On Owning the Sacred Flesh & Plus-Size Olympians

Daily writing prompt

What Olympic sports do you enjoy watching the most?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Image source

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.

Image source

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.

The Color Called Olivia

Daily writing prompt

If you could have something named after you, what would it be?

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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?

The Way I Laugh

Daily writing prompt

What makes you laugh?

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Some people can make you laugh without even trying. It’s not a loud or showy laugh, but the type of laugh that catches you off guard.

This is a mini story about that kind of laughter and a poem I wrote to accompany this story.

Image source

It started with the way he looked at the tea I made.

“You put mushrooms in this?” he asked, peering into the mug.

I fought a smile. “It’s reishi. It’s good for your liver. Just drink it.”

He leaned in and sniffed, suspicion all over his face. “It smells like regret.”

That got a laugh out of me. “Don’t be such a baby.”

He narrowed his eyes, took a dramatic sip, and instantly recoiled. “Are you trying to kill me? Admit it. This is revenge for the pen.”

“You stole it,” I said.

“I borrowed it indefinitely.”

He drank another sip, dramatically clutching his chest. “If I die from this, please delete my browser history.”

I burst out laughing again.

He looked pleased with himself.

I tried to change the subject, flipping through a magazine on the table. He leaned over, peering at a photo of a hairless cat.

“Is that a testicle with whiskers?”

I almost choked on my tea.

“That’s it. Get out of my apartment.” I was still laughing.

He held up his hands. “I’ll go. But only if you admit that laugh means you’re secretly in love with me.”

I threw a cushion at him. He caught it midair and hugged it to his chest. “Even your cushion loves me.”

“You’re so full of yourself.”

He wandered over to my bookshelf, checking the titles. “Didn’t peg you for a Murakami girl.”

“Didn’t peg you for someone who uses the word ‘peg.’”

He smirked. “Careful. You’re laughing again.”

And I was.

Later, when the conversation slowed, we sat on the couch. I didn’t want him to leave. Not just yet. He retrieved a pen from my desk and held it in front of him.

“This one yours too?”

“Maybe.”

“Should I take it? Just in case I need another reason to come back.”

He didn’t need a reason.

But I let him have it anyway.

I Gave You Tea

I gave you tea
for healing.
You drank it.
Your fingers brushed mine
when I handed you the cup,
and neither of us flinched.

You made a face,
said it tasted like regret.

I laughed.
And laughed again.

See, love—
I don’t laugh easily,
like something that escapes
from deep inside,
and betrays the body.

I gave you bad tea.
And you
say things that unmake me
in all the right places.

The Loneliness That Lives Inside Love

Daily writing prompt

What’s something most people don’t understand?

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

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

This post is not meant to bash my husband.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Marriage

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

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

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

Still, he comes home.

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

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

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

We are not broken,
only bruised by expectation.

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

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

He lifts the roof.
I hold the floor.

And in the middle,
we meet.

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Reflection | A Rebellion Beneath My Breasts

Daily writing prompt

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

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Image source

I don’t usually say “no” out loud. Not like people imagine—with steely resolve or loud announcements.

But I speak quietly—in small decisions, in between invitations, or when I left several trivial texts unanswered.

When I moved to Taipei two decades ago (for work), I didn’t have a set list of goals. I arrived with curiosity and a bag full of lonely ambition. The first several months felt like a jumble of polite conversations and an endless stream of data on spreadsheets. I attended dinners with coworkers because I had to, not because I wanted to. I replied yes because of responsibility but no in my heart.

However, I gradually began to make other choices.

I stopped wasting my evenings with pointless nonsense. I found cafes with fogged-up windows and dim lighting where I could write. I stopped accepting weekend plans simply to avoid being alone. I began declining activities that diverted my attention away from what was important: reflection, art, and authentic experiences.

Some people express “no” by closing doors. I say it while slowly walking in the opposite direction.

I may not always know where I’m heading, but I do know what I’m no longer willing to participate in. That’s a start.

These days, my “no” does not imply rejection. It’s a diversion or a simple acknowledgment of the space I require to breathe, create, and exist.

I recall the moment I nodded and allowed him to sit across from me in that café. It was hardly anything. However, it was pregnant with meaning.

I had always said no to strangers, spontaneous encounters, and anything that threatened the careful solitude I had built around myself like armor. But that day, I didn’t.

I didn’t say “yes” aloud. I simply didn’t say “no”.

And sometimes, that’s okay.

Quiet Nod

It wasn’t a yes.
Just a twitch in my neck
and a rebellion beneath my breasts—
a dare whispered to the
soft animal of my body:
Stay.

You dragged the chair
and stirred something feral
I’d buried beneath work
and loneliness.

You sat and
asked nothing.
Still, I answered
by not running.

And maybe that’s how it starts—
without longing,
but with the smallest betrayal
of your own solitude.

Maybe the truest ‘no’ is the one we say to fear—so that something else can finally answer yes.

After the Rain | When He Returns—in the light, the puddles, the sky

Daily writing prompt

What is your favorite type of weather?

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My favorite weather is right after it rains—when the sky turns clear and blue, and the air feels cool against my skin. There’s something about that moment that always makes me think of him.

This poem is my response to the blogging prompt “What is your favorite type of weather?” For me, it’s not solely about the weather but the memories it brings back: the cafe we used to go to, neon reflections in rain puddles, our walks by the riverside, his glance when I turned slightly toward him, then looked away. And that one moment I’ll never forget—when love became something sacred between us.

I wrote this to hold onto all of that. Maybe you’ll feel a bit of it too.

Image source

After the Rain

After the rain,
a sky reborn in blue and cool air—
where I miss you most.

I remember the café,
between raindrops and neon on puddles—
pink, yellow, red, blue—
of cooled steel and second chances.

You were always most beautiful in that light—
when the clouds shifted
to make way for clarity.
There you sat, gazing through the window.
I nodded—
and we stepped outside,
two shadows in the wet streets,
to the path along the riverside,
where children raced their scooters,
wild, unburdened joy.

Your hands in your pockets.
I turned just enough to meet your gaze,
then looked away.

And then,
in the aftermath, unbound by the gentle drizzle,
I found you—
on bended knees,
where I was both altar and sinner,
reminding me that love,
in its truest form,
is its own sacred weather.

Do you remember
how even the storm became a confession,
and every clear sky
revealed the beauty
of our impermanence?

I still wander in the clear wake—
a pilgrim of rain and neon dreams,
and every breath of cool air
carries the wonder of you.

Reflection | On Being Enough As I Am

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

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

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

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

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

Then I quit.

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

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

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

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

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

Enough

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

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

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

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

The Criminologist

I worked on this piece over the weekend. The lines are taken from my poem, The Criminologist. So far, I have four of my poems published in online literary journals/art websites, but I hesitate to share the links here because that would expose my identity. I prefer to be anonymous for now so I can write more freely without my internal censors actively working to prevent me from writing truthfully. No explanation is needed for this piece; I just let the art and poem speak for themselves.

Constellation of Binaries

I worked on this all day Saturday. I haven’t drawn in months because I’ve been focusing so much on writing these days. But occasionally I felt compelled to express myself via art, and I enjoy combining it with poetry. I will not explain the meaning of this poem. You may interpret it as you like since, to me, poetry is about capturing emotion at an exact moment and there is no need for a backstory.

I worked in pencils and sometimes graphite sticks.

The completed drawing.

The poem.

Inheriting Courage From My Warrior Ancestors

When I close my eyes, memories rise like smoke from a dying fire. I can still hear the gendang’s beating and my family’s joyful chatter from Gawai. I was ten years old and surrounded by the warmth of my people. The elders shared stories of our ancestors—Orang Kaya Pemancha Dana Bayang, Aji Apai Limpa, and Nakhoda Panglima Budin Gerasi—all courageous warriors of great renown. That courage, I’ve been told, is in my blood. But what does that mean in a place so far removed from their reality?

I’ve recently been reading Xiaolu Guo’s Nine Continents: A Memoir In and Out of China. Her exploration of identity, displacement, and cultural heritage resonates deeply with me. Xiaolu often addresses issues of alienation and belonging in her works, and she has become one of my favorite authors. Her writing inspired me to think about my own journey, which led me to write this post.

Our Warrior Culture

The Iban were famed for their warrior culture, defined by war expeditions and headhunting. It was once an important aspect of our spiritual beliefs and society framework. To be Iban means to be a warrior. Headhunting was not a barbaric pastime, as outsiders may believe. It was a necessary way of life since it signified protection, honor, and a connection to the spirit realm. While the act itself faded into history, the essence of the courage has been passed down through generations.

I often asked myself, “What remains of the warrior spirit?”. Sometimes it feels like a quiet force pushing me forward. In moments of difficulty, I draw on the courageous spirit of my ancestors. Their legacy reminds me that I have the strength to persevere in the face of overwhelming odds. Perhaps it is genetic memory, the invisible link that ties me to my ancestors and passes down the legacy of courage across generations.

The Loss of Tradition

However, bravery alone cannot fill the gaps. Living in urban places like Kuala Lumpur has distanced me from the traditions that constitute my identity. When my extended family embraced Christianity in the 1950s, it marked a shift from animistic beliefs. Urban living also entails replacing the communal life of the longhouse. Many other aspects of our culture are disappearing, such as the extensive oral poetry tradition.

I am caught in a dilemma. On the one hand, I value the opportunities and conveniences of modern living. On the other hand, I mourn the loss of vibrant traditions that shaped our way of life. These losses make me wonder how we can honor the past while embracing the present.

Image source The late Temenggong Koh (left), one of the last Iban warleaders of the 20th century, before headhunting was completely outlawed by the British colony.

The Sense of Alienation

Life in the city often exacerbates this disconnection. Here, I am just a fragment of an Iban: a name that suggests a foreign land, a face that others might find unfamiliar. When people ask where I’m from, my responses may seem inadequate. How can I explain a longhouse? Or, even if I can explain it, how do I dispel their misconception that modern Ibans still live on trees and wear loincloths? How can I explain our different Gawai, or traditional festivals, when they typically only celebrate one or two holidays, like Eid or Lunar New Year? However, in the heart of this alienation, I’ve realized that identity is not static. It is a fluid interplay of past and present, shaped by our decisions and circumstances.

Strength Through Cultural Roots

Nonetheless, I remain connected to my roots. They are not always visible, but they are present. My ancestors’ courage motivates me to face my fears and embrace the unknown. The warrior spirit is not a relic from the past but rather a driving force in my life today.

During difficult times, I found myself returning to the stories of my ancestors. They endured jungles, battles, and scarcity. I remind myself of their tenacity—if they can endure, so can I.

The loud proclamation of success does not equate to strength. Perseverance and the ability to adapt without forgetting are qualities that define strength. The warrior spirit is about enduring in a world that often forces us to forget who we are.

Preserving Tradition

My original poem from Sarawak collection of poetry

Poetry has been one way for me to preserve my culture. Writing has become a means of connecting the past and present, who I was and who I am becoming. It allows me to hold onto what feels like it’s slipping away.

I aspire to one day publish my poems and leave a legacy for my children. When the time comes for them to discover their roots, I hope my words will serve as a guide, helping them understand who they are and where they came from. Writing allows me to keep the stories alive as the world around us changes.

My identity is a patchwork of memories, stories, and dreams. I am neither fully of the past nor fully of the present. But maybe that’s what it means to be Iban today: to walk on a bridge, perpetually caught between two realities.

I am part of something bigger than myself, a heritage of power, fortitude, and endurance. While I may live far away from my people’s homeland, the essence of my heritage lives on, molding my journey and grounding me in a world that is often divided.

I carry the warrior spirit with me because I am descended from people who endured. So I take a step forward, not knowing where the journey will take me, but knowing it is worthwhile. Like the warrior spirit that runs through my blood, this journey is not always easy, but it is always worth it.

My cousin’s traditional wedding.