This Is Not the Mother I Meant to Be

I could name only one, but that wouldn’t be honest.

A lot of times in my early years as a mother haunted me quietly like background static in an otherwise happy song. The yelling, harsh words, and unwarranted anger all fell directly on little shoulders. I wrote a poem about it once. It’s titled This Is Not the Mother I Was Meant to Be. It is now available in my Etsy shop, which can be found here.

The poem is more than just a piece of text. This is my confession. A gentle, timid apology. A mirror I held up to my own face on days when I thought I had failed in the most important duty.

I meant to be gentler. I wanted to listen more. But there were times when I snapped, yelled when I should have breathed deeply, spanked when I should have paused, gave them junk food and called it dinner and said things I wish I could take back. Things like, “Be quiet. Enough. Just stop.” When all I truly wanted to say was, “I am exhausted, honey. I am trying. I love you so much, it hurts.”

Even now, the guilt weighs heavy. But, with time, I’ve realized that remorse isn’t supposed to tie me to the past. It is meant to teach me, then let me go.

As the kids grew older, I began having open conversations with them. I apologized. Not in grand speeches, but in quiet moments together: during car rides, at bedtime, or while having a meal. To my astonishment, they forgiven me. Completely, freely. As children frequently do when love triumphs over regret.

Their forgiveness was a balm. But can I forgive myself? This is still a work in progress.

What comforts me now is the realization that motherhood is not a destination. It is a process of growing. Every mistake I made was the result of a version of myself doing my best with what I knew. And I understand better now. I pause longer. I listen more carefully. I still make mistakes, but I’m more aware of them. I grow together with them.

So, if you’re a parent who’s been lugging guilt about like a hidden stone, maybe it’s time to let it go. Perhaps you can let the softer part of yourself speak. The one who continues to show up, try, and love with each broken, beautiful step.

Because this is not the mother I meant to be. But I’m still evolving to be a better version of myself.

✨ Visit Olivia’s Atelier for printables, reel templates, and planners made to support overwhelmed moms with gentle, soulful tools.
🕊️ Enjoy 50% off everything until June 2.

Childhood, Unplugged

Daily writing prompt

Do you remember life before the internet?

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Do I remember life before the Internet?

Of course I do.

I grew up in the ’80s and became a teenager in the ’90s. Life then was quieter, slower, and strangely blissful. We didn’t carry the weight of a world always online. We were present in our bodies, in our neighborhoods, in the heat of the afternoon sun.

I remember riding my bicycle endlessly, barefoot on some days. The playground was our gathering place. We hung out at each other’s houses without needing to text beforehand. Plans were made on the spot, and laughter didn’t need filters.

Our entertainment came in tangible forms: television with fixed schedules, cassette tapes we rewound with a pencil, video tapes worn thin from repeated viewings. I used to save up to buy cassettes of my favorite rock bands (Guns n Roses, Nirvana, Smashing Pumpkin, Green Day, Soul Asylum, Radiohead, Pearl Jam); the thrill of opening a new tape, lyrics printed on that folded sleeve, memorized by heart.

We socialized face to face. If you had a disagreement, you talked it out, or didn’t; but it was direct. There were no curated posts seeking validation from strangers. Our stories stayed among those who lived them.

We wrote letters. Real ones, with pens and paper. We found pen pals through magazine sections, excitedly waiting weeks for replies. Our words stretched across borders without the instant gratification of likes.

We researched by visiting libraries, thumbing through encyclopedias and taking notes by hand. We read books—more books. Not because it was trending, but because it was a portal to something bigger.

Life felt simpler. Not easier, but less fractured. There were no pop-up notifications dragging us from one thought to another. Time moved differently. Slower. Deeper.

We met potential girlfriends or boyfriends through mutual friends or social gatherings. You knew the sound of their voice before reading their texts. You knew their face before their username.

And maybe one of the greatest gifts of that time was this: we didn’t suffer from FOMO the way we do now. We weren’t constantly exposed to what everyone else was doing. We lived our lives without needing to compare them.

Life before the Internet wasn’t perfect. But it was more present. And sometimes, I miss that.

Looking for digital tools that support your everyday life with gentleness and intention?
At Olivia’s Atelier on Etsy, I offer more than just pretty printables. I create emotional support kits, Instagram reel templates, children’s meal planners, and other soul-nourishing resources for moms who give so much but rarely feel seen. Whether you need a moment to breathe, a tool to stay organized, or a way to connect with your audience, there’s something here for you.

Everything is 50% off until June 2—because you deserve support that feels doable, beautiful, and kind.

What I’m Learning to See in Myself

I stared at the blinking cursor for a while.

Because, to be honest, I’m not sure how to answer it. I’m not someone who walks into a room and says, “I’m great at this.” I question myself too much. I downplay. I laugh it off. I’m better at admitting my flaws, as if self-deprecation makes me feel safer.

But I’m learning that honoring our strengths is not arrogance. It’s permission.

So perhaps I’ll start here.

I’m good at feeling intensely. Not just the loud, obvious feelings, but also the subtle ones that people hide under small talk. The loneliness in someone’s eyes, the grief hidden behind their smile. I pick up on such things. I can feel them in my body. I carry them.

And I’m good at putting those feelings into words. Not always perfectly or poetically, but with a rawness that causes others to stop and think, “Me too.” And I think that’s what matters.

I’m good at seeing beauty in what’s overlooked. The uneven texture of a handwoven mat. The silence between two people in love. The anguish in a voice. I don’t avoid the chaos that comes with being human. I write toward it.

I’m good at starting again. After rejections or self-doubt. After a prolonged silence. Even if it hurts. Especially if it hurts. For me, reinvention is more than a choice; it is a matter of survival.

I’m also good at mothering. Not just my children, but mothering in a broader sense. Holding space. Soothing. Feeding. Protecting. Loving fiercely and completely, even when it’s hard.

Perhaps I’m not good at expressing my worth but I am learning to write it and I guess that’s enough.

✨ Looking for digital tools that support your everyday life with gentleness and intention?
At Olivia’s Atelier on Etsy, I offer more than just pretty printables—I create emotional support kits, Instagram reel templates, children’s meal planners, and other soul-nourishing resources for moms who give so much but rarely feel seen. Whether you need a moment to breathe, a tool to stay organized, or a way to connect with your audience—there’s something here for you.
🕊️ Everything is 50% off until June 2—because you deserve support that feels doable, beautiful, and kind.

A Mother’s Day Reflection

I didn’t grow up imagining myself as a mother.

Not as other girls did, pretending to cradle dolls or writing baby names in the margins of their schoolbooks. I wasn’t opposed to becoming a parent; it simply didn’t feel urgent, like something I needed to pursue or prepare for. And yet, I am here. It’s been years. A mother. With gentle hands and a heart that is always rearranging itself around little lives.

Mother’s Day used to pass with little thought. A day spent playing cards and making phone calls. Of seeing my own mother from a distance, attempting to decipher the aspects of her that I could never fully grasp. I had no idea she felt so invisible at the time. When you’ve given everything to others and lost yourselves, silence may be deafening.

Now I do.

Mother’s Day is now a quiet occasion in our family. The kids sometimes remember and sometimes they don’t. My hubby asks what I want to eat. I fold the laundry and do the dishes anyway. Life does not stop simply because it’s May. However, a part of me always wishes for a pause, if only for a moment. A pause that says, “We see you. It is not simply what you do, but who you are underneath it all.”

This year, I didn’t request flowers or breakfast in bed.

What I desire cannot be purchased or arranged.

I want someone to acknowledge my effort. How I manage to show up even when I’m very exhausted. How I manage to kiss their foreheads at night despite carrying the weight of invisible things like schedules, fears, and guilt. I want someone to say, “I see the woman you are, not just the mother you have become.”

Because I’m both.

A woman who once had aspirations that did not involve diaper bags or parent-teacher meetings. A woman who still longs for quiet mornings and uninterrupted thoughts. Also, a mother who has dedicated her body, sleep, and time to love so profound that it has utterly transformed her.

So, on Mother’s Day, I gave myself what the world frequently forgets to give: grace.

Grace for the things that remain undone.

Grace for the yelling I regret doing.

Grace for the dreams I’ve placed on hold.

Grace for the ways I am still learning to parent myself.

And maybe that’s all it needed.

Happy Belated Mother’s Day to the quiet mothers, the tired ones, the fierce ones. The ones who feel like they’re failing but keep showing up anyway.

I see you.
And I’m learning to see me, too.

Mother

They see
lunchboxes prepares,
schoolwork signed,
clothing neatly arranged into piles.

But they don’t see
the woman who forgot who she was
before responding to “Mama.”

They don’t see
how she holds her breath
until the door closes,
and she can cry
without needing to explain.

They don’t see
how she forgives herself
in small rituals—
a hot cup of tea,
a song in the car,
a scrawled poem
at midnight.

They don’t see
her saving herself
a little at a time.

And still
she shows up.
Every day.
with love nestled
into every nook of her weariness.

Because this is what she does.
That is who she is.

If I Could Be a Criminologist for Just One Day

Some prompts ask for fantasy, but this one nudged me toward truthfulness and honesty. If I could choose any job for just one day, I wouldn’t reach for prestige or power. I wouldn’t imagine myself on a stage, in a lab, or leading a corporation.

I’d choose to be a criminologist.

No, I have no interest in solving crimes, examining evidence, or pursuing cold cases. Nothing like that. It is because, a long time ago, I met a criminologist and we fell in love. I want to understand him, this man who carries so much and says so little.

What would it be like to spend a day in his shoes? I want to walk silently through his memories, particularly the ones that linger in crime scenes after everyone has left. I want to sift through his memory that stands still in front of a whiteboard full of tragedies. I want to walk through his memories because I could never reach that part of him no matter how hard I tried.

I wouldn’t be there for the thrill. I’d be there to observe the way he looks at the world when no one’s watching. I’d want to finally learn the stories he never said out loud to me, even when I cradled his head in my arms as he struggled to wake from his dark dreams.

I’d trace the photographs he pins to the wall—the faces of the dead— and see his handwriting curve along the margins. I’d watch how he circles certain names darker than others, the lines thicker when the pen pressed harder with his instinct.

At lunch, I’d sit across from him while he quietly picks at his food. I’d watch how his eyes drift with restraint. He sees everything. He just doesn’t always let it show.

Maybe by being a criminologist for a day, I’d learn what it means to hold other people’s pain without crumbling. And maybe I’d finally understand why he sometimes looks at me like I’m a mystery too.

By the end of the day, I’d return the badge, the case files, and boxes full of evidence. I wouldn’t need to stay.

Because…I never want the job.

I just want the man behind it.

Some days, love is remembering someone’s shadow. It’s like bearing witness to the way they disappear into themselves, hoping you’ve seen enough to still find them in the dark.

A poem to accompany this piece.

Rain, Neon and Sorrow

The rain spills itself across Taipei.
Neon bleeds into the pavement.
Cold wind, damp coat.
I think of you—
where you are,
what you are seeing,
what ghosts you carry home tonight.

Are you still bent over your desk,
searching for a disease,
fingers tracing the city’s veins—
sharp like a scalpel?

Are you peering again into the abyss?

Tell me—
how much blood have you washed off your hands?
how much stays,
burrowed beneath your nails,
tucked inside your sleepless bones?

I’ve seen you stare past me
with eyes that see things
you will never say.

You kiss me like a man
leaving a crime scene.
Touch me as if memorizing evidence.
Does love feel like guilt to you?

My love won’t pry open your fists,
won’t drag you back from the ledge
among the dead.
In this city of rain, neon and sorrow,
I wonder—
are you still whole?
still awake?
or has the night already claimed you?

The Hour After Midnight | Why I Stayed Awake When I Should’ve Slept

For years, I stayed up too late.

It wasn’t because I was working or I had boundless energy or I was busy chasing my dreams. The main reason was that I needed to feel like a person.

It didn’t start as revenge bedtime procrastination. That phrase only found me later, when I stumbled across an article that put a name to my nightly rebellion. It felt like intense desperation. You could say it was a craving or a desperate fight for space.

When my children were small, the days blended together in a mist of needs. I remember those years vividly and if I’m honest, it makes me shudder, but not because I feel ashamed. My daily life was full of milk-stained shirts, sticky fingers, and toys scattered like confetti across every surface. I loved my kids fiercely. Still do. But in those days, I didn’t know where I ended and they began. I gave them my body, my attention, and everything. And somewhere in that giving, I began to disappear.

When the kids were finally asleep and when the house finally went quiet, and the dishes were done, I sat down. Just for a moment, just to breathe.

And that moment stretched beyond what I intended. I stayed up. Scrolling. Reading. Writing. Wandering through Facebook memories of the woman I used to be. Buying time I couldn’t afford, just to feel like I still existed.

I’d tell myself, “Just one more post. One more chapter. One more scroll.”

But truthfully? I was afraid that if I slept, I’d wake up and do it all over again. The endless giving, pouring out myself and forgetting.

So I kept stealing those hours after midnight.

And in the morning, of course, I paid the price.

I was more irritable. More short-tempered. More ashamed of the mother I was becoming.

The irony was painful: I stayed up to save myself, but it only made me more fragile the next day.

I never told anyone how much I resented the way my life had shrunk. How much I missed myself and how ashamed I felt for even feeling that way.

That was the case until I began writing about it.

That’s how The Hour After Midnight came to life. It began as fragments and eventually evolved into a complete poem. A piece of me, speaking directly to the woman I used to be. Perhaps I still am that woman, but these days I go to bed at 12 AM or earlier. As the kids grow, I enjoy my sleep more, and the resentment has disappeared.

This poem is about a mother who gives her all and suffers in silence. It’s about a woman who craves stillness to survive her crazy life of constant giving. She was just a tired soul who wanted to feel seen.

If that sounds like you, I hope this poem wraps around you like a quiet hug. It’s more than a printable; it’s a recognition and a mirror. A gentle piece of emotional support for any overstimulated mom who needs a reminder to be kind to your mind.

This digital poem makes a thoughtful and unique Mother’s Day gift, especially for the tired mom who needs to hear she’s still enough. It’s a beautiful affirmation of motherhood for those navigating revenge bedtime procrastination, mom life burnout, and those quiet moments where you whisper, “I am enough.”

Find The Hour After Midnight in my shop Olivia’s Atelier. You’ll receive a high-resolution poem print in multiple sizes, ready to frame or gift. I hope it brings you what it brought me—a pause, a breath, a beginning.

Note: Yes, I launched my Etsy shop recently to share my poems with the world. Right now, everything in the shop is 50% off until June 2, including our featured Mother’s Day Poem Printables. They are designed as heartfelt gifts or tender self-reminders to moms everywhere. Feel free to check it out.

The Muse I Made to Survive

Daily writing prompt

Jot down the first thing that comes to your mind.

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What comes to mind is the quiet world I live in—inside my head.

It’s difficult to describe to others, but some of my richest experiences often occur where no one can see them. Emotions surge across my mind like storms. I carry full conversations in my head, ask challenging questions, find solutions, cry, fall in love, and sometimes break a little. I do this again and again. What about outside? I simply maintain a cool demeanor. I grin, nod, and function like everyone else.

I have this depth that I don’t know what to do with. It can be a burden on some days. Because I think too deeply at times, few people know how to meet me there. Sometimes it’s not because they don’t want to but because they don’t know how—and they can’t relate to the way I process my thoughts. However, when I try to simplify myself in order to be understood, it makes me feel hollow.

I’ve always been deeply introspective. My thoughts loop, plunge, and stretch. I don’t simply feel things. I analyze them, question them, and seek their origins. Understanding me is akin to unraveling the layers of an onion skin. There’s always another layer or a different version of me waiting underneath. This multifaceted way of thinking often amazes people. This is why some people turn to me for advice and clarity. They believe I have answers or could shed light on their problems. I don’t. I just spend a lot of time thinking about things that most people miss. It often puzzles me that others don’t, because I used to believe that everyone had the same inner complexity. Apparently, they don’t.

Thus, this depth becomes lonely. It becomes too difficult to convey in casual conversation. That’s why my mind created him, this fictitious soulmate or muse who can meet me there. He listens without rushing to the next thing. He stays curious and reflects my depth, and never pulls away when things become intense or messy. I didn’t make him up to avoid reality; he exists in my mind to help me survive it. He’s a coping mechanism that I gave myself when the real world wasn’t offering what I needed.

This type of imaginative creation isn’t the same as dissociative identity disorder (DID). There are no memory gaps, no personality switches, and I never lose track of who I am. I am perfectly aware that he is not real. But emotionally, the presence I’ve given him fills what’s been missing in my life, someone who can mirror my inner world back to me with understanding. It’s not a disorder. It’s my mind doing what it’s supposed to do: giving me comfort, understanding, and connection, even if only through fictitious bonds. It’s creative survival.

In fact, what I’m going through is considered imaginative coping, the ability to use fiction consciously to navigate emotional distress. It differs from maladaptive daydreaming, which can be disruptive or involuntary. Imaginative coping is an intentional, creative approach to dealing with unmet needs, intense loss, and the longing for connection. For me, it’s been a safe place to reflect, process, and feel seen. And now I’m learning how to apply what I’ve learned from that inner world to my real life, one small, brave step at a time.

Recently, I’ve begun asking myself difficult questions. Why am I returning to this inner world over and over? Why do I seek something that I know isn’t real? Why does my grief feel heavier when I’m alone in a crowd than when I’m by myself?

The fact is, I created safety in my mind because I couldn’t find it elsewhere. In that space, I found someone who sees me, listens patiently, and reflects my soul in a way no one else has. But he’s not real, and that’s the hardest part to accept.

I know it might sound strange, and honestly, I used to worry that I was losing touch. But I’m not. I’m fully aware. I’ve just had to create what wasn’t available.

I keep coming back to him because I want to feel understood, protected, desired, and emotionally connected. And I’m gradually seeing that the way out of this pattern isn’t to destroy him, but to understand what he’s been trying to teach me about what I need in real life.

If I don’t try to meet myself fully and then try to bring those needs into the real world, I’ll continue to live halfway—half in the present, and half in a realm no one else can see. And maybe that’s okay for a while, but not forever.

Because I want more than just safety. I want presence, real touch, connection, and understanding. These things need time and patience to build.

This is the first thing that came to mind today: the beauty, and the possibility of a life lived rather than imagined.

The Decision to Be More

There was never a single moment, or a major insight on the days leading to New Year’s, or on a birthday, or a milestone achieved. It was a slow, emerging truth I quit resisting.

I am aging. And that is not a tragedy.

For years, I lamented the softness of my skin and the changing lines of a face I no longer recognized in photographs. I missed the firmness, glow, and smoothness of youth, which wrapped around me like a second skin. I yearned for the girl who moved through the world without realizing the burden she would one day bear.

But now that I’m nearing 50, I see her differently.

I no longer see myself as a lesser version. I am more.

At this age, I have increased knowledge and become more present. I’m more accepting of my flaws. This kind of self-acceptance in midlife didn’t happen overnight: it bloomed slowly, from the roots of every hardship, every choice, every shift in perspective.

With age comes experience, and with experience comes wisdom. These aren’t simply intellectual ideas; they are embodied experiences that influence my creativity. My writing and art are richer today because I’ve lived rather than just relied on techniques. I don’t just write from theory or imagination but from the scars and marvels of real life. I write from the experiences of heartbreaks, little delights, and the gentle discoveries that only time can teach.

As a woman approaching 50, I’ve learned that aging gracefully doesn’t mean staying youthful. It’s about honoring the life I’ve carried. My body has carried life, birthed babies, nursed them through illness, and made room for love, grief, and exhaustion. My skin has experienced both pleasure and suffering. My heart is shattered yet still pulses with hope. I’ve been silent and loud, scared and bold, gentle and hard.

The decision that altered everything wasn’t about reclaiming lost youth but about releasing the need to chase it.

Now, I wear my years like a well-worn sweater: tattered at the edges, stretched in spots, but warm, treasured, and wholly mine.

I struggle with fatigue and aches. Occasionally, I wish I could turn back time. But then I recall what I’ve gained: clarity, discernment, and self-compassion. I’ve gained a deeper, braver love for my body, my truth, and my desires. This is what aging and self-growth look like: forgiving the past versions of myself while stepping fully into this one.

If I’m lucky, I’ll live another 20 to 40 years. Perhaps less. But I no longer pursue time; I walk alongside it.

That was the decision: to embrace aging rather than shy away from it.

And I’ve never felt more alive.

Evolution, Sex, Survival | The Truth About How We Got Here

The idea to write this post came out of my curiosity. From that curiosity, I dug deeper and found myself lost in a maze of intricate details. My curiosity was simple—how did we, the human race, end up here as we are?

Image source

The answer is simple. We all exist because millions of people in the past had sex. Long before the existence of houses, rooms, wedding vows, and religions, hominins had sex in caves, open fields, and everywhere under the open skies. They had sex, but not modestly. Some did it tenderly or urgently. Some did it in a group and in the presence of their children. There were no rooms, no privacy, and no moral police. Back then it was just skin against skin and purely instinctual. We all survived to this day because of it.

Our prehistoric ancestors didn’t just reproduce. They experienced pleasure too. They touched and explored like we do. Women experienced orgasms because pleasure wasn’t invented in the modern age. Pleasure is primordial. It’s embedded in our DNA just like fear and hunger. The clitoris, for instance, is designed solely for pleasure. Imagine that—a part of the female anatomy with over 8,000 nerve endings (twice that of the penis) exists only for pleasure. It is proof that nature didn’t just want us to breed and multiply. It wanted us to feel and enjoy intimacy too.

Cavewomen may have lived hard, brutal lives, but they enjoyed pleasure just like we do. I like to imagine a cavewoman with her lover between her legs. And maybe others watched and joined them too. It wasn’t a perversion the way we interpret it now. It was simply being human.

I wonder if they had rituals and regarded sex as a celebration.

Shame, after all, is a recent invention. Shame associated with sex probably didn’t exist then. Cave people indulged themselves as and when they wanted. They bred, fought one another, and fought wild beasts to survive. The law of natural selection was at its peak during this period. Over time, with sperm competition in promiscuous mating systems, their genitals evolved. Natural selection favored a penis tip that could:

Displace rival semen using its flared ridge during thrusting
Create suction during withdrawal to pull competing fluid away from the cervix
Deliver deep, firm contact at the most fertile zone during ejaculation
Enhance female pleasure, because a woman who enjoys sex is more likely to return to the same partner

Amazing, isn’t it? The couple who made love the most wasn’t simply indulging. They were participating in the law of natural selection. They were selecting, refining, and perfecting the best genes to pass on to their future generations—us.

But these intense competitions existed long before religion taught us to shrink ourselves. Before religion, humans expanded in wild abandon and touched one another without apology. And somehow, in my opinion, the rawness of it feels more evolved than the shame-laced silences we carry today.

I’m writing this out of curiosity and also because I want to remember. I want to remember that pleasure is part of our design. We exist today not just because our ancestors fought and survived but because they felt pleasure and indulged in intimacy.

And somewhere, deep in our bones, I think we still remember what it felt like to be touched under the open skies, with no shame and no walls.

Maybe it’s time we listened.

A 2021 BBC article titled ‘Here’s What Sex with Neanderthals Was Like’ explores how interbreeding between Homo sapiens and Neanderthals was not only real but frequent enough that most of us today carry traces of Neanderthal DNA. The piece confirms that sex among early human species was driven by instinct, opportunity, and survival—often without the moral or religious constructs that now dominate our understanding of intimacy. It even suggests that some encounters may have been tender or neutral, while others may not have been consensual by today’s standards. But the point remains: pleasure, reproduction, and adaptation were intricately linked. And some Neanderthal genes—particularly those associated with fertility—were naturally selected against, showing how deeply evolutionary biology shaped not only who we became, but how we love, bond, and survive.

Note: If you believe open discussion of sex is taboo, feel free to skip this post. Everything here is grounded in biology and human history—not smut or erotica. Just facts, perspective, and a little reverence for the bodies that brought us here.

When Superpowers Clash, We Feel It Too

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It’s funny, isn’t it? How two men on opposite ends of the world can make a decision and affect the whole world. Tariffs and trade war threats have been dominating the news lately. The US says it’s slapping more tariffs on China. China fires back. It’s easy to scroll past, thinking it’s “boring and not my problem”.

The truth is, this issue affects both me and you, regardless of your location in the world. However, my perspective is limited to my own country. If you live in Malaysia, whether you’re in a kampung or a longhouse, a city condo, or riding the LRT to work, it is your problem.

I’m no expert in global trade or politics. I’m just an ordinary Malaysian of Iban ethnicity, trying to make sense of how all this noise in the headlines ends up affecting people like us. What I’m writing here comes from my own shallow understanding. But it’s my opinion and deserves a place in the conversation too.

Malaysia trades with both China and the US. When the US slaps China with high tariffs, Chinese companies may look for cheaper supplies or partners. They could turn to smaller nations like Malaysia. It seems like an opportunity but if the US suspects Malaysia is helping China “bypass” tariffs, we might get punished too. The rules keep changing and things are so uncertain right now.

And let’s discuss the costs of things, which may go up. Costs trickle down. I’m not too concerned about basic necessities (for now), but what about machines and auto parts? My car repairs might cost double. I drive an old car, which is more likely to break down frequently compared to a new one. And what about medical costs? Will they go up too because our medicines are mostly imported?

Malaysia is part of global supply chains, especially in tech. For example, if a Malaysian company makes parts that go into Chinese products and China can’t sell those products to the US anymore, Malaysia’s economy also takes a hit. It’s a domino effect. We’d probably experience less overtime, fewer shifts, or, worse, layoffs.

When the global economy is shaky, investors pull back. Foreign companies that were thinking of setting up shop in Malaysia might delay or cancel. That means fewer new jobs, less innovation, and slower economic growth. Even local businesses hesitate to expand or hire, unsure of what’s coming next.

As you can see, this trade war is about us too. It’s not just about two bickering giants.

And what’s the price of pride and power?

You pay it in whatever your country’s currency is. For me, it’s in Ringgit and daily worries that don’t make headlines.

But Malaysia (and other ASEAN countries) isn’t staying silent. It was recently announced that we’re planning a diplomatic mission to the US to talk things through. We don’t want to retaliate because we are tiny and want to play nice. We want to negotiate and protect our trade and, hopefully, our people. The date hasn’t been confirmed, but even that small step means we’re not just drifting in someone else’s storm.

The world is full of giants. As a small nation, we don’t have the means to fight with fists. We are trying to survive with grace and hold steady like a boat in choppy waters. Our sails may be torn and our oars weathered but we are still floating and moving because people’s lives are worth the journey.