We Don’t Grow Alone | A Lesson from Arashiyama

As I walked toward the bamboo grove, the morning air in Arashiyama was cool against my skin. At forty-nine, I have learned to cherish these quiet hours before the world awakens. I had risen before dawn, leaving my hotel while Kyoto still slept, hoping to find that peace between sleep and waking where the spirit feels most alive.

I am Iban, born in Sarawak, though I have lived away from my homeland for more years than I care to count. My journey has taken me far from my roots. I came to Kyoto for a brief getaway and to seek an elusive urging, perhaps a reminder that I am still connected to something larger than myself.

As I entered the grove, the first thing I noticed was the silence. Then the wind stirred. The rustling of the bamboo stalks, creaking and clicking against one another, filled the air with a sound so distinctive that the Japanese government has named it one of the “100 Soundscapes of Japan.” To me, it sounded like a longhouse at dusk, a murmur of voices blending into one.

The Moso bamboo rose around me, some stalks reaching sixteen meters toward the sky. I walked slowly along the Chikurin-no-Komichi, the main path that runs for five hundred meters through the forest. The morning light filtered through the canopy, casting pale green shadows on the ground. I stopped and placed my palm against one of the stalks. It was cool and smooth, surprisingly solid for something that grows so tall and bends so easily in the wind.

This is when I remembered what my cousin in Kuching shared with me last year, the Iban traditional concept about the “bungai”. She had written to me about the bungai, a plant-image that lives in the invisible world of Manang Menjaya, the Iban god of healing. According to Iban traditional belief, each person has a bungai that takes the form of bamboo, growing in clumps from a single rootstock. The bungai grows, strengthens, weakens, dies, and falls, just as a person does.

Standing in that grove, surrounded by thousands of stalks rising from what I knew must be a shared underground network of roots, I understood this more clearly than before. The bamboo does not grow alone. Each shoot is part of a “pumpun”, a clump. Every stalk has its own height, direction, and shape. They all draw from the same roots and source. No one grows alone.

I thought of my own bungai, wherever it grows in the cosmic garden of Manang Menjaya. I imagined it as bamboo, tall, flexible, rooted in the same clump as my mother and my relatives who still live in the longhouse by the Layar River. For years I felt out of place, as if I were growing away from where I began. I left Sarawak for school, then for work and marriage. I felt disconnected, as though my stalk had been cut from the clump and planted somewhere it did not belong.

The bamboo shifted that understanding. Walking through that grove, I realized that the rootstock never disappears. The connection endures, no matter the distance. The clump remains, hidden but flourishing. My bungai is still there, nurtured by the unseen garden, sustained by the same roots that support my kin. Though I’ve been gone for years, the lineage continues.

I kept walking, finally arriving at the Nonomiya Shrine, a modest Shinto shrine tucked away in the grove. I stopped, feeling the familiar stirrings within me. Our ancestors recognized this pattern clearly when they chose bamboo for the bungai. These plants grow in clumps. They survive storms by bending rather than breaking. They send up new shoots even after the old ones fall. The Iban watched this pattern daily, living close to the land, and they recognized it as a mirror of human life.

This is how my people once understood family and community. A family is one clump. A longhouse community is many clumps standing together, sharing the same ground. The well-being of one shoot affects the whole. When someone is sick, the bungai weakens. When someone wanders, it withers. When someone dies, it falls, but the clump remains, ready to push new growth upward for the next generation.

I thought of my own children, born in a place far from Sarawak. They have never lived in a longhouse. They do not speak Iban beyond a few words. For years I worried that the connection had been broken. Standing in that grove, watching the morning light shift through the bamboo, I understood that the rootstock never disappears. My children are new shoots from an old clump. They may grow in different soil, but they draw from the same source.

The grove has two paths. I walked both that morning, the famous Chikurin-no-Komichi and the newer Bamboo Forest Trail opened in 2015. The wider path was easier for walking, but I preferred the older one, where the stalks grow closer together, where the sense of bepumpun is strongest. I stayed until the crowds began to arrive, tourists with phones raised, their voices breaking the silence. I did not resent them. They were seeking something too. Perhaps they were looking for beauty, peace, or a moment of connection in a world that increasingly isolates us.

As I walked toward the exit, I passed a sign noting that the bamboo forest is open 24 hours a day and has no entrance fee. I smiled. You cannot charge admission to a teaching that has been offered freely since before humans built temples or paved paths.

Before leaving, I visited the Okochi-Sanso Garden at the far end of the grove. The admission fee included matcha tea and a sweet, and I sat on a bench overlooking Kyoto, sipping the bitter tea and watching the city spread out below me. I thought again about the bungai and what it offers us today. Many of us live far from home. Some grow up with mixed heritage, navigating several identities at once. Some have lost their language, their land, and their connection to family history. The bungai shows that belonging extends beyond physical closeness. It rests in memory, lineage, and the ties that remain.

The forest had shown me that I cannot survive alone. Bamboo stands because the clump stands. A community endures because its roots are strong. Long before the words “ecology” or “sustainability” were used, our ancestors knew this concept. They practiced it when they built longhouses, shared food, and worked the land. Their lives were intertwined with nature and community that supported each other. The bamboo reminded me of what I had forgotten: we are not alone. We grow in clumps, we sway together when the storm comes, and we push up fresh growth from roots that have endured for ages.

I left Arashiyama that morning with a clearer understanding. I am still a shoot from the old clump. The rootstock holds. The bungai grows, even when I cannot see it. I am connected to those who came before me and those who will come after. No matter how far I travel, my roots are in the garden of Manang Menjaya, where our lives rise from the same source and intertwine across generations.

This post is extracted from my journal entry

Note: Moso bamboos are running bamboos, but they have similar root systems to clump bamboos.

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.

How Often Do I Say No?

Daily writing prompt

How often do you say “no” to things that would interfere with your goals?

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According to Oliver Burkeman, the average human lifespan is about 4,000 weeks. It sounds like a large number at first glance, but as I reflect, it starts to feel limited. I will not have time to do everything I want. Every “yes” comes at the expense of something else. The real issue is how often I fail to say no. I admit I don’t say no as often as I should.

I notice these patterns in small moments. For example, I sit at my computer with a task open in front of me. The work is clear and I know what I need to achieve. After a while, I reach for my phone without thinking. I open Instagram and start doomscrolling cat videos. A few minutes pass and sometimes it stretches to half an hour. When I finally look at the clock on the corner of my screen, I feel a small shock. Nothing important happened, but time is gone. This kind of “yes” feels harmless at the time and it happens more often than I realize. Over time, it detracts from the things I claim to care about.

When I was younger, I said yes more easily. I followed whatever felt more interesting at the time and left things unfinished. These were not always big decisions. Sometimes it was something small, like wanting to revise for an upcoming exam but I ended up reading a magazine instead. Repeated often enough, they eventually shaped how I used my time. But back then, I did not recognize them as choices.

Part of the difficulty is how easily my attention shifts. Technology makes distraction easy. But the pull is not only external. There is also an internal urge to avoid discomfort because it is easier to reach for something light than to stay with something that requires effort.

For a long time, I tried to do too many things at once. I thought being efficient meant I could fit more into my time. Instead, I felt stretched thin. I became exhausted, and over time, I felt anxious. I was trying to move everything forward without accepting that my time and energy are limited. It’s a paradox: that pattern created more pressure and not less.

When things didn’t work, I felt frustrated. That frustration sometimes turned into resentment. I blamed my lack of time on external things like my responsibilities, my family, and the situation around me. However, that was not the full picture. Things changed when I began to accept my limits more honestly. I can only do so much; moreover, most of what I do will not be significant on a larger scale.

That realization changed how I use my time. I started to value smaller, ordinary things more: cooking for my family, taking care of the home, and being present in simple moments. No matter how mundane these things are, they are part of my life. It also clarified what matters to me.

When my priorities are unclear, everything starts to feel urgent. It becomes harder to say no because everything feels important. When I know what I want to focus on, it is easier to step away from what does not support it. I still do not say no as often as I should but I notice it more now. I see it in the small decisions that do not seem important at first but if I pause, I can see where they lead.

I Stay a Little Longer

I am on a morning train in Japan, traveling from Tokyo to Kyoto without any hurry to get there. The shinkansen is quiet. There are empty seats on both sides of the aisle. I am seated by the window on the left. The glass is slightly blurred, with thin streaks of dried rain. The air conditioning hums overhead. I take out my tablet and try to read, but I am not really following the words. The train moves quickly past factories, houses, schools, and open fields.

Mount Fuji appears in the distance. Clouds cover parts of it, but the top is still visible, white against a pale blue sky. At its base, the forest is dark and still. We pass rows of apartments. Laundry hangs outside, moving gently in the morning air. An ojisan adjusts his plants on a balcony. A woman walks slowly with a toddler, a shopping bag in her hand. Inside, a staff member pushes a cart down the aisle. The smell of food lingers faintly, a mix of sweet and savory. I reach into my bag for my notebook and pen. I pause and swallow.

I tend to stay with these small scenes longer than I need to. The man on the balcony. The woman and her child. The laundry moving in the same direction. I do not know them, but my mind fills in details without effort. Who they might be. What their days look like. How their lives move within these spaces I only pass through. This has been true for as long as I can remember.

People sometimes say I have a good memory. I can recall certain moments from a distant past with more detail than expected. I have always treated it as ordinary, something I do not pay much attention to. But it is not only memory. When I pass places I have never been before, I find myself imagining the lives inside them. A row of houses is no longer just a row of houses. It becomes a set of possible lives, each one carrying its routines and concerns and small moments no one else sees.

I do not do this intentionally. It happens without effort. The same way I noticed the man moving his plants, or the way the laundry shifts in the wind. I do not stop to question it. I stay with what is in front of me a little longer than I need to.

Because of this, I remember more than I expect to. Not everything. Just certain details that remain clear. A place. A movement. Something small that stays when I return to it later.

The train continues forward. Outside, the scenery changes without pause. Inside, I sit by the window, watching, and then writing it down before it fades.

How the Church Shaped the Way I Think

Daily writing prompt

Who was your most influential teacher? Why?

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If I were to answer this in the usual manner, I would probably say a teacher from school or someone who left a lasting impression on me. But when I think about influence more deeply, the answer does not point to a single person but to an organization. The church. The church was the most important teacher in my life.

For many years, the church shaped how I saw the world and my place in it. It influenced how I interpreted right and wrong, how I made choices, and how I approached questions about life. Because it was a part of my everyday life, I didn’t always notice how it influenced me. It felt normal, like a framework I could rely on.

That structure eventually became the way through which I processed most things. I learned to read selectively and only chose what aligned with the church’s values. I learned to ask questions carefully because some questions and topics are off-limits or could raise suspicions about my spiritual health. There was a limit to my curiosity, even if I didn’t always see it. But I didn’t think of this as a problem at the time. I considered it a sign of being responsible and disciplined. It also gave me a sense of direction and how to deal with uncertainty.

However, the church’s influence didn’t go away after I left. If anything, it made that influence more clear. Without it as my main point of reference, I started to see how much my outlook had changed over the years. Some reactions and patterns of thinking didn’t come from nowhere. They had been formed slowly and consistently over time.

This awareness grew over time and it showed up in little things. For example, when I read something and didn’t feel the urge to assess it against a set of beliefs. Another example is when I let a question remain open without feeling like I had to address it right away. What I noticed most was recognizing a familiar thinking pattern and stopping before going further.

Recently, I have been reading Oliver Burkeman’s Four Thousand Weeks. The book does not present entirely new ideas, but it changed how I relate to what I had learned before. The idea that time is finite and not everything can be pursued has impacted how I see my life. It does not give me a new set of rules to follow. Instead, it reminds me that my time is limited and that I cannot do everything, no matter how much I want to.

Now, when I think about influence, it no longer refers to a single person or idea. It feels more like layers that have been added over time. Being in church for a long time shaped some of the ways I thought. Now, I question them and choose which ones still make sense to me. They still affect how I think, but I am more aware of them than I used to be.

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.

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.