I could name only one, but that wouldn’t be honest.
A lot of times in my early years as a mother haunted me quietly like background static in an otherwise happy song. The yelling, harsh words, and unwarranted anger all fell directly on little shoulders. I wrote a poem about it once. It’s titled This Is Not the Mother I Was Meant to Be. It is now available in my Etsy shop, which can be foundhere.
The poem is more than just a piece of text. This is my confession. A gentle, timid apology. A mirror I held up to my own face on days when I thought I had failed in the most important duty.
I meant to be gentler. I wanted to listen more. But there were times when I snapped, yelled when I should have breathed deeply, spanked when I should have paused, gave them junk food and called it dinner and said things I wish I could take back. Things like, “Be quiet. Enough. Just stop.” When all I truly wanted to say was, “I am exhausted, honey. I am trying. I love you so much, it hurts.”
Even now, the guilt weighs heavy. But, with time, I’ve realized that remorse isn’t supposed to tie me to the past. It is meant to teach me, then let me go.
As the kids grew older, I began having open conversations with them. I apologized. Not in grand speeches, but in quiet moments together: during car rides, at bedtime, or while having a meal. To my astonishment, they forgiven me. Completely, freely. As children frequently do when love triumphs over regret.
Their forgiveness was a balm. But can I forgive myself? This is still a work in progress.
What comforts me now is the realization that motherhood is not a destination. It is a process of growing. Every mistake I made was the result of a version of myself doing my best with what I knew. And I understand better now. I pause longer. I listen more carefully. I still make mistakes, but I’m more aware of them. I grow together with them.
So, if you’re a parent who’s been lugging guilt about like a hidden stone, maybe it’s time to let it go. Perhaps you can let the softer part of yourself speak. The one who continues to show up, try, and love with each broken, beautiful step.
Because this is not the mother I meant to be. But I’m still evolving to be a better version of myself.
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Not as other girls did, pretending to cradle dolls or writing baby names in the margins of their schoolbooks. I wasn’t opposed to becoming a parent; it simply didn’t feel urgent, like something I needed to pursue or prepare for. And yet, I am here. It’s been years. A mother. With gentle hands and a heart that is always rearranging itself around little lives.
Mother’s Day used to pass with little thought. A day spent playing cards and making phone calls. Of seeing my own mother from a distance, attempting to decipher the aspects of her that I could never fully grasp. I had no idea she felt so invisible at the time. When you’ve given everything to others and lost yourselves, silence may be deafening.
Now I do.
Mother’s Day is now a quiet occasion in our family. The kids sometimes remember and sometimes they don’t. My hubby asks what I want to eat. I fold the laundry and do the dishes anyway. Life does not stop simply because it’s May. However, a part of me always wishes for a pause, if only for a moment. A pause that says, “We see you. It is not simply what you do, but who you are underneath it all.”
This year, I didn’t request flowers or breakfast in bed.
What I desire cannot be purchased or arranged.
I want someone to acknowledge my effort. How I manage to show up even when I’m very exhausted. How I manage to kiss their foreheads at night despite carrying the weight of invisible things like schedules, fears, and guilt. I want someone to say, “I see the woman you are, not just the mother you have become.”
Because I’m both.
A woman who once had aspirations that did not involve diaper bags or parent-teacher meetings. A woman who still longs for quiet mornings and uninterrupted thoughts. Also, a mother who has dedicated her body, sleep, and time to love so profound that it has utterly transformed her.
So, on Mother’s Day, I gave myself what the world frequently forgets to give: grace.
Grace for the things that remain undone.
Grace for the yelling I regret doing.
Grace for the dreams I’ve placed on hold.
Grace for the ways I am still learning to parent myself.
And maybe that’s all it needed.
Happy Belated Mother’s Day to the quiet mothers, the tired ones, the fierce ones. The ones who feel like they’re failing but keep showing up anyway.
I see you. And I’m learning to see me, too.
Mother
They see lunchboxes prepares, schoolwork signed, clothing neatly arranged into piles.
But they don’t see the woman who forgot who she was before responding to “Mama.”
They don’t see how she holds her breath until the door closes, and she can cry without needing to explain.
They don’t see how she forgives herself in small rituals— a hot cup of tea, a song in the car, a scrawled poem at midnight.
They don’t see her saving herself a little at a time.
And still she shows up. Every day. with love nestled into every nook of her weariness.
Because this is what she does. That is who she is.
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Some prompts ask for fantasy, but this one nudged me toward truthfulness and honesty. If I could choose any job for just one day, I wouldn’t reach for prestige or power. I wouldn’t imagine myself on a stage, in a lab, or leading a corporation.
No, I have no interest in solving crimes, examining evidence, or pursuing cold cases. Nothing like that. It is because, a long time ago, I met a criminologist and we fell in love. I want to understand him, this man who carries so much and says so little.
What would it be like to spend a day in his shoes? I want to walk silently through his memories, particularly the ones that linger in crime scenes after everyone has left. I want to sift through his memory that stands still in front of a whiteboard full of tragedies. I want to walk through his memories because I could never reach that part of him no matter how hard I tried.
I’d trace the photographs he pins to the wall—the faces of the dead— and see his handwriting curve along the margins. I’d watch how he circles certain names darker than others, the lines thicker when the pen pressed harder with his instinct.
At lunch, I’d sit across from him while he quietly picks at his food. I’d watch how his eyes drift with restraint. He sees everything. He just doesn’t always let it show.
Maybe by being a criminologist for a day, I’d learn what it means to hold other people’s pain without crumbling. And maybe I’d finally understand why he sometimes looks at me like I’m a mystery too.
By the end of the day, I’d return the badge, the case files, and boxes full of evidence. I wouldn’t need to stay.
Because…I never want the job.
I just want the man behind it.
Some days, love is remembering someone’s shadow. It’s like bearing witness to the way they disappear into themselves, hoping you’ve seen enough to still find them in the dark.
A poem to accompany this piece.
Rain, Neon and Sorrow
The rain spills itself across Taipei. Neon bleeds into the pavement. Cold wind, damp coat. I think of you— where you are, what you are seeing, what ghosts you carry home tonight.
Are you still bent over your desk, searching for a disease, fingers tracing the city’s veins— sharp like a scalpel?
Are you peering again into the abyss?
Tell me— how much blood have you washed off your hands? how much stays, burrowed beneath your nails, tucked inside your sleepless bones?
I’ve seen you stare past me with eyes that see things you will never say.
You kiss me like a man leaving a crime scene. Touch me as if memorizing evidence. Does love feel like guilt to you?
My love won’t pry open your fists, won’t drag you back from the ledge among the dead. In this city of rain, neon and sorrow, I wonder— are you still whole? still awake? or has the night already claimed you?
It wasn’t because I was working or I had boundless energy or I was busy chasing my dreams. The main reason was that I needed to feel like a person.
It didn’t start as revenge bedtime procrastination. That phrase only found me later, when I stumbled across an article that put a name to my nightly rebellion. It felt like intense desperation. You could say it was a craving or a desperate fight for space.
When my children were small, the days blended together in a mist of needs. I remember those years vividly and if I’m honest, it makes me shudder, but not because I feel ashamed. My daily life was full of milk-stained shirts, sticky fingers, and toys scattered like confetti across every surface. I loved my kids fiercely. Still do. But in those days, I didn’t know where I ended and they began. I gave them my body, my attention, and everything. And somewhere in that giving, I began to disappear.
When the kids were finally asleep and when the house finally went quiet, and the dishes were done, I sat down. Just for a moment, just to breathe.
And that moment stretched beyond what I intended. I stayed up. Scrolling. Reading. Writing. Wandering through Facebook memories of the woman I used to be. Buying time I couldn’t afford, just to feel like I still existed.
I’d tell myself, “Just one more post. One more chapter. One more scroll.”
But truthfully? I was afraid that if I slept, I’d wake up and do it all over again. The endless giving, pouring out myself and forgetting.
So I kept stealing those hours after midnight.
And in the morning, of course, I paid the price.
I was more irritable. More short-tempered. More ashamed of the mother I was becoming.
The irony was painful: I stayed up to save myself, but it only made me more fragile the next day.
I never told anyone how much I resented the way my life had shrunk. How much I missed myself and how ashamed I felt for even feeling that way.
That was the case until I began writing about it.
That’s how The Hour After Midnight came to life. It began as fragments and eventually evolved into a complete poem. A piece of me, speaking directly to the woman I used to be. Perhaps I still am that woman, but these days I go to bed at 12 AM or earlier. As the kids grow, I enjoy my sleep more, and the resentment has disappeared.
This poem is about a mother who gives her all and suffers in silence. It’s about a woman who craves stillness to survive her crazy life of constant giving. She was just a tired soul who wanted to feel seen.
If that sounds like you, I hope this poem wraps around you like a quiet hug. It’s more than a printable; it’s a recognition and a mirror. A gentle piece of emotional support for any overstimulated mom who needs a reminder to be kind to your mind.
This digital poem makes a thoughtful and unique Mother’s Day gift, especially for the tired mom who needs to hear she’s still enough. It’s a beautiful affirmation of motherhood for those navigating revenge bedtime procrastination, mom life burnout, and those quiet moments where you whisper, “I am enough.”
Find The Hour After Midnightin my shop Olivia’s Atelier. You’ll receive a high-resolution poem print in multiple sizes, ready to frame or gift. I hope it brings you what it brought me—a pause, a breath, a beginning.
Note: Yes, I launched my Etsy shop recently to share my poems with the world. Right now, everything in the shop is 50% off until June 2, including our featured Mother’s Day Poem Printables. They are designed as heartfelt gifts or tender self-reminders to moms everywhere. Feel free to check it out.
Note: This post contains sensual content. It’s tender and intimate, not graphic, but may not be for everyone.
Unwinding doesn’t always mean drinking herbal tea or watching Netflix. It could be about reconnecting with yourself, through your body and the presence of others.
I wrote this to examine what it means to let go of the day physically as much as emotionally. Not everyone discusses how sex may be therapeutic, grounding, or even spiritual. But it is for me.
This is an honest and vulnerable piece. I don’t believe we should hide our tenderness or yearning. Sometimes what heals us the most is the part that we’re afraid to say out loud.
She washed the day off her skin— rose oil, lavender salts, tepid water, with a man behind her who didn’t speak, semi hard against the curve of her spine.
She leaned back, exhaled her weariness mingled with steam rose like ghosts from the bath they shared. He shampooed her, untangled the strands, while she, soaping his creases like cupping rain-warmed petals in her palms.
She read later, naked beneath the sheets, the book trembling slightly in her hands as his finger skimmed the back of her knee.
He asked about her day, she told him in curses and laughter. She wrote about it too— in smeared writing, pages sticking together like sweaty thighs.
He watched her, a repentant sinner at a communion he’d waited all week to taste. She looked into his eyes, offered her invitation to slit open her core, and slid inside her mess.
She was the scripture he devoured, worshipped with tongue and blasphemy. Broken hymns tumbled from their lips. Her body a confessional booth— each cry, a hidden truth.
After, he was a punctuation that curled about her, there was never a period, only dashes waiting for words.
She didn’t sleep. She exposed. Soft. Ravaged. Holy.
I never want to visit a place where I have to shrink to be accepted, loved, or tolerated. In this place, softness is seen as a warning sign, silence is misconstrued for compliance, and each mouthful feels like restraint.
I used to be there. It wasn’t a city with a name, but in living rooms where truth was unwelcome, in church pews filled with shame, in beds where I learned to sleep with absence and call it comfort.
Sometimes the cruelest places aren’t found on any map but rather built slowly by unspoken words, frozen stares, and the way someone you love says, “don’t make it a big deal” when your soul is tearing at the seams.
I never want to visit a place that demands me to chop myself into pieces to fit their platter.
I’d rather walk naked through misunderstanding than hide behind lies for others’ comfort.
Give me the wilderness—raw, shivering, and divine. In locations where no one speaks my language but still listens, where stray cats welcome me, and even the wind doesn’t ask for explanations.
I’ve spent too long evaporating, like breath against cold glass.
In 2021, I started doing boxing workouts, not to compete in fights, but to regain confidence in myself. It’s been my way of regaining energy, confidence, and joy. This mini story offers a little insight beneath that fire.
He walks with me to the gym, his hand brushing against mine every few steps. It’s enough to remind me that he’s here.
The sun has set low behind the trees, enveloping everything in that golden hour glow I like. The city noise fades. My hoodie clings to my lower back, and my skin feels warm before I’ve even thrown a single punch. I see him eyeing me out of the corner of his eye, like he usually does.
“You’re quiet,” I observe, glancing over.
He grins. “Just thinking how hot you look when you’re about to ruin someone.”
I roll my eyes but can’t control the smile that appears on my mouth. He knows. He’s seen me in the ring—gloves on, hair slick with sweat, arms sharp and fierce. He’s seen me transform into someone else. Or maybe become more of who I’ve always been, despite the weight of years, expectations, and softness I had to bear.
We pause at a bench near the entrance. I sit and sip my water. He leans on the railing next to me, close but not touching. He’s giving me space to breathe.
“I used to hate this body,” I mutter softly. “I used to think it wasn’t mine. Huge, heavy, thick in the wrong places.”
He does not interrupt.
“Boxing gave it back to me. I no longer care about losing weight. All that matters is the fire in my blood, the energy and power it gives me.
He turns to face me, his eyes serious. “It shows. The way you carry yourself now. “It’s… magnetic.”
I laugh. “Magnetic, huh?”
“Absolutely.”
I stand, slinging my towel over my shoulder. He leans closer.
“Try not to knock anyone out in there.”
“No promises.”
And then I walk in, knowing he’s watching. I know he’ll be there when I’m done. And I know too that I’ve already won something far more important than a fight.
And here’s a poem to accompany this story.
Grit
They said my body was a church. No, it was a battlefield— all pew and destruction. I learned to swing to pull breath from the edge of bruise, to let sweat baptize what shame could not. I fought like a searing fire, feral that dances, not soft or safe.
He watches, as if I was the last honest thing he’d ever lay eyes on.
This prose poem is not exactly a story, but something I carry deep in my heart. Some of it might be true. Some of it might be fiction. I don’t think it matters. The man. The city. Our warren of wild, soulful, tender “rabbits”—that’s what we called our children. It started as a joke between us. Five—wild, loud, deeply loved—and a sixth on the way. We bred like rabbits.
It’s a dream, truth and fiction, a love poem, but a lament too. A grief for a love suspended across timelines and realities. A love that endures in absence. In what could have been. And maybe—what still is, in another dimension of the heart.
What job would I do for free? I’d write. I’d write about things no one else sees or knows about. About memories. About experiences no one else stayed long enough to remember. I’d write about the years in Taipei, about things that transpired long ago. Maybe they’re truth. Maybe fiction. No one needs to know. I’d write about the loneliness of walking alone through Da’an Forest Park, how the trees sheltered my secrets. About stray cats weaving between puddles in Datong alleyways. About the buzz of Ningxia night market, the smell of grilled squid, sweet mochi, stinky tofu hung in the air like incense for the gods of desire. I’d write about him, about you.
Our rooftop talks, sunsets at Tamsui Lover’s Bridge, our trips to Jiufen, to Sanmao’s house in Chingchuan, to Okinawa, to Kunming. About how silence is more powerful than words when two people want to touch but don’t, not yet, not now. I’d write about him walking the city when sleep won’t come— crime cases wrapped around his mind like smoke. About the nights he barely made it home before dawn. Keys tossed, shoes kicked off, collapsing into the couch still in his wrinkled shirt, smelling of gunpowder, coffee, and the rain that doesn’t wash anything clean. And in that half-dream state, he’d swear he could feel me there—my warmth brushed against his back.
I’d write about the nights when ghosts clawed their way back into his mind, when the faces of the dead refused to fade, and he’d hold me close, mooring himself in the beat of my skin, needing to remember he was here, not there. I’d write about the version of him no one sees—the one who stares into the dark, haunted, distant. The one I loved quietly. The one I reached for with firm hands, fingers running through his hair as if I could smooth away everything he didn’t say. I’d write about the moments when I knew that no matter how much I loved him, a part of him would always remain just out of reach.
And I’d write about our sweet rabbits. Our warren of tenderness and imagination. Aidan Do, Lina Do, Elias Do, Rayya Do, Noel Do. They were born out of desire and longing, not blood, and were spun into life with whispered what-ifs and gentle memories. Maybe no one else remembers them. Do you? I do. Their stories return to me while folding laundry or when my tea goes cold. Even now, two decades later. Aidan, with his quiet mischief and cloud-gazing heart. Lina, messy and luminous, chasing the world with charcoal hands and galaxy eyes. Elias, our sweet Elias, who has your eyes, hands, and feet, keeper of broken things. Rayya, a breeze in motion, laughter tucked behind her teeth. Noel, youngest and oldest somehow, knowing the end before the beginning even began.
They were ours. They are ours.
You brought them to life with your words, love. And I gave them breath with my remembering. We made them together. If I could bend time, I’d keep them safe in a garden behind our home. You’d sketch while I write. We’d argue over dinner, then laugh about it before bed. On mornings we rushed to work and school, you, darling, begged me to bend over the sink while our babies bickered in the car. And on rainy nights, we’d tell stories to our rabbits about the world before and after us and everything we tried to save.
But we can’t bend time.
So I write. Even when no one asks me to. Even when no one reads. Even when you forget me and our babies. Because, love, some stories don’t want to be sold. Some stories just want to be kept. And some jobs are not about money. They’re about keeping love from vanishing.
That’s me. I’m not obese but since I’m petite, a little weight gain would be very noticeable and I’m a lot heavier than I used to be. I boxed for fitness to maintain my weight and build muscles; however, since I’m struggling with perimenopausal fatigue, it has been difficult to stay consistent.
Since having children, I’ve spent most of my time learning how to hide my body. I learned to suck in my belly when I walked past mirrors or when I snapped selfies. I wore black to appear slimmer. When eating out, I chose a seat next to a wall so no one could stare at my belly roll. I smiled when someone talked about losing weight, even though internally, I felt diminished for other reasons.
But lately, something is changing. It began slowly, insinuating itself into my thoughts like a new language.
It began with a figurine I read about somewhere on the Internet. The Venus of Willendorf.
She’s only four inches tall, carved from oolitic limestone more than 25,000 years ago. Her breasts are full, her belly rotund, her hips wide. She has no face, but that doesn’t matter because she represents everything I felt insecure about.
Scholars have proposed various interpretations for her purpose—fertility symbolism, a goddess, or an idealized female form.
She looked like me, though I’m not as chubby. And for the first time, that didn’t feel like an insult. She somehow validated me after years of shame and “before” pictures had silenced me.
There are others like her found across Europe. These Venus figurines were carved from stone, bone, or ivory; their bodies were voluptuous, soft, and round.
Venus of Laussel—holding a cornucopia as if commanding attention.
The Black Venus of Dolní Věstonice—dark and earthy and one of the oldest known ceramic figures.
Venus of Hohle Fels—she was worn as a pendant. Her legs widely apart, flaunting her exaggerated vulva.
The Seated Woman of Çatalhöyük—she rested on her throne like a supreme ruler.
The Fat Court Lady of ancient China—elegant in her defiance of slim ideals.
Each of them is a declaration of what womanhood looked like—and what it still looks like today.
I am Iban. My ancestors were women who moved with strength and dignity. They never counted calories. They planted paddy, fished in the river, foraged for food, carried firewood, and cooked over open flames. Their bodies were lean, skin tanned, breasts bared. Their bodies were shaped for survival.
Obesity is a modern thing. It’s often a byproduct of modern conveniences like fast food, desk jobs, and little exercise. Many modern Iban women are overweight—some from young, and some after motherhood. I was never overweight until I had children. And then my body changed in ways I couldn’t control.
My belly stretched, my skin thinned, my hormones fluctuated, and my fatigue made it difficult to exercise regularly.
And with those changes came something crueler—self-hate.
I started to avoid mirrors altogether. I admired other plus-size women who carried their softness with confidence. I thought they were beautiful and sexy. However, that admiration never extended inward.
But Venus is opening my eyes to the truth: my worth is not defined by my body. She doesn’t ask to be smaller or apologize for taking up space. She was carved by people who believed she was sacred and to be revered.
Perhaps this belly, bearing life, surgery scars, and years of shame, merits a sacred touch. Maybe these dimpled thighs still deserve to be kissed. Maybe my body is a home to return to—and not a failure or an embarrassment.
But the Venus figurines weren’t the only ones teaching me to love myself again.
Maybe it’s also the man who sees me with undiluted devotion. He who touches my body tenderly before dawn. He who tells me I’m beautiful when I can’t bear to look in the mirror. His love—ever so tender, constant, and full of reverence—has become the mirror I trust the most. In his eyes, I’m not broken but whole.
The glorious Olympian weightlifter, Sarah Robles. Image source.
Lately, I’ve even found myself moved by things I never paid attention to before—like Olympic weightlifting. I’ve never been big on sports, but when it comes to the Olympics or Paralympics, I always make sure to follow events like badminton, boxing, diving, and weightlifting. Badminton is a national love in Malaysia, especially since some of the world’s top players are Malaysian. As for diving and weightlifting, we have incredible athletes who come from my own home state of Sarawak.
But what truly strikes me are the women weightlifters. These plus-size Olympians don’t get the credit they deserve. The world tends to picture women Olympians as thin-waisted, with sculpted abs and long, lean legs. But what about the women who lift more than twice their weight? What about Sarah Robles, Emily Campbell, Holley Mangold, Li Wenwen, and so many others?
They are powerful, confident, and glorious. These beautiful Olympians remind me that strength does not look just one way. It comes in every size and shape.
I’m still learning, still grieving the body I used to have. I’m learning to be grateful, to appreciate the body that has endured trauma—and survived. I’m done hiding because I’ve looked into the past, and I saw Venus there. And in her and his gaze, I truly saw myself—beautiful and worthy.
And here’s a poem I wrote to accompany this post.
Venus
This belly needs a tuck— wrinkled, stretched, after birthing our warren of rabbits. It’s a map of every time I broke but kept going— still, it asks to be kissed.
This skin— salted, soft, and scratched by fingers that fed, held, bled— still dares to shimmer.
I am not a before, or an after. I am the altar where you kneel at my temple, again and again, falling apart in my hands.
If something carried my name, it would not be a star, a street, or a species of bird. No, I believe it would be more intimate. I’m not always sure how to define myself. Sometimes I feel like a color. It is not a solid color you find in stores or on paint charts. It’s a blend of several shades at once. It burns slowly before softening into something else.
This poem is the first piece of a new series of poetry, stories, and art called Color Studies: Olivia. It’s a way for me to trace the shape of who I am through emotion, memory, and metaphor. This first piece is the closest I’ve come to naming the in-between shade I carry in my heart.
The Color Called Olivia
There’s a shade I carry that no one’s ever named. Not even the sky has a word for it. It comes after the burn, before the skin peels. It’s not plum. Not violet. It happens after violet, when the bruise turns philosophical.
I wear it like breath— soft, unnoticed, until it’s gone. I’ve been called gentle. But they don’t see how my gentleness and sorrow are barbed wire wrapped in silk.
My laugh has layers echoing through my ribs. They hear it— but not the hush that comes before.
I’m the shade of ink tainted with memory, of bruised hibiscus on the windowsill, of dusk pressed between diary pages. I’m the color of “I want but I shouldn’t,” of loving him in fragments because whole is too dangerous.
They’ll never sell me in stores. Bottle me up. Claim me. I’m the color of dusk over a foreign city, where no one knows my name. I could be anyone. I could be no one.
I’ve always felt as if I exist in between what I desire and what I allow myself to have. Writing this helped me identify that feeling, not with a label, but with a color. I don’t think any of us consist of “solid colors.” We are many things: bruises, washes, and layers. I’m slowly discovering what shades I am, and this is the first one.
If you were a color, what would it be? Or what color do you become when someone sees you?
Olivia's Atelier 
