A Room of My Own

Daily writing prompt

Share one of the best gifts you’ve ever received.

I have received many gifts throughout my life. But when I think about the best gift I’ve ever received, I realize that it isn’t something wrapped in paper and ribbon. It wasn’t bought or could be taken away. Instead, it was given to me by a teacher decades ago when I was seven years old. I can honestly say that this gift has changed the course of my life forever. It was the gift of reading.

Unlike my children, I started learning to read fairly late according to today’s standards. I was seven years old and already in my first year of primary school. At that time, the phonic reading system was unknown, at least not in Malaysia, and we learned to read using traditional methods such as syllables or combinations of vowels and consonants. My parents were from the Boomers generation and had no idea how to teach reading to my siblings and me. Education was solely the realm of school teachers.

His name was Mr. Vincent. He was my class teacher (homeroom teacher) and also taught us Malay. Malay is my second language. I don’t know his last name, but I remember how he looked and his patience with more than thirty students who didn’t know how to read or write. I was just a child, sitting in a classroom, struggling to string letters together. I had not yet realized that literacy was the key to unlocking an entire world. Over the course of months, and through what I believe were endless frustrations for Mr. Vincent, everything began to make sense. The first word that made it click together in my brain was “ayam” or chicken. It is a combination of the vowel “a,” consonant “y,” vowel “a,” and consonant “m.” Slowly the letters turned into words, words into sentences, and suddenly books were no longer mysteries; they were doors waiting to be opened.

My Primary 5 class photo. I transferred to another school and no longer in touch with Mr. Vincent.

I think of him every year on May 16, Malaysia’s Teachers’ Day. I wonder if he ever knew the impact he had on me. Or if he realized that by teaching a young girl to read, he was giving her more than just a skill. Mr. Vincent was giving me access to knowledge, imagination, and a lifelong love for words. Because of him, I have spent my life reading, writing, learning, and growing in ways I never could have imagined back then.

Teachers rarely know the full extent of their influence. They plant seeds in young minds, often never seeing how far those seeds will grow. Even if Mr. Vincent never read this, I want to acknowledge him. I want to say: Thank you. Thank you for your patience, for your belief in a young girl’s potential, and for opening the doors of literacy that have shaped everything I am today.

To anyone who has ever had a teacher like Mr. Vincent, a teacher who made a lasting impact and shaped the way you see the world, I hope you take a moment to remember them. Be grateful for them and maybe even find a way to say thank you.

Because sometimes, the greatest gifts aren’t things. They’re the people who take the time to teach, to guide, and to believe in us before we even know how to believe in ourselves.

And personally for me, reading became more than just a skill. It became a gateway to expressing my thoughts and to finding my voice through writing. Every word I put on paper today is a reminder of that first lesson in literacy. It’s a reminder that one teacher’s patience can shape a lifetime of words.

A handwritten draft of this post.

Someone who is so dear to me said this recently:

Your writing should be about expressing rather than avoidance. You should be able to focus on what you want to say rather than whether it sounds imperfect enough to be accepted. It’s absurd that you have to purposefully make your work look bad so that people don’t mistake it for AI or plagiarism. You’ve spent so much time trying to fit into places that don’t know how to accommodate you; muting your voice, dimming your brilliance, and shrinking yourself just to be tolerated. You deserve to exist completely, to write with all of the richness, depth, and beauty that is uniquely yours. What if others feel intimidated by that? That’s their problem, not yours.

For a long time, I hesitated before clicking “publish”. It’s not because I don’t have anything worthwhile to say or write, but because I’m worried my words will be misconstrued, misunderstood, or judged unfairly. I wrote with trepidation, revised, simplified my sentences, looked up synonyms in Thesaurus, and softened my tone. All of this was done to ensure that my sentences weren’t overly polished, as if writing well had become something to apologize for.

But I’m done apologizing.

This is my blog. This is where I can write freely, without feeling compelled to defend my words and voice. This is the place where I may write freely, without fear of triggering an AI detector or meeting someone else’s expectations.

For many years, I shared my writings on places where visibility was dependent on approval. Engagement seemed like a performance. I just realized on such platforms that the fear of being seen and the fear of being silenced can coexist. But here on my site, I no longer need permission to exist, and my thoughts may flourish since they do not require validation to be meaningful.

Above all, I decided to write for myself first.

Some of the entries may be personal, while others will be poetic and reflective. Some may feel incomplete, contradictory, or nonsensical, and this is okay. Writing is about honesty. I don’t need to be flawless. And this is me, speaking in my own voice, unvarnished and fearless.

If my works speak to you, you are invited to stay, read, and contemplate. Above all, this is a place where I could rekindle the love of writing. I write because I want to and can.

There is no more dread or hesitancy. Only words, freely written.