Nights Beneath the Mosquito Net

It’s a memory so soft, so far away, it almost feels like I dreamed it. But it was real.

I was ten, maybe eleven. We were back at the longhouse, in our bilik, the apartment that was our family’s space within the longhouse. There were no bedrooms, no separate rooms. Just us, rolling out our mats, hanging mosquito nets, settling down for the night. There was no electricity then, so nights came early. A single oil lamp flickered in the middle of the room, casting shadows that danced along the wooden walls.

And this was when my grandmother would start telling her stories.

She didn’t sit up to tell them. She lay down, just as we did, her voice weaving through the silence. She spoke of people she had known, incidents long past, things that had happened when the world was younger. Her words filled the dark, mingling with the sounds of the jungle outside. We’d listen as sleep slowly pulled us under, her voice becoming part of our dreams.

I don’t remember the details of her stories. Decades have passed. But I remember the feeling. The peace. The comfort. The sense of being anchored to something larger, older, gentler.

Sometimes I wonder if my children will ever have moments like that. Moments where stories are not read from books or screens but spoken softly in the dark, meant only for their ears.

That memory, fragile as it is, is one of my favorites. Because in that moment, I felt safe. I felt home.

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When Passion Feels Like Work

Today I felt as if I were running in place. Not because I’m lost, but because the journey is long.

I’ve recently been devoting a lot of time to my Etsy shop. Learning, doing, testing, improving, failing, and adjusting. And doing it all again. This is not my first venture. I’ve had multiple internet stores on different sites that have generated passive income for years. But Etsy is a completely different beast. A new challenge for growth.

I’ve been building digital shops while raising my children for over a decade. There is no nanny or assistant. Just me, showing up every day, struggling to balance the invisible weight of being a parent and ambition with whatever strength I can muster. My capital is limited. My energy was often stretched thin. Everything is hands-on.

I’m not saying this to complain.

I say this because we need to recognize what it takes to create something from nearly nothing.

People talk a lot about passion but rarely about what happens when passion becomes a career. When inspiration alone is not enough. It demands stamina, fortitude, and faith in the unseen.

This isn’t a glamorous path. But it is mine.

And I am still walking it. Still deciding to show up. Still believe that slow is not the same as stagnant. I’m still discovering that perseverance doesn’t have to be loud. It is often quiet, exhausting, and unchanging.

If you’re there, I see you. And if you aren’t there yet, you will understand one day, when your heart is totally invested in something that also leaves you drained.

This is what it means to care.

This is what it means to keep striving.

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The Only Way I Know Not to Forget

The answer isn’t loud. It doesn’t arrive with flashy ambitions or bold declarations.

It’s silent. Steady. Rooted.

I am passionate about remembering and honoring.

I honor and remember not only to preserve personal memories but also as a way of fending off cultural erasure. It is also a sign of devotion to my ancestors, the land, and everything that made me.

I didn’t grow up in the longhouse as my parents did. I was raised in the urban areas. But culture was never absent from my childhood. When my grandparents were still alive, we’d return to the longhouse for the holidays. It sat peacefully by the river, where the rainforest hold ancient tales and the air smelled of damp earth and woodsmoke. Our songs were sung in Iban. Our prayers were whispered into the land and borne by the wind. We spoke to the land as if it were family. Because it was.

At thirteen, I left home for boarding school, relocated to the big city, and then traveled to other countries for work. Over time, English became my dominant language, and I now speak it more fluently than Iban. I’ve raised my children in a world of shopping malls and neon lights, where the only rivers are highways and the jungle exists only in manicured, trimmed parks.

Will they recognize the sound of pantun sung at dusk?

Will they appreciate the taste of kasam ensabi or understand the beauty of our rich poetry and invocation to the deities who live in Panggau Libau, the land above the skies?

I am passionate about preserving these things. Even if it means teaching them clumsily. Even if I feel like a deteriorating bridge attempting to bear the weight of two worlds.

Why? Because culture isn’t something we simply inherit. It’s something we keep alive.

So I write and draw. I create poetry rooted in my heritage for my children and myself.

I do this not because I believe it will change the world.

But it’s the only way I know to avoid forgetting.

So that is my passion.

And that is how I love my people, my identity, my culture.

And that is how I love myself.

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I Don’t Have a Season

We don’t have seasons as in the West. No snowdrifts, golden leaves, cherry blossoms, or pumpkin spice. However, I still have a favorite season.

It arrives gradually and without fanfare.

The sky goes from bright to bruised. The heat intensifies and eventually turns into rain. I can always feel it in my body before it happens, a certain aching and restlessness. The monsoon.

Some people dread it. The damp laundry, flooded drains and floods, and the wet days. But me? I wait for it.

The monsoon season is the one time when I feel like the world slows down enough to breathe. When the rain beats against the zinc roof and the windows fog up, I feel my inner loosening. It allows me to pause.

It reminds me of my kampung days, when we ate durian under the awning as the rain fell sideways. When I would lie on the floor with a book while my sisters listened to the radio.

Now in the city, I’m still waiting for it. I still write or create my best work when the sky is gray. I’m still craving hot Milo and stillness the rain brings. It’s the time of year when I return to the page with less hesitation and my memories seem more vivid.

So, no, I don’t have a favorite season, such as autumn or spring. I have a favourite sky and rain. A season that lives inside me rather than outside.

And when it arrives, I know who I am again.

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Time, a Book, and Me

If I had to choose one luxury that I couldn’t live without, it wouldn’t be pricey or rare. It’s not about expensive bags or luxurious holidays. It isn’t even a spa day, though I would like one. No, the one luxury I cling to with both hands, the one that saves me over and again, is this: a peaceful moment with a book or time alone to create.

Books have been a luxury for me since I was a child. Long before I knew what luxury meant. I would save my pocket money to buy used storybooks from old bookstores, read beneath the blanket with a torchlight, or turn pages while eating Maggi at the dining table. Even decades later, the emotion remains unchanged. I still find solace in books, the way they consume me and transport me away. I still underline lines that cut through the chaos of life and say, “Yes. This.”

Even more rare is the luxury of time. Time dedicated completely to myself. As a mother and a woman with too many responsibilities, time feels like a borrowed commodity. But when I have a moment of silence, when the kids are away at school, the chores can wait, and the world stops knocking, that’s when I return to myself.

I write. I sketch. I look at the sky and let my mind wander. In such moments, I’m remembering and reclaiming. I’m not simply surviving.

So perhaps the true luxury is not just time or books, but a mix of the two: time to read, time to create, and time to rediscover oneself. Not anyone’s mother, wife, or daughter. It’s just me, Olivia, alone with her thoughts and her art.

And that, to me, is the most beautiful thing in the world.

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Becoming Alara

If I had to change my name, I think I would choose Alara.

It’s not that I don’t like my name; Olivia has served me well. It’s soothing, familiar, and if I’m allowed to be honest, it’s gorgeous. I like my name, and I also have a beautiful second name, which is my indigenous Iban name; however, to protect my identity, I won’t disclose it here. But sometimes I imagine slipping into another skin, one free of past associations, like cooling rain falling on virgin land.

Alara.

There is something liquid about it. Like water rushing through stone. It reminds me of rivers, of things that adapt and keep going, carving their way through barriers with patience rather than force. That is the woman I am striving to become. Less harsh edges, more grace in motion.

Alara is said to mean “water fairy” in Turkish legend. I like it for the thought of living near water, gently transporting things from one place to another, rather than for the whimsy of wings and magic. Some people believe it implies the qualities of a guardian, being exalted and joyful. I’ll take all of it. I’ve spent years learning to keep my sanity, to lift myself when things get heavy, and to find joy even in the midst of silent suffering.

Will the name change me? Maybe not. However, it would be a turning point, like a reclaiming or a reminder that I’m allowed to become someone new if I want to. That I may wrap my past stories in silk and place them on a shelf as relics from a life I lived.

Alara would write barefoot, under the trees. She would talk only when she felt moved. She would love without apologizing for how deeply she feels. She would walk away from things that crushed her spirit, no matter how painful it was. She would live, not perform.

But here I am, still Olivia. And that’s perfectly fine too. Maybe I don’t have to change my name to be more like myself.

Still… if I ever did, you’d find Alara somewhere by the shore, writing poetry and stories about the woman she used to be.

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You Don’t Have to Know Everything to Care Deeply

I don’t have a personal story about autism. I’m not autistic. I’m not the parent of an autistic child. I don’t teach in a special needs classroom. I haven’t walked that journey firsthand. But I’ve been watching silently from the sidelines, trying to comprehend.

I have friends and family with autistic children. My nephew exhibits characteristics that would place him on the spectrum, but he has never been properly diagnosed. I’ve heard stories about public meltdowns, heartache caused by being misunderstood, and fear and love that coexist in a parent’s eyes. I’ve read, asked, and reflected. And through it all, I understood something: you don’t have to have been through the experience to stand with someone who has.

This bundle (in my Etsy shop) is my way of doing that.

Ten designs created with color and care. Each quote was picked to affirm, encourage, and advocate. Whether you’re a parent, a teacher, a neurodivergent individual, or just someone who wants to express their feelings, these pieces were designed to say: I see you. I support you. I think that inclusion is more than simply knowledge; it is love in action.

Perhaps I don’t have the right words. Perhaps I’ll never truly understand it. But I want to try. I want my art to be like a kind touch on someone’s shoulder, a simple reminder that they are important and that their existence brightens the world.

I hope this bundle gets to the people that need it. Not because I know best but because I care.

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What His Silence Taught Me About Intimacy

It wasn’t an awkward silence. Nor the silence of distance or dismissal. His silence was something else entirely. It had gravity. Shape. It wrapped around me like twilight settling over the city. And in that silence, I discovered something I never fully understood before: intimacy does not necessarily manifest itself through words or touch.

In those early days, I remember him across the café table. We spoke, certainly. But it was in fragments. There were lengthy intervals where nothing needed to be said, yet I never felt compelled to fill the silence. He never pushed. Never filled silences just to hear himself speak. And maybe that’s why I found myself letting my guard down, little by little, without even meaning to.

There was something sacred in how he listened. He didn’t listen to respond. He listened like he was trying to memorize me. When he finally did speak, it wasn’t to impress or correct me but to reflect something I hadn’t realized I was trying to express. His silence wasn’t an absence. It was presence without intrusion.

One evening, we stood side by side on Lover’s Bridge. The river shimmered beneath us, and the sky was painted in pink and gold. We didn’t touch. We didn’t speak. But something passed between us, though, that couldn’t be seen or touched. Somehow right then and there, our bodies found a rhythm beside each other, like the choreography of trust.

What surprised me the most was how seen I felt in his silence. He didn’t demand performance. He didn’t ask for confessions. And yet, standing next to him, I felt understood. It felt as though he was able to hear everything I didn’t say yet still chose to stay.

That kind of intimacy is unusual. It asks nothing but provides everything. It is not based on lofty declarations but on humble agreements. Like how he read my poems and didn’t say anything after but looked at me with nonjudgmental eyes. Just understanding.

In a culture obsessed with noise and proof, he reminded me that some truths are whispered. Some of the most personal experiences we may have are felt rather than expressed. Some bonds are born not in words, but in willingness. To stay. To witness.

So no, his silence never made me anxious. It made me feel safe. It taught me that intimacy isn’t always loud or clear. Sometimes it’s a quiet agreement between two people who stop pretending they have to explain everything to be understood.

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Unplug | Clearer. Lighter. Me

I don’t usually see it at first.

The signs begin subtly, like a familiar fatigue that persists despite rest. I scroll longer but feel empty. I start comparing rather than connecting. I feel like I’m behind, that I should be doing more, yet I lack the motivation to start.

That’s when I realize it’s time to unplug.

Not only from social media, but from anything that takes me out of myself. The noise. Validation seeking. The constant pressure to be productive. Even the urge to keep creating when my heart feels dry.

When I feel scattered, I unplug. When I lose control of my own rhythm. When my body tenses, my thoughts become rigid. I don’t wait for burnout anymore. I notice it earlier now. I don’t always succeed, but I try.

When I unplug, I get back to simple things:

A slow walk without my phone.
A long shower without a sense of urgency.
Pen and paper—writing with no audience or outcome.
Music. Books. Blank space. Silence.

Unplugging isn’t an escape. It’s a return to serenity, peace, and the gentle rhythm of who I am beneath all that noise.

And when I come back, I come back clearer. Lighter. More like myself.

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On Friendship | A Constellation of Qualities

What quality do I value most in a friend?

I’ve been staring at this question for a while, trying to think of one thing. Only one. But the fact is that I can’t. I’m not wired that way.

Because the sort of friend I need, particularly at this point in life, is not characterized by a single trait. They are more like a constellation. A consistent, steady presence held together by little, delicate details that most people overlook.

I value emotional depth. That is the first thing. I want to sit across from someone and talk about grief, about old love that never left the body, motherhood’s challenges, and the sense of not knowing who you are at times.

But depth without safety is dangerous. So I value a friend who gives me a safe space to unravel. The ones who don’t rush to fix or dismiss what I say. Who don’t recoil when I cry or go quiet. Who don’t see my softness as a burden to carry or a puzzle to solve. Just someone who can sit with me in the dark without needing to turn on the light.

Then there’s “soulful curiosity,” which isn’t the nosy kind. The sort of friend that says, “What have you been thinking about lately? What moved you this week?” Or the sort of friend that sends me a poem, meme, article, or quote because it made them think of me. The kind that listens when I talk about my culture, my writing, and the fears I’m still grappling with. The type of friend that doesn’t shy away from depth, but instead leans in closer and with care.

I also appreciate loyalty. Not the performative kind that only appears when things are going well, but the kind that sticks around. The sort that recalls what I said months ago, follows up, and forgives my silences. Who doesn’t require constant tending yet is always there when I return. I don’t open up easily. So, when I do, I want to know that it mattered.

And, because I often live in my head, I appreciate people who understand my silences. Who is not insulted when I take a step back to breathe. Who don’t associate presence with constant texting (I dislike this type of people. They need to connect all the time and that’s suffocating and tedious). Who recognizes that solitude is part of how I survive, and yet remain close.

Lastly, I value kindness in words like honest, gentle affirmation. Not flattery or forced optimism. I second-guess myself too often. I often feel like an imposter even in rooms I’ve earned my place in. So a kind word from a friend that is spoken without expectation, lingers. It becomes an anchor and assurance for me.

So no, I can’t choose just one quality because I’ve never been the type to love in halves.

Not in friendship.

Not in life.

Not even in my answers to questions like this.

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