happen when the advice giver uses “should” to replace the important part, which is to truly listen to the person who asked for advice. When we use “should,” it enters the space before understanding has had time to grow. So you see, it comes with an assumption already in place.

I have heard “should” used most often when people aren’t sure what to do. For example, when someone is grieving or questioning their faith. Other common situations are when someone is worn out, overwhelmed, or unsure of their next step. In those times, “should” makes things less uncomfortable and easier to understand. “Should” gives direction when being patient and thinking things through might be a better option.

The word “should” does something subtle over time. It trains people to monitor themselves all the time and judge their thoughts and feelings against an unseen standard. They start to compare how they feel to what they think they should feel. They also start to compare their needs against what they believe is expected of them.

I’ve seen this happen in religious settings, where “should” is used to make people obey and not question things. I’ve seen it in conversations regarding productivity, where rest is treated as something to be earned and not a necessity. I’ve seen it used abundantly in discussions about relationships that often encouraged someone to be patient and endure instead of drawing firm boundaries. The word “should” adapts easily, and it is often used to control a narrative so it fits the controller.

One reason “should” is hard to challenge is that it often comes with good intentions. The person using it might think they are helping and being sincere. But sincerity and the impact of the word are two different things. They aren’t mutually exclusive. The impact of the word is dependent upon what it forces the listener to disregard, no matter how sincere it is being delivered. When “should” comes into a sentence, the present moment loses its value. What is felt, known, or experienced becomes temporary, like something that needs to be fixed and gotten over with.

I don’t want to replace “should” with another option. I know that certainty is still limited and that expectations still exist even without the word. In life, there will always be choices, obligations, and consequences. To get rid of “should,” we would need a different way of getting our messages across. And that would include empathy, perspectives, thorough explanation, and room for nuance. Without “should,” we would have to say what we actually mean. And we would have to talk about what we really think instead of what we think is supposed to be.

I have learned that that word, “should,” directly contributed to many difficult periods in my life. It was said so many times that I didn’t see how insidious the harm it caused. It drove me to doubt my own timing, my own limits, and also my own instincts. Banning “should” might not make things easier but it could give honesty more room to breathe. Without “should,” it would remove one of the most efficient ways to quietly erase oneself. And of course, without “should,” other ways of relating would have to take its place.

A Season Without Clear Answers

Daily writing prompt

What is the biggest challenge you will face in the next six months?

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When I think about the next six months, I don’t see one defining obstacle. I see a few changes happening at the same time. None of them are dramatic on their own, but when you put them all together, they change how I live my life. The hard part is staying composed when things that used to feel stable start to change.

One of the most significant changes is my relationship with faith. I began deconstructing my faith last year, before leaving the church in early January. For almost twenty years, I have been a member of the same church community. It changed the way I thought, spoke, and saw myself. Leaving happened gradually, without any clear signs or relief. It is a never-ending process of untangling habits, dogmatic beliefs, and expectations that used to seem unquestionable.

I will still be carrying parts of that structure with me in the next few months, even as I try to let go of it. Some days I feel certain about my distance. Some days I feel lost and don’t know what will take the place of what I’ve left behind. The work now is to simply exist without quickly replacing it with another religious system or set of answers. It takes time and requires the ability to deal with unknowns longer than I’m used to.

At the same time, my writing life is expanding. My writing has gone beyond private experimentation. There are ongoing projects now: several zines that need finishing. An Iban heritage poetry collection that I want to publish in May. This blog has become a place I return to regularly, not only when I feel inspired but also because I feel responsible for showing up. It’s something that I expect to do consistently from now on, regardless of the size of the audience or subscribers.

This growth comes with steady demands. It needs discipline without urgency. I have to figure out how much of myself I can give without making the work feel like another source of stress. The work now is to keep a steady pace, even when I want to push myself harder.

There is also a quieter loss that goes along with these changes. I am grieving because someone who was always there for me is no longer there. I didn’t lose them to death. I lost their daily presence, attention, and familiarity. The loss may be subtle but it is persistent. It shows up in little things, like habits that don’t work anymore and thoughts that don’t get a response.

This grief arrives quietly. It doesn’t change life in obvious ways. It fades into the background and changes how things feel on normal days. I’m still doing my job and living my life like any other day. However, a steady awareness of what’s missing, and carrying it without letting it take over everything else, takes a lot of mental power and energy.

These three movements will have a big impact on me in the next six months. A spiritual framework that is transforming. A creative life that needs some order. And a personal loss that lingers and doesn’t resolve neatly. These are the conditions I will be living inside.

I am learning to take all of this in without jumping to conclusions. I’m trying not to make things clear when they aren’t. I won’t give up one part of myself to make another part of me stronger. I’m learning that even when things are uncertain, there can still be stability. Sometimes, stability comes from being present when things aren’t resolved.

I think the next six months will need my attention instead of closure. It will need my restraint and my willingness to keep going even when my internal landscape feels unfamiliar. That’s where I need to keep my focus.