Writing Myself Back Into Wholeness

Daily writing prompt

Describe one positive change you have made in your life.

“To express yourself, first you have to know yourself.” ~ Ethan Hawke

For years, I spoke in half-truths. This was not due to dishonesty, but rather a belief that the world could not fully comprehend the depth of my emotions.

I used to censor myself, not because I was polite but because I was fearful. I was afraid of being misunderstood—of being too much or not enough. I spoke and wrote what I thought was acceptable. I shared what I believed was sufficient to maintain a safe distance. I was close enough to be your acquaintance or close enough to read, but never close enough to truly know me or see me.

But eventually, something inside me shifted.

The most positive shift in my life hasn’t been visible from the outside. It’s not a milestone or a new habit. The shift is internal and deeply personal. I was tired of telling myself lies, so I started telling the truth—to myself first and then on the page.

I don’t write to seek validation. I write to describe how I feel, even if I don’t fully understand it. I write about things I used to feel ashamed of or guilty about, like longing, joy, or even grief. Writing became my way of breathing again, where I could process the things I was never allowed to say aloud.

I began to write for myself. I don’t care about approval or applause. I finally showed myself kindness by listening to the voice inside me that had been silent for too long. And in that listening, I let go of the idea that everything I write needs to be perfect. I made peace with my voice and gave myself permission to write messily with broken English and fragmented sentences. The point was to get the truth across.

In the past, I equated worth with perfection. If it wasn’t polished, it wasn’t worthy. But now, I see beauty in the rawness. I trust that my words, even the unpolished ones, still matter. And in letting go of perfection, I made space for something more important: honesty.

Writing authentically is not the only positive shift in my life. I also gave myself permission to want more.

I used to feel shame about my desires—emotional, intellectual, and physical. Especially physical. I thought craving intimacy made me selfish or inappropriate. A taboo. I told myself it wasn’t appropriate to want it so much at my age. I convinced myself my body should’ve quieted by now.

But I’ve stopped silencing that part of myself. There is nothing wrong with having desire. It’s not something to be ashamed of. Desire is a sign that I am human— that I am still alive and that I am still curious. I finally accept that I’m a woman who feels deeply, who longs fiercely, and who no longer wants to apologize for it.

I also started being more honest in love. I used to hide my needs, swallow my sadness, and avoid confrontation. However, silence turned into resentment, and pretending not to feel only made me feel more alone. Now I speak my needs plainly, knowing no one can read minds. I also write about facets of love that are difficult and rarely celebrated in public.

And somewhere along the way, I discovered my voice.

My anonymous blog became my safe place. This is a place where I can write without worrying about who might be reading. I can express myself freely without worrying about receiving criticism for revealing too much or being too honest. In this space, I don’t write to offend or oppose anyone. I write to unburden and silence the inner critic that once kept me small.

This blog is my safe space for healing.

And maybe the bravest thing I’ve ever done…is to let my healing speak for itself.

Why I’ll Always Come Back to The English Patient

Daily writing prompt

What book could you read over and over again?

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Some books become landmarks in your life. It becomes more than something you read when you return to its pages again and again, like a familiar scent or a half-remembered dream. For me, that book is The English Patient by Michael Ondaatje.

I got my copy in 1997 while waiting for my night shift to start. I was 20 at the time, working part-time while studying for my IT diploma. My shift began at 6 p.m. and finished at 6 a.m. the following day. After dinner, I went to a nearby bookshop and picked up the novel. The film adaptation was playing in cinemas at the time, but I didn’t watch it until years later. I read the book during my breaks at work, but it took me a long time to finish it.

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Ondaatje’s prose was difficult. It didn’t care for neatness. The narrative was fragmented, the rhythm unpredictable—the whole narrative is a long lyrical poem. But I stuck with it, turning each page slowly, sometimes painfully. And I’m glad I did. While others found it disjointed, that was precisely what drew me in. It was too poetic for the mainstream, too fragmented for easy consumption, and too sensual for readers who prioritize plot. That’s what I enjoyed about it then—and still do.

When I went to university to pursue my IT degree, The English Patient became a silent friend. I read it during long, lonely afternoons in my hostel room as a soothing escape from the chaos of university life. Through Ondaatje’s pages, I could retreat to the worn walls of Villa San Girolamo, into the burned silence of the English Patient, and the sun-drenched memories of the Cave of Swimmers. I must have read the book ten times throughout the years.

The story unfolds in the same way that memory does: disorganized, sensory, and half-lit. We learn about the English Patient’s past before, during, and after WWII. Of Katharine Clifton and their forbidden love. Of Hana, the grieving nurse who cares for him in the villa. Of Caravaggio, the thief turned British spy with missing thumbs. Of Kip, a gentle Indian sapper who dismantles bombs and falls in love with Hana despite their cultural differences.

The patient’s only possession is a battered, annotated copy of Herodotus’ Histories that survived the flames when his plane crashed in the desert. The crash badly burned him and caused amnesia. He couldn’t remember his name and lost his identity, but his voice led many to believe he was English. In time, we learn he is actually László de Almásy, a Hungarian cartographer and desert adventurer. Almásy’s character is loosely based on a real-life counterpart, Count László Almásy, a Hungarian aristocrat and explorer.

I remember reading passages aloud to my lover during late-night chats. We watched the movie adaptation on VCD, but I hated it. It lacked the haunting lyricism of the novel. The lushness of Ondaatje’s words cannot be translated to screen. His sentences breathe, linger, and seep in. They don’t just move the story forward. They remain in you long after you finish the novel.

I haven’t read the book in years. Maybe it’s time to read it again. Some parts of me have changed; others haven’t. I suspect the story will read differently now, the way all great books do when you return to them older and bruised with life.

There’s one passage that’s followed me for years, so much so that I placed it on my About Me page:

“She had always wanted words, she loved them; grew up on them. Words gave her clarity, brought reason, shape.”

This quote refers to Katharine Clifton, but I feel it suits me as well.

There are many other lines that have stayed with me through the years. There are too many to list, but here are a few that still haunt me:

“We die containing a richness of lovers and tribes, tastes we have swallowed, bodies we have plunged into and swum up as if rivers of wisdom, characters we have climbed into as if trees, fears we have hidden in as if caves. I wish for all this to be marked on by body when I am dead. I believe in such cartography—to be marked by nature, not just to label ourselves on a map like the names of rich men and women on buildings. We are communal histories, communal books. We are not owned or monogamous in our taste or experience.”

― Michael Ondaatje, The English Patient

“I believe this. When we meet those we fall in love with, there is an aspect of our spirit that is historian, a bit of a pedant who reminisces or remembers a meeting when the other has passed by innocently…but all parts of the body must be ready for the other, all atoms must jump in one direction for desire to occur.”

― Michael Ondaatje, The English Patient

“Moments before sleep are when she feels most alive, leaping across fragments of the day, bringing each moment into the bed with her like a child with schoolbooks and pencils. The day seems to have no order until these times, which are like a ledger for her, her body full of stories and situations.”

― Michael Ondaatje, The English Patient

“This was the time in her life that she fell upon books as the only door out of her cell. They became half her world.”

― Michael Ondaatje, The English Patient

“In the desert the most loved waters, like a lover’s name, are carried blue in your hands, enter your throat. One swallows absence.”

― Michael Ondaatje, The English Patient

“Sometimes when she is able to spend the night with him they are wakened by the three minarets of the city beginning their prayers before dawn. He walks with her through the indigo markets that lie between South Cairo and her home. The beautiful songs of faith enter the air like arrows, one minaret answering another, as if passing on a rumor of the two of them as they walk through the cold morning air, the smell of charcoal and hemp already making the air profound. Sinners in a holy city.”

― Michael Ondaatje, The English Patient

The English Patient is not a book you finish or a book you can read casually. It’s a book you carry, absorb, and savor.

And I’ll keep returning to it.

As long as I need to remember how language can ruin you.

And heal you.

And leave you haunted in the best way.

Becoming Celine

Daily writing prompt

If you could be a character from a book or film, who would you be? Why?

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If I could be a character from a book or film, I would be Celine from the Before Trilogy. Yes, I’d love to be Celine—Julie Delpy’s character in Before Sunrise, Before Sunset, and Before Midnight.

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Those films stayed with me for many years since I discovered Before Sunrise in the early 2000s. That movie was released in 1995, a year after Reality Bites—another hit movie starring Ethan Hawke. Its sequel, Before Sunset, was released nine years later in 2004, and the final installment, Before Midnight, another nine years later in 2013.

I adore the trilogy for its dreamy long walks, the poetic ramblings, the agonizing feeling of time passing, and also Celine’s character development. In Before Sunrise, she begins as a charming, idealistic Sorbonne undergraduate, wide-eyed and open-hearted. She was sweet and willing to talk to an American traveler, Jesse Wallace (Ethan Hawke), on a Eurail. They disembarked in Vienna to spend the night together and explore the mystery of what-if.

And then nine years pass.

By Before Sunset, she has grown sharper. Her voice is steelier, and her eyes are more guarded. Life has touched and damaged her in many ways. But behind it all, she has the same curiosity, the desire to comprehend life, and what it means to belong to someone or not at all. Jesse is married and a writer now and has published a book about his experiences that fateful night nine years ago. Celine shows up at his book reading in Shakespeare & Co., watching and listening to him from the side of the room. And then their eyes met. That scene always gets me.

“I always feel this pressure of being a strong and independent icon of womanhood, and without making it look my whole life is revolving around some guy. But loving someone, and being loved means so much to me. We always make fun of it and stuff. But isn’t everything we do in life a way to be loved a little more?”

― Julie Delpy, Before Sunrise & Before Sunset: Two Screenplays

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Then came Before Midnight, another nine years later. Celine and Jesse are now in their forties and parents to twin daughters. Their conversations are no longer romantic musings under moonlight, but fueled by the reality of parenthood, aging, and the jadedness that settles into long-term love. They’re on holiday in Greece, but even the beautiful scenery can’t hide the fractures that have begun to appear. There’s tension, resentment, and emotional exhaustion.

They take long walks and talk like they always have, but their conversation is no longer about dreams and philosophies. Now they talk about regret, sacrifice, and voids that love couldn’t fill. There’s a scene in a hotel room that feels like a slow, approaching storm. You begin to wonder, did Jesse cheat on her? Did Celine ever fully forgive him? Did they lose parts of themselves in choosing to stay?

Despite their love, it’s evident that love isn’t always enough.

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That’s what makes Celine feel so authentic to me.

Perhaps I see myself in her because I, too, often live in my head. I question everything—especially love. I pay attention to details and cherish them.

“You can never replace anyone because everyone is made up of such beautiful specific details.”

― Julie Delpy, Before Sunset

I remember moments long after they have passed. I try to appear sensible, but I’m a huge romantic underneath it all. Like Celine, I struggle with guilt, restlessness, and the anguish of wanting something elusive. And like her, I strive to be honest, even if it hurts.

In another life, I could see myself in Paris. Walking by the Seine, notebook in hand, or perhaps sitting at Shakespeare & Co. with cold coffee beside me. I aspire to visit that bookstore one day. Just stand there and breathe in the pages.

Celine isn’t perfect. She’s charmingly imperfect, impetuous, and multifaceted. But she’s also deeply present. She listens and sees people. Perhaps it’s what I admire most about her—she doesn’t run from questions. She asks, even if there are no answers.

“I believe if there’s any kind of God it wouldn’t be in any of us, not you or me but just this little space in between. If there’s any kind of magic in this world it must be in the attempt of understanding someone sharing something. I know, it’s almost impossible to succeed but who cares really? The answer must be in the attempt.”

― Julie Delpy, Before Sunrise & Before Sunset: Two Screenplays

And, if I could become her for a while, I wouldn’t do it for the romance or the cities. I’d choose it because of the way she continues to ask, feel, and try—even when the answers are ambiguous and love falters.

That is exactly what I’m hoping for as well.

To keep on walking.
To keep on asking.
To keep on becoming.

On Owning the Sacred Flesh & Plus-Size Olympians

Daily writing prompt

What Olympic sports do you enjoy watching the most?

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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.

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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.

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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.

A Gentle Offering to the Quiet Ones

Daily writing prompt

How would you improve your community?

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I don’t have a community in the traditional sense. There’s no physical space to which I belong where people gather on a regular basis to exchange pleasantries and check in on one another. However, I have a discreet online presence where I build a slow-growing digital connection through words, art, and vulnerability.

If I could improve any community, it would be the invisible one. Women who write in the darkness. The silent creatives. Mothers who are stretched thin. Those who carry shame in their bodies, fear in their voices, and tenderness that they rarely express.

I want to spread gentleness where the world has been harsh.

I hope that my honest, imperfect, emotionally raw writing may help others feel less alone. They can breathe a bit better knowing that someone else understands how they feel. I aim to create a body of work that not only informs but also offers understanding. I want it to be a place where truth may exist unpolished.

My poetry, art, blog posts, essays, and even my online presence aren’t intended to impress. They are invitations to everyone to slow down, to feel, and to remember.

I come from a culture that seldom discusses grief, shame, or women’s private lives. By sharing my truths, I hope to offer people the freedom to explore their own. I want to be a part of a peaceful movement promoting honesty. It’s a movement in which we say to each other, “You are not broken. You are just human.”

So, how can I improve my community? By showing up with words, with heart, and with everything I used to hide. I don’t set out to fix anyone, but to say:

I see you. I’m still here and I understand.

When I Was Five, I Was Just Trying to Survive 5 Languages

Daily writing prompt

When you were five, what did you want to be when you grew up?

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Anne Sexton, one of my favorite poets. Image source.

I don’t remember what I wanted to be when I was five.

Maybe that’s because nobody asked. Or maybe because the word “ambition” didn’t exist in my world yet. It wasn’t a concept that came naturally to me. At five, I was navigating five languages all at once.

I started kindergarten at five, never dreaming of jobs or what I wanted to be when I grew up. I didn’t see it as something odd back then, but living in a multicultural country, I (and every Malaysian kid) was already exposed to different languages at a young age. My mother tongue was Iban and Malay was the national language. However, I was sent to a Chinese (Mandarin) speaking kindergarten. At the same time, I was learning English, my third language. On top of all that, many of my classmates spoke in another dialect—Sarawak Malay, which sounded nothing like the formal Malay I read in books. At the tender age of five, I was exposed to five different languages or dialects all at once: Iban, Malay, Mandarin, English, and Sarawak Malay.

I was grappling with words. My head was full of unfamiliar sounds, new rules, and foreign grammar. Maybe I didn’t have space for dreams then because I was too busy trying to understand the world through different languages.

Things started to shift when I turned eight. That’s when my mother made me a library card.

I was too young to go to the library on my own, so every couple of weeks, she borrowed two books for me—one in Malay, the other in English. I don’t remember what the first books were, but I remember how it felt—the excitement of holding stories in my hands. This is when I learned to lose myself in other people’s words and slowly began to find my own. I was a voracious reader and continued to devour books after books in the years to come.

I didn’t know I wanted to be a writer until my teens. And even then, it wasn’t ambition—it was longing. Since the age of 10, I had started to write poems and stories on the side. I never imagined it could be more than a hobby. I come from a place where literature isn’t part of daily life, where writing isn’t seen as a real path. Writers, I believed, didn’t make money and there was no future in it. So I studied computing instead because it was practical and could land me a great career—which it did.

But I kept writing. Privately. For fun.

Then the era of the Internet came, and with it, a different kind of freedom. I started blogging in 2008, but when the children came, I had to set it aside to raise them. However, I went back to it in 2017 and wrote actively on a platform for years. I gained a decent following (2000+) and was getting paid for my work. It was a very nice side gig until the platform’s new policy made me rethink my direction. When you were using a platform that wasn’t yours, you had to endure the whims of those in charge. So I started this little home here, in my own corner of the internet.

Since the pandemic, I’ve published four poems in literary journals and am currently working on a novella. I’m writing more poems and submitting them to literary journals for publication.

Writing may not pay the bills, but it pays in ways that matter more. It connects me to myself and gives me the courage to face my truths and share them with the world. Writing fills me in the ways that matter most.

So no, I don’t remember what I wanted to be when I was five.

But maybe I’m becoming it now.

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.

You are welcome to subscribe to my blog if my words resonate with you. Thank you.

When I Am an Older Woman, I Shall Continue to Write with AI

Daily writing prompt

How has technology changed your job?

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I know my title is going to ruffle some feathers, but hear me out.

“When I am an old woman, I shall wear purple…” Jenny Joseph wrote these words in her best-loved poem, Warning. She wrote it as a form of rebellion and a declaration that she no longer needed permission to be who she is. She used the poem to assert her freedom to live, dress, and speak on her own terms.

I found this poem after stumbling upon a video of Helena Bonham Carter reading it.

As someone in her late 40s, I think about that poem more often these days. No, I don’t feel old (well, slightly). I’m no spring chicken anymore, but I think of that poem because I feel done. Done asking for permission, done explaining myself, done seeking validation—to and from anyone. This sentiment is especially true when it comes to how I write.

Here is my declaration: I use AI, and I am not ashamed of it.

I’ve written about this before—here—when I discussed the growing tendency to shame people for using AI in their creative work. I’ve watched from the sidelines as creatives everywhere bickered among themselves about who is original versus who is not (read: cheaters). Right versus wrong.

It’s as if we’re all secretly cheating on some literary or art exam, as if the tools we use somehow invalidate the core essence or soul of what we’re trying to say or illustrate.

Let me be clear: I don’t condone copying and pasting from a chatbot and claiming it as your own. That’s not my message. I advocate for the ethical use of AI—as a thinking partner, a sounding board, a tool that helps me do the work I’ve always done, just faster and more efficiently.

I’m a portrait artist too. This is one of my past works.

AI helps me brainstorm. It guides me in structuring my ideas, refining my voice, and clarifying my points. It helps me generate new angles I might have overlooked when I’m struggling with perimenopausal brain fog. AI also reminds me to be grateful that I live in an era where I have access to high-tech tools and that my creativity doesn’t have to work alone.

Could I do all these things without AI? Absolutely. But it would take me days. And often, time is a luxury I can’t afford—not with work, family, responsibilities, and a thousand other things that make up my life. I’ve written this before and I’m repeating it again:

AI is helping more people to express themselves than ever before. Why are we writing? We write to express our emotions, share stories, and communicate ideas. I enjoy writing, and I do so on a daily basis. I want everyone to have that right and that joy, regardless of their circumstances. We can’t all go on long writing retreats by the sea, with our spouses pouring us delicious cups of coffee. The reality for most of us is that writing can be difficult. Maybe we have kids tugging at our clothes, maybe we’re exhausted from a full-time job, maybe we didn’t have great opportunities in school. Maybe English isn’t our first language—like me, an indigenous woman from an obscure tribe in Borneo—or maybe we’re fighting dyslexia, ADHD, or arthritis just to get the words on the page.

So I use what’s available, with intention and discernment. And I keep writing and making art.

AI is a tool, just like Photoshop is to photographers. No one accuses a skilled photographer of cheating when they enhance their work using Photoshop. The tool doesn’t make the art, but it helps bring the artist’s vision to life. It’s the same with me. I brainstorm and discuss my ideas with a chatbot (ChatGPT, Gemini, DeepSeek) before writing my own work. Then I refine it using tools like QuillBot or Grammarly. Others might prefer ProWriting Aid. These are just part of the process—like spellcheck, revision, or editing.

To my fellow middle-aged friends—especially those of us who’ve lived long enough to know what we want but are still figuring out how to say it—don’t be afraid of AI or feel ashamed of using it. Never let someone else’s discomfort dictate how you create. We have to speak boldly, not shrink.

The truth is, AI is here to stay. We can’t put it back in the box and pretend it doesn’t exist. There is no going back to a world before it. And if you can’t go against it, make it your ally. Use it wisely, and with integrity.

That’s what Jenny Joseph was really talking about, wasn’t she? The unapologetic freedom.

When I am an older woman—well, older than I am now—I shall continue to write with AI. I shall ignore the gatekeepers and the purists. I shall write freely, fiercely, authentically, and without shame. And I shall wear purple.

Just because I can.

I handwrote all of my writing, including this blog post, before editing it using QuillBot.

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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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.

Little Things I Wish I Had More Time For

Daily writing prompt

What do you wish you could do more every day?

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Waking up before dawn

The darkness is soft, almost porous. I lie on my bed for a moment, in half-light, listening to the world exhale. The refrigerator hums in the kitchen. Somewhere above, a toilet flushes. And far away, in my mind, a train shudders along its tracks.

Then—silence.

This silence is my companion. I want to sit with it longer and let it wrap around me like a blanket. But the world is already stirring. The koel calls for its mate. A muezzin’s call to prayer rises in the cool morning air. The day’s demands creep in like the first rays of sun.

I answer, always, because I must. The world moves, and I move with it.

Being a flâneur

Flâneur. It’s called being a flâneur. Wandering aimlessly without a destination or agenda. Just feet on pavement and hands in my pockets, watching people, and life. I’d notice things—sunlight cracking through the sidewalk, ants hauling crumbs from a toppled trash can. I go nowhere in particular, but in that nowhere, I find everything.

But being a flâneur is a luxury. Everyone wakes already moving. Our minds rushing three steps ahead, ticking off tasks, rehearsing conversations, calculating time. Even before our feet touch the ground. There’s no space for aimless wandering. Even when we try to slow down, something reminds us: idle time is wasted time.

Writing before the world intrudes

I write every day, carving out one to three hours, but what I long for is unhurried time, quiet hours where the mind is soft and open and the words flow smoothly. I have so much to say. But the day rushes in, relentless and loud. Its noise chips away at the focus I try to guard.

Reading without guilt

One page, one sentence, savored for the sheer pleasure of it. Like stealing time in a world that never stops asking. But the books pile up like a reminder of the time I don’t have or the attention I can’t spare.

What do you wish you could do more of every day?