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?
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.
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.
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 allowedhimto 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.
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.
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.
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 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.
