Toxic Modern Beauty Standard | Looking Back at the Girl I Was

I grew up in the 90s, an era when beauty was defined in strict, unyielding ways. The girls in the magazines didn’t look like the women I knew at all. They had thin bodies, sharp cheekbones, long arms and legs, and faces that hadn’t changed with age or life. At the time, I didn’t have the words to articulate it. I only knew that I didn’t look like the girls on the covers, and something inside me subconsciously decided that meant I wasn’t good enough.

Back then, I thought that being beautiful was necessary to fit in. I thought that people who judged worth by physical appearance were the ones who gave approval. I thought that the only way to make up for what I was missing was to be good at other things. So I worked hard and made sure my grades were good. I worked hard to get a good job. Throughout the years I learned how to pretend and not draw attention to myself and how not to embarrass myself. It felt like the safest way to get around in a world where my body never matched the acceptable standard.

It took years for me to see how fake and shallow that standard was. The Western beauty standard that we got from TV, fashion magazines, and advertisements was very narrow and spread far beyond where it started. It glorified extreme thinness, having smooth skin, hairlessness, small features, and not showing signs of aging. These traits were shown as universal signs of beauty, even though they didn’t apply to most real women. I didn’t think about this when I was a teenager. I assumed the failure was my fault.

As more information from the Epstein files has come to light in the last few months, I’ve been looking back at that period in my life in a different way. I don’t want to accuse anyone or make direct connections between crimes and culture. But it’s impossible to ignore how closely some parts of the fashion and beauty industries were linked to powerful men who surrounded themselves with very young girls. When youthfulness was not only admired but also aggressively idealized, and when the individuals who shaped those ideals possessed significant power and influence, the standards ceased to appear neutral. They start to look like reflections of a gaze that was never meant to be good for women.

For decades, feminists have been critical of beauty culture. I could understand the criticism in theory long before I felt it in my life. I didn’t know any of this when I was a teenager. I only knew that my body looked different from what the world thought was beautiful and celebrated. I only felt the silent, constant feeling of not being good enough. Now that I know that some of those ideals were reinforced in places where people were taken advantage of, that old insecurity feels more profound and complicated, and it’s harder to brush off as teenage self-doubt.

When I think about my teenage self now, I see a girl who was trying to figure out where she fit in a world that kept narrowing the definition of beauty. I see her flipping through fashion or teenage magazines with her friends at school and tracing the lines of faces she thought she was supposed to aspire to. I see the way she was hiding her pain behind success. She didn’t know that what she was doing was part of a much more complex system. She only knew that she felt like she was outside of something she couldn’t see but felt deeply in her core.

If I could sit with her today, I would not offer some cliche advice. Advice points to a resolution, but I honestly don’t have any resolutions to offer when I still carry the echoes of those insecurities. I still notice how easily I slip back into old comparisons. I still feel the effects of growing up in a culture that taught girls to always judge themselves. Even decades later, the healing process has not been smooth, and I doubt I will ever fully heal. Some days are better. Some days are not. When the pattern is deeply rooted in you, it’s impossible to heal, though mindset can be trained and shifted.

These are the things I would do:

I wouldn’t tell her to be confident. I wouldn’t tell her to love herself more. Those instructions would still feel empty and shallow. I would tell her that I’m sorry they lied to her. Nothing was wrong with her body, I would assure her. That she was never supposed to look like the girls she compared herself to. That the standard she used to judge herself was not made for real women, and definitely not for teenage girls who are still figuring out who they are. This standard was shaped by power, profit, and a perspective that narrowed the definition of womanhood while objectifying women. I would tell her that the shame she felt didn’t come from inside her. It was learned and religiously absorbed. It was reinforced daily by images and messages she had no reason to mistrust at that age.

I can’t change what she went through. I can’t restore the years she felt insignificant or invisible. However, I can accept what happened without trying to justify it or improve it.

The anger I feel now is not directed at her. It is directed at a culture that normalized her self-doubt and insecurity. It’s an evil culture that told girls to shrink themselves to be accepted and then rewarded them for compliance. My rage is directed at a culture that taught vulnerable women to mistake discomfort for personal failure.

This is all I can give her. I don’t have a solution or any comfort to offer: You were never the problem. You were growing up in a system that didn’t know how to treat girls with respect and dignity. And confronting that truth now reshapes how I understand those early years.

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.

A Woman on the Fourteenth Floor

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Last Saturday, a woman from the 14th floor of my apartment block ended her life, jumping from her balcony in the early morning. I never knew her. She was simply another resident, a stranger to me. I live on the third floor, far below. As far as I know, our paths never crossed, though we might have shared the lobby or an elevator at some point.

When I woke up that morning, everything felt ordinary. I didn’t know the police and ambulance were already outside. A neighbor later told us he had been taking a cigarette break on his balcony when he heard a loud crash. At first, he thought it was a car accident. Only when he looked down did he realize what had happened. She had jumped just before dawn and landed on her parking bay. Security was called, then the police. People began gathering at their windows, looking down in silence. A few drifted into the lobby, but most didn’t stay long. I only learned about it when my husband went out to buy breakfast and saw the body already covered on the ground.

My husband spoke with the security guard, as he always does when something unusual occurs. The guard told him she was in her late forties, divorced, and living alone. She had left a note, labeled her belongings, moved her car to another spot, cleaned her apartment, and paid her bills. She had meticulously planned every detail. No one was left wondering about her intentions.

The police left quietly. Cleaners came later to wash the area, but her parking bay remained cordoned off for a while. A faint stain lingered on the ground, noticeable if you happened to look down. By Monday, life in the building had largely returned to normal. Neighbors went about their daily routine, children ran through the corridors, and doors opened and closed as they always did.

I found myself thinking about her more than I expected. I wondered if I had ever seen her in the lobby or the car park or heard her door close above mine, though that seemed unlikely. She lived fourteen floors up, always out of reach, a life carried overhead, distant yet close enough for her absence to register. In buildings like this, you share an address with dozens of strangers, known not by name but by unit numbers on mailboxes or passing shadows in stairwells.

I didn’t feel grief, exactly. There was no surge of sadness, no urge to gather people or speak about it aloud. What I felt instead was a pause and lingering awareness of the space she left behind. Life continued as usual, but for a while I noticed the silence and somberness that settled over the building.

I pictured her last days in fragments: the careful way she arranged her affairs, her decision to land where no one would witness it by chance. There was a precision to the ending, free of drama and leaving little for others to clean up beyond what could not be helped.

Now the parking bay is just another space again. The tape is gone, the surface washed, and the usual comings and goings have resumed. I wonder whether her family will put up her unit for sale or rent. Sometimes at night, when the building is quiet and I hear the faint shifting of furniture from above, I remember her, someone I never knew, living her life high above mine until one morning she was gone.

There is no lesson here, only the fact of it. Her life ran parallel to mine, a story I never read. Now a small gap remains where she once was, and the rest of us keep living under the same roof, carrying on.

What Remains After They’re Gone

Daily writing prompt

How do significant life events or the passage of time influence your perspective on life?

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There are losses that come with sudden announcements and those that slip in quietly. This loss falls into the latter category. I slowly came to understand that someone I loved had chosen not to stay in contact. This sudden change didn’t involve death or drama. There was no final argument or clear explanation. It was a distance that grew until it was gone. There were messages one day. Then they were gone. There was familiarity one day. After that, there was nothing.

At first, I didn’t know it was grief. I told myself that this was normal. People go their separate ways and lives move in different directions. Not every connection lasts through change. Still, the body notices things before the mind does. I reread old conversations and paused before sending messages. I knew I wouldn’t send it, so I held on to my phone longer than I needed to, as if I was waiting for something that had already decided not to arrive.

This month has been full of transitions. I’m leaving a church community that has been a big part of my adult life. I’m finally giving up a part of myself that learned to put up with things by remaining small and compliant. Along with that, I carry the loss of someone who was important to me and was a part of my daily life.

None of these changes came with clear endings. Leaving a community takes shape through many small choices that build on each other. First, the practical tasks, and then the emotional ones. Memories come back to me at the worst possible times: familiar songs, old habits, and routines that make up almost two decades of my life. You don’t leave cleanly. Pieces linger even if you don’t want them to.

Estrangement follows a similar pattern. The loss is evident in mundane instances—such as the impulse to share something and then halting midway, or the instinct to reach out followed by the silent adjustment that you no longer do that. It lives in little things and in spaces where another person used to be.

I used to think that as I got older, I would learn how to let go and carry less weight. The years have made me more aware, though. I notice what I hold on to and how much I let people into my private life. Even brief connections can make a big difference. Age hasn’t made me tougher. It only made me more honest about how I feel.

You can show up, be there, and care for someone, but you can’t make them remain in your life. When they leave, all that is left is how you deal with the absence, probably not in big ways but in how you carry that loss within you.

Some days I feel fine. Some days I feel grief over unfinished conversations or bonding. Sometimes relief, sadness, clarity, and weariness all come together. When you leave the church, you feel both free and lost. Losing someone I loved makes me feel both grief-ridden and accepting. Both changes happen at the same time, and neither one makes things easier.

Transitions don’t usually come one at a time. One ending loosens another. One shift makes room for the next. You can’t always deal with them one at a time; sometimes you have to deal with many changes at once and do your best to stay present.

There is no big breakthrough or a sudden resolution here. I’m just paying attention to things in my life. Mornings are different. Some memories resurface without warning. Silence is more valuable now than it used to be. I also feel a growing sense of stability, not because life is easier, but because I have stopped fighting against change.

Estrangement teaches something quiet but powerful: love doesn’t last forever. People come into your life for reasons you may never fully understand, and sometimes they leave without saying why. There is no guarantee of closure, and answers may never come. Your task is to keep going while carrying what matters.

Right now, that task looks like letting the absence exist without rushing to replace it. It means letting sadness exist without turning it into a story about failure. It means accepting that this season is about letting go, even though I would have liked things to stay the same.

Time moves the days forward without healing these particular wounds, and I do the same. Not with certainty or everything worked out, but with awareness and willingness to remain with what is, even when it means losing someone you loved.

The Art of Subtle Complaints

Daily writing prompt

What do you complain about the most?

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Some people complain loudly. You can hear them from the next room: loud voices, sharp words, and their hands thrown in the air. That has never been my way. My complaints are more subtle, and most of the time they are only in my head; they never leave my mouth. Most days, if you asked, I would say I have nothing to complain about. If you knew me long enough, though, you would notice the places where my patience thins.

I complain about feeling invisible, though I rarely say it aloud. Sometimes I sit in the middle of a conversation and laugh while my mind wanders. I become a spectator in my own life. People around me don’t notice the things I want them to, like how I become quiet or how I focus on small details. I think that if someone really listened, they would hear the pain in my silence. Most people don’t, so I let it go.

I also have a subtle need for reassurance. It doesn’t have to be grand. I don’t want promises written down or words repeated until they lose their meaning. I want little things that I can count on: someone who is always there. I want to matter, not just when I’m joyful and bright, but also when I’m quiet, unsure, or difficult to love.

My complaints are not always about others. Often, they turn inward. I wish I didn’t care so much or that I wasn’t so sensitive. I notice every change in tone, every unspoken hesitation, and every silence that drags. It can be tiring to live with this awareness, and I sometimes wonder if anyone else feels the same way. I grumble to myself about how restless I am and how I’m never fully satisfied with the present moment or always want a little more than what is offered.

Some days I wish for more warmth and honesty before I have to ask. I don’t like chasing affection or trying to figure out hidden meanings. I want things to be simple, even though I know I’m not built for it. I study what most people overlook, a habit that can make me feel better and worse at the same time. I know I can be hard to read and that I expect a lot from the people I love, but I’d rather feel too much than not at all.

Sometimes I complain about not being in the know and having to guess what someone else is thinking or why their mood has changed. I want clarity. I want to know where I stand, even if it hurts. More than anything, I hope to be met where I am, not where it is convenient.

If you pay attention to what I’m saying, you’ll see that my complaints show what I value: being present, paying attention, giving reassurance, and having someone steady to lean on. These things aren’t obvious. Most of them fade away before anyone finds out. Instead, they live in the spaces between conversations, in the small annoyance of not getting a proper explanation, and in the longing for things to resolve. The truth is, I don’t need much. I just need to know I’m not invisible and to feel like I belong.

Living in the Gaps

I left church early this month, right at the beginning of another year. Maybe it just lined up that way. But I like to think I want to start afresh with a new spiritual direction after years of being conditioned to think and behave a certain way. I don’t mention this to brag, express bitterness, or suggest some dramatic unraveling. It was just time. The rituals I’d lived by for almost two decades fell away, and in their place, there was a space in my soul that needed filling. There are mornings now when I notice how empty the calendar looks and how the old routines have faded into habits I no longer keep. Sometimes the silence feels clean. Other times, it’s just unheard noise echoing in my head.

What comes after that kind of ending stays unclear for a while. I’ve been reading about Japanese philosophy. Wabi sabi, mono no aware, all those names for things I’ve always sensed but never managed to explain. There’s something grounding in how it speaks to imperfection or how it leans into acceptance without chasing resolution. Not everything is a lesson. Some things are just facts. Life changes, and I find myself moving slower, sometimes unsure if I’m pausing or simply stuck.

Right now, my days are crowded with interruptions. My daughter is starting Form 4. The house shifts on a new schedule, full of reminders and small emergencies. I keep thinking I’ll find a stretch of time. A few hours in the morning, or an evening when everyone is asleep, to work without interruption. That stretch never comes. The days are chopped into fragments: drive here, answer that, sew a button, check a schedule, stir a pot, fold the laundry. The idea of “flow” feels distant, like something I used to believe in but haven’t seen in months.

Some days, I catch myself measuring everything. I have work I want to do. Books on the shelf, half-finished zines, old artwork I think I might want to bring back to life for an upcoming festival. I keep thinking of artists with quiet studios and long blocks of time, while I’m piecing together minutes from whatever’s left. Sometimes, when I’m honest, I wonder if it’s enough to just keep going at this pace, never catching up, always watching the unfinished stack grow a little higher.

But I read. It’s less than I’d like, but still something. I journal, at times with purpose. Other times, just to sort through the mess in my head. Lately, I’m reading about wabi sabi and the value of things left incomplete, the quiet beauty of days that never fit into a neat story. There are passages I highlight, sentences that feel familiar even though I’m seeing them for the first time. Some days I manage a few pages, sometimes less. But I let it count.

When my mind is too tangled, I move. I walk outside just to breathe under the trees. After years of abandoning it, I return to my yoga practice, but I do it at my own pace. I don’t follow anyone else’s rhythm, and I’ve stopped tying value to flexibility or control. Sometimes I sit in silence and watch the room change with the light. Most days, I have more questions than answers. That seems to be how it is now.

This isn’t a season of high productivity. My kids’ schooling, the changing schedules, the constant need for adjustment—none of it feels like the life of an artist I used to imagine. But there’s something in the interruptions themselves that feels honest. My work is built from what’s left after everyone else’s needs are met. I don’t resent it, even when I’m tempted to. Some days I wish it were less chaotic, but it’s still the life I chose.

There’s an indigenous festival in May. I plan to participate, but nothing is confirmed. I think about it more than I admit. I wonder if what I have is enough artwork to sell, or if I should be making more or pushing harder. The urge to push is still there, even though I’ve seen where it leads. I try to remind myself that journaling, reading, and living through this time are not a detour. They shape the work, whether I see the results yet or not.

Most days I don’t feel behind or ahead. I just feel present. Some days I’m restless, convinced I’m wasting time. Other days, I find relief in moving slow, in giving myself permission to pause. I’m not heading toward anything specific. I’m just living, one interruption at a time.

My shelves are full of books I haven’t read yet. Some I’ve kept for years. I’ve stopped treating them like tasks I need to finish. I pick one up, read a few pages, underline something that catches my attention. I put it down, sometimes for weeks. The book waits. So do I.

If there’s any lesson in this season, it isn’t obvious. The days pass. The interruptions pile up. The unfinished work waits on the table. I don’t know when I’ll finish the next zine, or if the festival will happen, or if I’ll ever catch up on all the books. But I’m still here, moving quietly, not rushing the days or trying to make them mean more than they do.

Clutter and Deconstruction | An Ongoing Inventory

There’s a distinct silence when you leave a place that once ordered your days. After nearly two decades, I quit church. The decision formed slowly, after years of tension I tolerated until it grew extremely intolerable.

I now stand closer to agnosticism than belief, letting questions stay open instead of forcing answers. The air at home feels changed, heavier in some corners, lighter in others. When routines fall away, you notice the clutter, not only what sits on the kitchen table but also the weight you’ve carried for years.

Most people picture clutter as stacks on a shelf or a drawer in disarray. Lately I’ve started spotting it elsewhere. I feel it in how my shoulders settle when I walk through the house, in the space that appears when I stop bending to others’ expectations. Life after a big change feels quiet and unfinished, as though I’m watching to see what remains and what slips away.

Old loyalties settle quietly, like dust on my cheap formica desk. I kept showing up for people and places out of habit, drawn by an obligation I couldn’t quite figure out. For years, leaving felt impossible even when every part of me was worn out. The routines outlined my life, and familiar faces offered belonging, but the price was always a private ache. I tried to convince myself gratitude was enough, but the truth is, I was shrinking to fit a space that no longer fit me. In the end, walking away involved no spectacle, only a simple moment when I realized I owed no one loyalty if it meant losing myself. The relief felt strange, almost unwelcome.

I carried self-blame like a child’s favorite blanket. When something went wrong, I looked inward, convinced I could have tried harder, meeker, humbler, demanded less. Apologies formed before I even knew why I was sorry. It’s a habit that takes time to unlearn. Even now, when voices rise or tension thickens a room, my first instinct is to smooth things over, to make myself smaller so others stay comfortable. But I am starting to see that shrinking doesn’t save anyone; it only erases the person I am. These days, I let discomfort and silence linger. It’s uncomfortable, but I’m being honest with myself.

People can fill up space in your life, sometimes so gradually that constant fatigue sneaks up on you. I think about those who never noticed the toll their presence took. Letting go brings no drama and no confrontation, only a quiet shift in where I place my energy. I’m learning to keep my circle small, giving my best to those who show up without asking for more than I can offer. The others drift to the edges. The distance feels necessary and carries no resentment.

The clutter that rings loudest lives in my own head. Voices linger as fragments of sermons, advice from people who never really knew me, and anxious run-throughs of every conversation where I might have chosen the wrong words. These layers pile up until I can’t tell which thoughts are mine and which belong to someone else. Lately I pay attention to the pauses, the moments between bursts of noise or activity. When my mind is quiet, I notice what I miss and what I don’t. Some voices fade on their own. Others, I have to let go by choice. I keep what matters, and the rest slips away with time.

What remains after clearing everything feels unfamiliar. The house still clatters each morning, the calendar still crowds the wall with reminders, but something has shifted. There is more space, more air. I linger at the window a little longer, breathe more slowly, refuse to pack every minute with motion or explanation. The openness feels odd, as though I am learning to live without the old weight. There is no hurry to fill the silence.

Noticing What Has Changed

I feel like the question “What have you learned recently?” is simple, but when I try to answer it, I have to pause. I don’t notice most changes in my life until I look back. I go about my day, dealing with whatever comes up, without really thinking about whether I’m getting better or not. But sometimes it’s clear that something has changed. That’s what this is, an attempt to notice what’s changed or improved.

Lately, I’ve been more aware of how much space I let myself take up. I made myself small for most of my life. I only spoke up when I was sure I wouldn’t hurt anyone’s feelings. I tried to guess what people wanted, what they would put up with, and what would make me look out of place. Staying hidden can make you feel safe, but it wears you down over time. I didn’t realize that waiting for permission to share an idea, make something, or want something for myself was a choice because it had become such a habit. I don’t remember when it changed, but I do know that I don’t ask for so much approval anymore. I write or draw what I want, when I want. I publish things with my name on them sometimes, and other times I use a different name. Other times, I just leave the words on my hard drive. I don’t have to do anything for anyone. I quietly came to this realization, and it has remained with me.

I have also slowed down, both by necessity and by choice. It’s difficult to put into words how heavy this year has been. There were times when my body just gave up on me, like when I was always tired and had migraines that came out of nowhere and persisted. I quit working out. I stopped pretending that pushing myself harder would help. I waited for a while, trying to deal with the pain and uncertainty by not moving much. I did figure out the cause of my fatigue and migraines, and since then, they have improved a lot. That experience taught me to slow down and listen to my body and get the help it needed.

The worst of the symptoms have disappeared, allowing me to move again. I don’t mean that in a figurative way; I really do walk and jog more. Three kilometers, three or four times a week, and there’s no need to hurry. There isn’t any more pressure to “get fit.” I just walk. I see the trees, hear the birds, and feel my legs moving again after months of inertia. It’s normal, but it means a lot to me. It feels like returning to my skin after months of being wrecked by fatigue and pain.

Setting boundaries is still new. For years, I thought it was my job to be there for others, take on their moods, and ensure things went well. Now, I say no more often. I let people deal with their problems. I don’t explain myself as much. It doesn’t feel empowering or freeing; it’s awkward and tense at times, but it’s real. Guilt comes and goes but I let it go. I’m starting to realize that saying yes won’t fix everything.

Another lesson learned and change made: I don’t doubt my right to want things as much as I used to. For a long time, I told myself that I was easy to please and that wanting too much would only make me disappointed. It was better to keep my needs vague and not say them out loud. However, I want more lately—more peace, more meaning, a stronger connection, and more room for my writing and art. I’m not sorry for it, even though I know I won’t get everything I want. I write and create because I need to, not to please anyone or gain more followers and likes. Those things are undoubtedly flattering, but they are just a bonus.

Trust is also a big deal, especially knowing that my voice matters. I still doubt myself, especially when I write in English. The urge to hold back is still there, but I keep going. I write what I think is honest, even if it’s not perfect. I establish boundaries when necessary. I don’t pretend like I know more than I do. Sharing is a form of practice in and of itself. I don’t know if anyone is interested in what I have to say. It doesn’t matter as much now; I just write and create.

Routine is what keeps me grounded. My days are typically plain. I get up, do what needs to be done, take a morning walk or jog, cook, read, draw, and write. Repetition is comforting. Things that used to be trivial are now important, like how the light changes during the day, the sound of rain in the morning, or a quick note from a friend. I don’t ignore these things anymore. I remember days by their texture and temperature and not by what I accomplished.

There’s nothing dramatic about the last few months. The most significant changes are internal, and I can’t see them unless I write them down. I’m not as interested in what looks appealing as I am in what feels right and true. I still mess up and sometimes I fall back into old habits. I’m not sure if there’s a lesson here at all. It’s just a slow process of living and noticing what’s different.

If you asked me a year ago what I’d learn, I wouldn’t have guessed any of this. Most things happen without a plan. They reveal themselves in silence after the fact, when I look up and realize I’m not in the same place anymore.

What Beserara’ Bungai Taught Me About Letting Go

I used to think that rituals like beserara’ bungai were just old traditions that had no place in today’s world. Growing up, I believed they belonged to the past. I thought the Iban needed to leave them behind to move forward. Whenever elders talked about these beliefs, I felt restless. My world revolved around progress, education, and the principles of organized religion. I didn’t see the value of rituals, and I never took the time to understand what they really meant.

That mindset began to shift—slowly at first, then more clearly—as I read more about the Iban worldview. It wasn’t emotion or nostalgia that changed me, but understanding. I began to see that the Iban learned about life by watching the natural world. They noticed patterns in nature and connected them to how we live. For example, they saw how bamboo and banana plants grow in clusters. Each shoot is part of a single root system underground. If one shoot is unhealthy, it affects the others. When one dies, the root still supports new life. Death was not an ending but part of the cycle. This wasn’t superstition, but wisdom based on careful observation.

The bungai, the “plant-image” that represents each Iban person in the cosmic realm of Menjaya (the god of healing), began to make sense to me. I understood how it symbolized family and community. Each person is like a shoot, but we all come from the same root. When someone passes, the rest carry on, still connected. New life can grow from the same source. It’s a way of seeing life that is deeply connected and respectful of nature. The ancestors weren’t imagining things—they were describing the interconnected world they knew.

As I learned more, I started to feel a quiet pride in where I come from. I discovered that my ancestors included warriors and raja berani, people whose stories are still told in my family. I began to understand that even though I live far from my homeland, I am still part of that root system. This connection also extends to my children. They may not know all the customs or speak the language well, but the roots are still there. They are part of something that has been passed down through generations.

When I learned about beserara’ bungai, the ritual that separates the living from the dead, I felt something shift in me. This ritual is about care—not forgetting what we have lost. It helps both the living and the dead let go so they don’t hold each other back. The living need to keep moving forward, and the dead need peace on their journey to Sebayan. It’s a ritual of compassion that affirms the connection with the dead even as they journey on to the otherworld.

This understanding arrived at a time when I was wrestling with my own spiritual ties. I had been part of the same church community for many years. It shaped how I saw God, faith, and morality. But as I grew older, those teachings started to feel burdensome. I found myself questioning doctrines that encouraged separation from people who did not meet certain standards of spirituality. I began noticing the tension between fear-based expectations and the compassion-centered teachings of Jesus in the Gospels. As I continued to question, the burden of belonging to a system that no longer aligned with my conscience intensified.

Learning about beserara’ bungai gave me words for what I was feeling. I realized I was trying to protect my spirit. I wasn’t leaving faith behind—I was returning to what felt true. Jesus became the real rootstock. I wanted a faith grounded in his teachings: kindness, justice, presence, love, and compassion—not fear or guilt. I needed space to grow without feeling judged by a community that often equated questions with spiritual instability.

In a way, I’m experiencing my own kind of separation from the church rootstock. It is not a rejection of my past or of the people who have been a huge part of my life for the past two decades. It is a necessary separation so I can continue growing without feeling suffocated by expectations that no longer fit the life I am trying to build. I’m holding onto what still nourishes me and letting go of what drains me. The Iban worldview helped me understand that letting go can be a way of protecting both myself and the things I want to keep alive.

The more I reflect on it, the more I hope my children learn something different from what I learned in my early years of faith. I hope they are not afraid to ask questions. I hope they do not feel inferior in front of people who sound knowledgeable but speak without warmth. I want them to grow into a faith that welcomes curiosity, thoughtfulness, and conscience. I want them to recognize that their connection to God is direct, personal, and rooted in compassion—not fear. I want them to inherit a sense of strength that comes from understanding where they come from, both culturally and spiritually.

As I learn more about rituals like beserara’ bungai, I’ve come to understand that my ancestors didn’t divide life into “spiritual” and “ordinary.” Everything was connected. Life, death, nature, community, and spirit were all part of one whole. That way of seeing the world teaches me to live with care and humility. It shows me that letting go can be a loving act, and returning to our roots can take courage.

The Bungai: Ancestry, Identity, and the Iban Connection to Nature

The Iban believe that the self is not limited to the body or the soul that wanders in dreams. Our ancestors believed that each person has a bungai, which is a plant-image that lives in the invisible world of Manang Menjaya, the god of healing. This plant-image takes the form of bamboo or banana and grows in clumps from a single rootstock. It is a powerful way of understanding human life. The bungai grows, strengthens, weakens, dies, and falls to the ground, just as a person does.

When I first heard about this idea, it stuck with me for days. It helped me see the forest differently and understand why the Iban imagine the community the way they do. In this worldview, no one grows alone. We rise from the same source. Relationships, ancestry, and connections we can’t see hold us together in ways that go far beyond our personal stories. This belief feels very grounding at a time when many of us feel adrift or disconnected.

The choice of bamboo and banana is meaningful. These plants do not grow by themselves. They grow in clumps, called bepumpun. A single shoot is part of a larger body that gets its nutrients from the same soil and root. Every shoot has its own height, shape, and direction, but they all come from the same source. This is how the Iban once understood family. A family is one clump. A longhouse community is made up of many clumps. The forest itself becomes a reflection of the social world.

This is not a metaphor for the sake of beauty. People who live close to the land learn its pattern by observing it daily. The Iban watched how plants behave, how they survive storms, and how they keep growing new shoots even after the old ones fall off. The Iban were shaped by the rainforest, and it was a teacher, a mirror, and a guide.

The bungai makes this idea clearer. It shows us that each person is both unique and part of a lineage. A child is a new shoot from an old rootstock. The state of one shoot affects the whole clump. The well-being of the entire garden reflects the condition of the longhouse. No one exists apart from the others who stand beside them. Even in the unseen world, the Iban imagined people living bepumpun, connected through generations, place, memory, and spiritual obligations.

I find this comforting. There were times in my life when I felt distant from my roots. Leaving home for school, work and marriage created gaps I did not understand at the time. I lived away from Sarawak for many years. I felt as though I was a shoot attempting to thrive in soil that was not my own. Learning about the bungai made me see that the rootstock never disappears. The connection stays even after we leave. We are still held by the unseen garden. It doesn’t matter how far someone travels; the lineage remains.

Another thing I appreciate about the bungai is how it reflects emotional and spiritual states. The bungai becomes weaker when a person is sick. It withers when the soul wanders. This worldview recognizes how closely the body, mind, and emotions are connected. It respects how complicated it is to be human. A withered feeling is not seen as weakness but as a sign that the self needs care, grounding, or healing. Manang Menjaya is responsible for this realm, taking care of the gardens of human life like a healer tends to the sick. It is a gentle belief shaped by compassion.

The idea that the bungai falls when someone dies is also meaningful. The clump remains alive and ready to push a new shoot upward for the next generation. The rootstock stays strong. The lineage continues. There is sorrow, but there is also continuity. The living remain connected to those who came before them.

When I reflect on this, I see how the bungai offers us a way to think about community in today’s world. Many of us live far from home. Some grow up with mixed heritage, navigating several identities at once. Some people don’t feel connected to their language, their land, or their family’s history. The bungai concept reminds us that belonging isn’t just about being close to someone physically. It also has to do with our shared ancestry, memories, and the unseen ties that still hold us together.

The forest shows us that we can’t survive alone. Bamboo stands because the clump stands. A community stays together because its roots are strong. Long before the words “ecology” or “sustainability” were even used, our ancestors knew this. They practiced it when they built longhouses, shared food, and worked the land. They lived in a world where the rhythms of nature and community supported each other.

Writing about the bungai feels like returning to a memory I never knew I had. It combines culture, spirituality, and nature in a way that feels very Iban. It makes me think of how our people used to observe the forest, learn its patterns, and keep it in balance. The bungai is more than just a spiritual idea. It is a way of looking at life that sees it as connected, continuous, and held by something greater than the self.

I want to honor this understanding as I continue working on my cultural projects. I want the Iban in the diaspora, those growing up with mixed heritage, and those rediscovering their language again to know that our roots are still alive, even when we feel far from them. The bungai reminds us that we come from the same source, and the clump endures.

One Clump
If we were bamboo,
we would be one rootstock.
Two shoots from the same source
fed by the same unseen tenderness
running under everything.

You would lean into me
when the wind turns,
and I would hold fast
with a strength drawn
from the ground we share.

A clump is a world.
A home where no stalk stands alone.
Each one rises
because the others do.
The root simply refuses
to forget a single one.

I want that with you—
a belonging without effort.
Our lives rising
from the same dark earth,
so that even Menjaya
counting lives in his garden,
would find us together.

If you falter, I stand closer.
If you bend, I become your spine.
We are two lives
shaped by each other’s nearness.

If we are a clump, love,
then we are one living thing—
one root,
one anchor,
one quiet refusal
to ever rise alone.

Aji Apai Limpa: The Ancestor I Wish I Could Meet

Image source

Some mornings begin with a calm sense of familiarity. The air is still cool from the night when I step outside. Dew gathers on the grass, clinging to each blade as if it has been waiting there. In Iban, we call it ambun, and I grew up believing that it is more than moisture. We believe that ambun holds memories and also the substance of our ancestors that find their way back into the living world. The elders in my family often spoke about the cycle of the soul. This belief is deeply held among the Saribas Iban, where my ancestors lived. When someone dies, their soul travels to Sebayan, the land of the dead, traditionally believed to be located at Batang Mandai in Kapuas, West Kalimantan, Borneo. Life in Sebayan mirrors life here. Souls continue living in longhouses, planting rice, raising families, and keeping the same rhythms they once had on earth.

This cycle is not eternal. The soul is believed to live and die seven times. After the seventh death, whatever remains dissolves into a fine mist that falls back to earth as ambun. The dew is especially meaningful at the end of the dry season, when families complete their planting and the land waits for water. The ambun nourishes the young paddy shoots, feeding the next generation. It is a beautiful belief, one I never questioned when I was young. I simply accepted that those who had gone before us returned quietly each morning. When I saw thick dew on the grass, I thought of people I loved who were no longer here, finding their way back to us through the rice we depended on.

I have been thinking about this belief again today because of a simple question from a blog prompt: If you could meet a historical figure, who would it be, and why? It is a straightforward question for most people, but for me, it brings up a feeling I can only describe as longing. In the history of the Iban, the figure I would choose is not distant. He is not a king, a philosopher, or someone from a faraway land. He is my ancestor. My great-great-great-grandfather, Aji Apai Limpa.

Aji was a well-known war leader of the Saribas Iban in the mid-nineteenth century. Between 1854 and 1858, he led his warriors against the advancing rule of the second White Rajah, Charles Brooke. His resistance was fierce and relentless. He died in 1858 in a battle at Sg. Langit. His bravery was not only remembered; it was immortalized in the oral traditions of the Iban. The lemambang (bards) recited his name in their ritual poetry. His courage became part of the narrative of our people, carried through chants and invocations, passed from one generation to the next.

If I could meet him, I would not meet him as a historical figure. I would meet him as an ancestor whose choices shaped the path that eventually led to me. I wonder what he was like as a person outside of battle. I wonder what he feared, what he hoped for, and what drove him to carry responsibility that heavy. The written records focus on warfare and resistance, but I imagine a man who also worried about his people, who made decisions that weighed on him, a man who had moments of doubt and understood that his actions would have consequences beyond his lifetime.

I would ask him what courage meant to him. I would ask him what it felt like to stand in front of his warriors and lead them into danger. I would ask him how he held his ground when the world around him was changing. And I would want to know what he thought about the legacy he would leave behind. There are times when people describe me as sharp or strong-willed, and I think about where those traits may have come from. Perhaps those traits were passed down from him to me, just as ambun returns to nourish the young paddy shoots without anyone noticing.

I think about the belief in Sebayan and how it shapes the way I imagine meeting him. I do not picture a physical meeting. I see it more as a recognition, something that happens inwardly through the echoes that live within us. When I feel the urge to protect my roots or speak about my heritage, I think that he might be part of that voice. The belief that the soul returns as dew makes the idea of connection feel less abstract. If ambun holds the last traces of our ancestors, we may encounter them repeatedly through the land, the rice, and the aspects of ourselves that seem older than our years.

The blog prompt seems simple, but it opens a deeper reflection for me. Meeting a historical figure means meeting someone who has shaped the world you inherited. For me, that figure is not distant or symbolic. He is the ancestor whose bloodline runs through mine, whose story lives on in my people’s poetry, and whose bravery still affects how I live my life.

When the ambun is heavy on the grass in the morning, I think about the souls who have traveled their full journey through Sebayan and returned to nourish the living. I imagine Aji among them. I think that in some small way, he is still here, still part of the cycle that continues without end. And in that sense, the meeting I long for might already be happening in the early morning, when the world is still and the dew falls softly on the ground.