Daily writing prompt

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

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According to Oliver Burkeman, the average human lifespan is about 4,000 weeks. It sounds like a large number at first glance, but as I reflect, it starts to feel limited. I will not have time to do everything I want. Every “yes” comes at the expense of something else. The real issue is how often I fail to say no. I admit I don’t say no as often as I should.

I notice these patterns in small moments. For example, I sit at my computer with a task open in front of me. The work is clear and I know what I need to achieve. After a while, I reach for my phone without thinking. I open Instagram and start doomscrolling cat videos. A few minutes pass and sometimes it stretches to half an hour. When I finally look at the clock on the corner of my screen, I feel a small shock. Nothing important happened, but time is gone. This kind of “yes” feels harmless at the time and it happens more often than I realize. Over time, it detracts from the things I claim to care about.

When I was younger, I said yes more easily. I followed whatever felt more interesting at the time and left things unfinished. These were not always big decisions. Sometimes it was something small, like wanting to revise for an upcoming exam but I ended up reading a magazine instead. Repeated often enough, they eventually shaped how I used my time. But back then, I did not recognize them as choices.

Part of the difficulty is how easily my attention shifts. Technology makes distraction easy. But the pull is not only external. There is also an internal urge to avoid discomfort because it is easier to reach for something light than to stay with something that requires effort.

For a long time, I tried to do too many things at once. I thought being efficient meant I could fit more into my time. Instead, I felt stretched thin. I became exhausted, and over time, I felt anxious. I was trying to move everything forward without accepting that my time and energy are limited. It’s a paradox: that pattern created more pressure and not less.

When things didn’t work, I felt frustrated. That frustration sometimes turned into resentment. I blamed my lack of time on external things like my responsibilities, my family, and the situation around me. However, that was not the full picture. Things changed when I began to accept my limits more honestly. I can only do so much; moreover, most of what I do will not be significant on a larger scale.

That realization changed how I use my time. I started to value smaller, ordinary things more: cooking for my family, taking care of the home, and being present in simple moments. No matter how mundane these things are, they are part of my life. It also clarified what matters to me.

When my priorities are unclear, everything starts to feel urgent. It becomes harder to say no because everything feels important. When I know what I want to focus on, it is easier to step away from what does not support it. I still do not say no as often as I should but I notice it more now. I see it in the small decisions that do not seem important at first but if I pause, I can see where they lead.

I write about Iban culture, ancestral rituals, creative life, emotional truths, and the quiet transformations of love, motherhood, and identity. If this speaks to you, subscribe and journey with me.

I am on a morning train in Japan, traveling from Tokyo to Kyoto without any hurry to get there. The shinkansen is quiet. There are empty seats on both sides of the aisle. I am seated by the window on the left. The glass is slightly blurred, with thin streaks of dried rain. The air conditioning hums overhead. I take out my tablet and try to read, but I am not really following the words. The train moves quickly past factories, houses, schools, and open fields.

Mount Fuji appears in the distance. Clouds cover parts of it, but the top is still visible, white against a pale blue sky. At its base, the forest is dark and still. We pass rows of apartments. Laundry hangs outside, moving gently in the morning air. An ojisan adjusts his plants on a balcony. A woman walks slowly with a toddler, a shopping bag in her hand. Inside, a staff member pushes a cart down the aisle. The smell of food lingers faintly, a mix of sweet and savory. I reach into my bag for my notebook and pen. I pause and swallow.

I tend to stay with these small scenes longer than I need to. The man on the balcony. The woman and her child. The laundry moving in the same direction. I do not know them, but my mind fills in details without effort. Who they might be. What their days look like. How their lives move within these spaces I only pass through. This has been true for as long as I can remember.

People sometimes say I have a good memory. I can recall certain moments from a distant past with more detail than expected. I have always treated it as ordinary, something I do not pay much attention to. But it is not only memory. When I pass places I have never been before, I find myself imagining the lives inside them. A row of houses is no longer just a row of houses. It becomes a set of possible lives, each one carrying its routines and concerns and small moments no one else sees.

I do not do this intentionally. It happens without effort. The same way I noticed the man moving his plants, or the way the laundry shifts in the wind. I do not stop to question it. I stay with what is in front of me a little longer than I need to.

Because of this, I remember more than I expect to. Not everything. Just certain details that remain clear. A place. A movement. Something small that stays when I return to it later.

The train continues forward. Outside, the scenery changes without pause. Inside, I sit by the window, watching, and then writing it down before it fades.

I write about Iban culture, ancestral rituals, creative life, emotional truths, and the quiet transformations of love, motherhood, and identity. If this speaks to you, subscribe and journey with me.

Daily writing prompt

Who was your most influential teacher? Why?

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If I were to answer this in the usual manner, I would probably say a teacher from school or someone who left a lasting impression on me. But when I think about influence more deeply, the answer does not point to a single person but to an organization. The church. The church was the most important teacher in my life.

For many years, the church shaped how I saw the world and my place in it. It influenced how I interpreted right and wrong, how I made choices, and how I approached questions about life. Because it was a part of my everyday life, I didn’t always notice how it influenced me. It felt normal, like a framework I could rely on.

That structure eventually became the way through which I processed most things. I learned to read selectively and only chose what aligned with the church’s values. I learned to ask questions carefully because some questions and topics are off-limits or could raise suspicions about my spiritual health. There was a limit to my curiosity, even if I didn’t always see it. But I didn’t think of this as a problem at the time. I considered it a sign of being responsible and disciplined. It also gave me a sense of direction and how to deal with uncertainty.

However, the church’s influence didn’t go away after I left. If anything, it made that influence more clear. Without it as my main point of reference, I started to see how much my outlook had changed over the years. Some reactions and patterns of thinking didn’t come from nowhere. They had been formed slowly and consistently over time.

This awareness grew over time and it showed up in little things. For example, when I read something and didn’t feel the urge to assess it against a set of beliefs. Another example is when I let a question remain open without feeling like I had to address it right away. What I noticed most was recognizing a familiar thinking pattern and stopping before going further.

Recently, I have been reading Oliver Burkeman’s Four Thousand Weeks. The book does not present entirely new ideas, but it changed how I relate to what I had learned before. The idea that time is finite and not everything can be pursued has impacted how I see my life. It does not give me a new set of rules to follow. Instead, it reminds me that my time is limited and that I cannot do everything, no matter how much I want to.

Now, when I think about influence, it no longer refers to a single person or idea. It feels more like layers that have been added over time. Being in church for a long time shaped some of the ways I thought. Now, I question them and choose which ones still make sense to me. They still affect how I think, but I am more aware of them than I used to be.

I write about Iban culture, ancestral rituals, creative life, emotional truths, and the quiet transformations of love, motherhood, and identity. If this speaks to you, subscribe and journey with me.

I used to think that this question would have a straightforward answer. If I were to answer directly without much thought, I would probably say, “Read more, write more, and get more exercise.” These pursuits are easily slotted into a daily routine. However, my answer doesn’t seem as solid lately.

What I wish I could do more every day is to live without that continual feeling of pressure in the background. There is always this subtle feeling that I should be accomplishing more, learning faster, doing things right, or staying within particular boundaries that I didn’t set for myself.

I began to notice how that pressure changed the way I think. For years, the teachings and expectations of the church shaped the way I thought. I read selectively and questioned things carefully. My curiosity came with hesitation, as though there were boundaries I wasn’t meant to cross. I didn’t see it as pressure back then. I thought I was just being responsible and doing the right thing to safeguard my faith. 

Things are clearer to me now that I’m no longer coming to church. However, the difference is very subtle and happens in little things. When I pick up a book, I don’t feel the need to examine if it aligns with my Christian values. I can entertain an idea without immediately judging its worth. I can linger in uncertainty, not feeling the pressure to have an answer on the spot. 

I see it in my reading and writing. I can tell since my thoughts move more slowly and aren’t as occupied. I also have a softness that I didn’t have previously. I don’t condemn myself as quickly as I used to. I feel less inclined to turn every mistake into something that needs to be fixed right away. I can accept my flaws without feeling like I’ve failed.

The process is still new. I’m still in the early stages. There are times when I go back into old habits, like when I start to think in ways that I’ve been taught in church for years. But unlike before, now I have the awareness and I can stop the thought or pattern before it escalates even further. And with time, I believe I can unlearn the patterns that were shaped during those years in the church.

This ability to think and live with a sense of ownership is what I desire more of every day. I want to read without guilt. I want to ask questions without being afraid. I want to make decisions based on understanding rather than obligation. But I can’t force it into a schedule or keep track of it all the time. From the outside, it appears unproductive because it doesn’t always show results right away. However, it changes the texture of my day because the changes are internal. It gives me a sense of stability. It also gives me a peaceful mind because I don’t have to prove or justify anything.

And in that peace, I notice that I am more present in what I am already doing, like cooking, reading, writing, or being with my family, without feeling the need to be somewhere else. Like I said, the change is internal and happens slowly. Some days I notice it more than others. Some days I lose it and have to find my way back. But when it’s there, even briefly, the day feels a lot different.

I write about Iban culture, ancestral rituals, creative life, emotional truths, and the quiet transformations of love, motherhood, and identity. If this speaks to you, subscribe and journey with me.

Today’s writing prompt asks, “Who is the most confident person you know?” I paused reading it for a moment. The question assumes the existence of absolute confidence, as though an individual could navigate life with complete confidence in every circumstance. I’ve never met anyone like that. Based on what I’ve seen, confidence only shows up in some places. It comes from a mix of experience, knowledge, and familiarity. Even the smartest person can get confused outside of those areas.

A surgeon might seem calm and sure of themself in the operating room, but they might feel out of place in a room full of strangers. A history professor may not know what to say when asked about something that isn’t in their field. If you spend enough time with someone, even if they seem sure of themselves, you might see them show signs of doubt.

Knowing your subject well is a big part of confidence. When someone has been studying or practicing something for a long time, it’s clear that they know what they’re doing. They are more calm and they tend to not rush to fill silence or insist that they are right. They simply speak from their knowledge and experience.

Another form of confidence is performed. Some people project confidence loudly and often talk quickly and with authority about many things. It can look real from a distance but it becomes clear over time that the performance is based on very little knowledge. So what is the difference between the two? Real confidence doesn’t need to be reinforced all the time. It doesn’t need outside validation or praise.

When I write about Iban culture, I sometimes think about this. Because I grew up in that world, I feel confident I can talk about it in some ways. I experienced the culture instead of merely reading about it. I remember the stories told by the elders, things like the forest, the spirits, and the land. These things form a background that is difficult to separate from everyday life. But that doesn’t mean I understand everything about being Iban.

The culture is much bigger than what one person has experienced. It holds memories from many generations and traditions that had been passed down for a long time before written records existed. And customs or practices that vary from one region to another. Even now, I still come across stories, beliefs, and historical facts that I didn’t know before.

Some discoveries come through books written by researchers. At other times they also appear in conversations with older relatives who remember things that were never written down. Sometimes they emerge as fragments of memory that return out of the blue. These moments show that being a part of a culture doesn’t mean you know everything about it. It means starting the journey from the inside and experiencing it firsthand.

That’s where my confidence lies when I write about these things. It is not the confidence of someone who thinks they know everything about the subject. It’s the knowledge of someone who has lived in a certain world long enough to see its patterns, even though they know that most of it is still out of reach.

It seems that this kind of partial confidence is everywhere. People go through life with small areas of certainty and much larger areas of learning around them. Nobody is confident about everything in life. Most of us just know where our footing feels steady and where it does not.

I write about Iban culture, ancestral rituals, creative life, emotional truths, and the quiet transformations of love, motherhood, and identity. If this speaks to you, subscribe and journey with me.

Negative feelings often come and go, but some stay longer than we expect. I recently went through one of those stretches. It wasn’t just one feeling; it was a mix of many, including grief, boredom, loneliness, anger, and a silent existential restlessness that lasted longer than I anticipated. None of these feelings came on suddenly. They built up over time until I realized I had been sitting with them for days.

During these times, it’s easy for the mind to spiral out of control. It’s easy to give in to the heaviness and let despair take over the narrative. I have learned that negative feelings don’t just go away on their own. Sometimes they need an intentional response.

I often return to creativity first. I start with little things, like working on my zines, drawing, and making art cards. Working with my hands helps me get my thoughts back in order.  It reminds me that even when life is unpredictable, something meaningful can still be created.

Watching documentaries is another thing that helps me when I’m feeling down. I often go to YouTube and watch stories about other places in the world and the lives of the people who live there. I recently watched several short documentaries about loneliness and social isolation in Japan. These documentaries made me reflect about how the feelings or struggles that we don’t talk about with others are often part of a bigger human experience.

That realization makes me think about my own experience in a different way. It helps me feel less alone in how I feel. It changes how I see things. When we step outside of our own thoughts and look at the world around us, our internal narrative becomes less intense and being curious opens up other options.

Those documentaries made me think of something else as well. There are many choices in life. I understand that clinical depression is real and that many people have to deal with it. Some of my own emotional states also change based on the choices I make. I have the option to create, learn, explore, or connect with others. If you stay in despair, it can become a habit that is difficult to break.

This doesn’t mean ignoring pain or pretending everything is fine. It means recognizing that even when things are hard, we can still respond in small ways. Some of these responses might be as simple as making art, writing a few lines in your journal, watching a thoughtful documentary, or getting in touch with a group of people who have similar interests.

The feelings may still be there, but they don’t have to decide our direction. When we have negative feelings, we can still choose how to deal with them. Even when things are difficult, we still have small choices that may gradually alter our course.

I write about Iban culture, ancestral rituals, creative life, emotional truths, and the quiet transformations of love, motherhood, and identity. If this speaks to you, subscribe and journey with me.