Fragments of Obsession

What began as a single moment never really left me. It lives in fragments of touch, of distance, of memory, and of time.

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There are days he couldn’t come to me. He is always needed wherever he is. He analyzes patterns, behaviors, minds. But does anyone truly know him? On the days he is with me—the late evening light reflected on his disheveled hair. The contour of his tired shoulders. His long, calloused fingers. His moans echo in the shadows.

The light around him softened his expression into something tender. One hand held a book, the other blindly traced the tabletop. I paused mid-sentence, staring. His brows furrowed, his gentle eyes on the page. At that moment, my heart found shelter after endless wandering. He sensed my gaze and glanced up. Our eyes met—just for a moment—before he shifted away.

This is one of the nights when the apartment feels damp and cold. Thoughts ran through my mind while washing dishes, doing the laundry, and folding our clothes. Is he tailing someone right at this moment? Has he eaten? I tried listening to the audiobook, but nothing felt right. This book is too wordy. That one has a flat narrator’s tone. I closed the app and scrolled through YouTube to find a playlist to match my mood. In this playlist, the songs are too catchy. The other playlist is too sappy. I disconnected my earbuds and put my phone away. Even with all the lights on, the room feels darker. How many hours before tomorrow comes?

His hands are a map of everything I cherished. His light tan hands have carried pain and tenderness in equal measure. They have wielded weapons, sifted through crime evidence, cuffed wrists, and tenderly stroked the deepest part of me. His fingers are long and tapered; half moons peeked on his trimmed nails. Sometimes I noticed faint traces of blood and grime. When they brush against my skin, it’s like the first ray of sunlight after a long, cold night. His hands have built and mended, held and released. They’ve cupped my face, traced my curves, and held me in place. They’ve wiped away my tears and made obscene gestures in moments of anger or to stir my laughter. When I think of his hands, I’m reminded of the roots of the ancient trees or the ocean with their endless ebb and flow pulled by the moon.

The bed now is just a bed. The sheets are now crumpled into hollows that hold the shape of him. I run my fingers over the fabric and the pillows. They still smell faintly of his skin and the faint, sharp tang of his cologne. I press my face into it, trying to hold onto what’s left, but the scent is already fading. The white walls have absorbed the echo of his voice. The door clicked shut with a finality and stays closed until he returns. On the table, his cup sits lonely with the faint imprint of his lips. I leave it there to become a relic of our morning. His jacket hangs on the back of the chair, slouched in a way that feels so like him, as if it might come alive and shrug itself back into motion. The room has exhaled. It has moved on and is settling into the rhythm of my day, one that doesn’t include him.

Fragmented Story | First Sight

Some moments will never leave you. They creep into the silent corners of your memory and wait. It’s not love, but something more delicate and mysterious. I was eighteen when I first saw him. He wasn’t looking at me or even aware I existed. But then something changed. I didn’t realize it at the time, but that moment would stick with me, embedded into the fabric of my life and reappearing when I least anticipated. This is the fragmented story of an obsession that began before I had the words for it.

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I was eighteen the first time I saw him. I was too young to fully comprehend how a single moment could change the course of time, but I was old enough to sense how important it was. He was twenty-two, though I didn’t know it then. The light that late afternoon was soft and turned everything golden. It fell through the leaves as I walked home from class. A heavy bag hung across my shoulder, the monotonous rhythm of my day fading into the background.

Then I saw him.

He stood in the distance, partially obscured by the trees. There was something arresting about him that made him seem out of place in the moment. His jacket drew my attention right away. It was a deep brown, worn suede. The rich color seemed to absorb the light, making him stand out against the colors around him. His white trousers seemed an afterthought, subtle and plain. It was the type of look you don’t think about until later, when it won’t leave your mind.

I recall that he had a camera in his hand. He was working it with his fingers as he turned it in his hands. His dark, straight hair fell just above his brow, softening the harshness of his face. Serious. Intense. His posture was nonchalant as if he didn’t care that the world might be watching.

But I was watching.

I didn’t intend or want to be there, but there I was, fixed in place. “Who is that?” I asked my friend, and the question came out before I could rethink it. She chuckled as if it were clear, then mumbled his name with a mocking grin. “You should go talk to him.”

I didn’t or couldn’t. It wasn’t just insecurity; there was something else. It seemed like he was untouchable, and whatever he was focusing on in silence was not meant to be disrupted. So I walked away, thinking I’d left the moment behind.

But the image of him stayed with me for days or weeks. It kept going through my mind: him standing alone, with the trees casting a shadow as light gathering around him. I’d find myself wondering what he was thinking about as he carefully held that camera in his hands. It drove me crazy that someone I had never talked to could occupy a corner in my head.

Even now, decades later, I find myself going back to that day. It wasn’t love then. It was something more fragile. It was like an obsession that nestles deep in your chest and stays there, waiting for reasons you don’t yet comprehend.

Fragmented Story | Being In the Same Room Again

I wrote this introspective piece to capture unresolved emotions, the passage of time, and the delicate dance between nostalgia and moving forward. It’s about past love that is neither fully rekindled nor entirely lost. It’s fragmented because there is no backstory. It’s intentional because the absence of a backstory forces the reader to feel rather than just understand. However, it is related to another story I wrote previously – After All These Years.

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The rain kept pouring, turning everything into a soft blend of grays and greens, like a painting that had come to life. It reflected the fog in my mind, the doubt that had brought me here. I didn’t want to go back at all. What was waiting for me when I got back to the city? Plenty of bills were sitting on the kitchen counter, ready for me to pick them up. There were tax notices in each envelope, and they kept coming on time. Of course, I was constantly getting glossy brochures from real estate agents advertising different homes for rent or sale, as if they could give me the security I really craved. They claimed that property was the foundation of our modern life. Have we forgotten what it means to belong in our quest for a place to call home?

The town was so different from the hectic pace of daily life that it felt like a different world. You could feel like time was moving slower here. When I walked into that little bookshop with its worn shelves and familiar atmosphere, it stirred up something deeper inside me. Not only did the past resurface again, but it also brought up something that hadn’t been resolved. Why does that feeling persist even after years of being apart? That question hung in the air.

Was it a spark that was about to go off again, or was it just the light of ashes from the past? To bring back an old love, you have to dig up what was hidden and accept both the joy and the pain that come with it. But could it be something else—a chance to put things to rest? Is it finally possible to break free from the maze of what-ifs and let the past rest?

There was also the issue of trust. Did it still matter that you understood instead of being validated after all this time? And even if it did, would that be enough to begin a new relationship? Maybe not love, but friendship for sure. We could have maintained a bright shared past, unaffected by the decisions we’ve made along the way.

I’ve learned that desire and lasting devotion aren’t the only things that define love. It was about the possibilities, the countless ways it could evolve, even after it had already slipped away from you once. With the sound of rain on the windows and the faint smell of books in the air, I stayed in that space and thought about whether love might just be being in the same room again after all this time and finding peace between us.

Why Stories Matter | The Transformative Power of Literature

There is a quiet power in stories that goes beyond entertainment and escapism. At its core, literature is the act of giving voice to things that can’t be seen or touched. It forms our feelings, hopes, fears, and questions into something we can hold and share. Stories don’t just reflect our lives; they also hold the weight of human experience across time and space.

The first thing that comes to mind when I think about the power of literature is how it can bring people together. Reading a book is like crossing a bridge; it lets us see and feel the world through someone else’s eyes. In this way, it breaks down the walls that separate us. By fostering empathy, literature reminds us of our shared humanity and allows us to see through another’s eyes. Literature makes us face the idea that our experiences, no matter how unique they seem, are reflections of something bigger than ourselves. When I was young, I read Catcher in the Rye by J.D. Salinger, and it changed the way I thought about how people connect with each other. Holden Caulfield’s cynicism and vulnerability proved how stories can reflect our deepest desire for understanding.

Literature helps us understand not only other people but also ourselves. A story can be like a mirror, showing us things we would rather not see. It reveals our inner wants and fears, as well as our flaws. Reading is a paradox. It makes us lose ourselves in another world, only to find pieces of ourselves reflected back. The lasting power of literature lies in this duality—the simultaneous journey both inside and outside of oneself. Also, Salinger’s book helped me see myself in new ways. Holden’s struggles with authenticity and alienation are a lot like my desire for belonging and self-acceptance.

In the same way, stories live on forever and can transcend time. Because writing is timeless, the words of a writer or a poet who has died a long time ago remain relevant to people today. This doesn’t mean that stories stay unchanged. In fact, they change with each reading based on the reader’s views and their context. What a text meant to the original audience might be very different from what it means to us now. A story is alive in the way it changes with us. Different generations’ readings and reinterpretations enrich it further. One Hundred Years of Solitude by Gabriel García Márquez was recently adapted into a drama, which debuted on Netflix in December 2024. The magical realism in the book has kept readers intrigued for decades, but this version gives the story new life. It enables a new group of viewers to experience its themes of love, loss, and history through a fresh lens.

There is also a bravery that comes with writing. When writing, a writer has to be courageous and believe that their words will touch someone and stay with them. When people write, they often reveal parts of themselves that they wouldn’t share in any other way. They embedded pieces of their own truths into the plot of a story or the flow of a poem. Ralph Keyes’s book The Courage to Write talks about how the courage to write comes from being ready to face overwhelming fears and self-doubt. Writing is brave because it forces the writer to be honest and open, even if the outcome is unknown. It’s not because it leads to fame or admiration. For readers, this vulnerability can change everything. It creates a bond between the writer and the readers, fostering a mutual understanding that surpasses the written word.

But, of course, not every story is pleasant. Some show us harsh realities and make us question what we believe. Some stories force us to face uncomfortable truths. But these stories are still important. The hallmark of enduring literature is that it does not shy away from complexity. It recognizes that beauty and pain, hope and sorrow, often go hand in hand. So, stories help us deal with the complicated things that happen in life; they don’t give us easy answers but instead push us to think, ask questions, and grow.

Stories have the capacity to establish continuity in a world that often appears fragmented. They remind us that we are a part of a bigger story that began a long time ago and will go on after we die. Literature connects us to each other and to the huge, complicated web of human experience.

Why do I write? It comes back to the idea that stories matter. It’s not that they make big, dramatic changes to the world; it’s that they change us in small, subtle ways. They invite us to pause, contemplate, and feel. Indeed, this invitation represents a revolution in a world that demands speed and certainty all the time.

Book Review | The Courage to Write – How Writers Transcend Fear by Ralph Keyes

I returned to writing earlier last year after a decade-long hiatus to raise my children. Writing has always been my quiet refuge. It’s a space where I could slip away from the noise of daily life. But even in solitude, I have always sought connection and often reached for books on writing. These books are my source of advice, and I also seek reassurance and inspiration from those who have walked this path before me.

Years ago, I read Bird by Bird by Anne Lamott and Big Magic by Elizabeth Gilbert; both left a lasting impact on me. These are the kind of books that feel like old friends. Their words reveal new meanings with each reread. They have been my steady companions and also my source of encouragement whenever doubt crept in.

Three months ago, while browsing a secondhand bookshop, I stumbled upon The Courage to Write: How Writers Transcend Fear by Ralph Keyes. I had never heard of him before, but the title spoke directly to a truth I knew well—fear is an ever-present shadow in the creative process. It’s impossible to resist a book that promised to explore the relationship between the creative process and fear. Without hesitation, I added it to my cart, along with another classic, Natalie Goldberg’s Writing Down the Bones. The latter is familiar to many writers, though I have yet to read it myself.

Having finished The Courage to Write, I’ve spent some time reflecting on its message and how deeply it resonated with me. I’m currently halfway through Writing Down the Bones and will share my thoughts on it once I reach the final page. For now, I’ll concentrate on Keyes’ book, which explores what it means to write in the face of fear. It is a subject that feels intimately familiar to anyone who has ever confronted a blank page and wrestled with the enormity of creation.

A Conversation About Fear

The Courage to Write is not a how-to book. Instead, it reads like a conversation, which helps all writers deal with the fear, doubt, and anxiety they all feel. Keyes takes the mystery out of being creative and shines a light on the problems most writers experience but don’t talk about. He tells us to dig deep into our self-doubt and impostor syndrome to find the courage that’s hiding there. He believes that writing is both an honor and a duty that people who have never done it often don’t appreciate.

The Pros

The Courage to Write is so engaging because it is so honest. Keyes doesn’t romanticize writing; instead, he shows it as a deeply human activity that is full of uncertainty. “Am I good enough?” is a question that his book helps people deal with. Even the finest literary giants have had to deal with this question. Drawing on the experiences of writers like Virginia Woolf, Ernest Hemingway, and Anne Lamott, he shows us that anxiety is not a sign of failure but an important part of the process.

Keyes writes in a careful, even personal tone. His ideas seem to apply to everyone, which supports the idea that while writing can be isolating, the effort to overcome fear unites all authors.

One of the best things about the book is that it changes the way we think about anxiety. Anxiety is not a problem; it’s a vital force that makes insight sharper and pushes writers to be real. Keyes says that fear pushes us to write more honestly and dig deeper. This profound view tells writers to deal with their fears instead of battling them.

The Cons

Even though The Courage to Write has a lot of good points, it sometimes goes over familiar ground. If you’ve already read a lot on the subject, Keyes’ insights might not seem very new to you. A lot of the time, the stories are about well-known issues writers had, like how Hemingway drank to drown his fears or how Woolf questioned her own worth. A lot of writers are familiar with these stories.

Also, Keyes is great at acknowledging and validating anxiety, but his answers are more philosophical than practical. This book might not be right for you if you want to find real ways to deal with procrastination, perfectionism, or the problems that writers face every day. His core message that you should embrace your fear and let it lead you is powerful, but it comes up so often that some chapters feel like they’re just different takes on the same idea.

Final Thoughts

Reading The Courage to Write feels like wandering through a dense forest. Each tree represents a different fear, and the odd shaft of sunlight reminds you of how courageous you are. It’s not a guide. It gives you hope that the journey is worth continuing on, even if you can’t see the path. This book is for people who need to hear that fear is not the enemy but a voice telling us to be braver and write more deeply and honestly.

But this book might not be for everyone, just like a vast landscape can be both comforting and overwhelming. If you seek clear directions instead of reflection, you may want more concrete advice. The Courage to Write isn’t really about getting over your fears; it’s about learning how to live with them. And maybe that’s the most important lesson in and of itself. Writing, like life, is less about conquering every mountain and more about finding what it means to be human.

I Am the Keeper of Memories

I have always been known for my strong memory. Friends, family, and even casual acquaintances have commented on it over the years on how I can recall details from years, even decades ago, with a clarity that surprises them. It surprises me too because I always assumed everyone could remember past events with the same vividness. But that’s not true. Many of my ex-school friends barely remember incidents from our school life. I remember names too. When I look at past photos, even ones from decades ago, I can point out who is who. No, I don’t spend my time reminiscing or dwelling on the past. The details are just there, fresh in my mind, ready to be plucked whenever needed.

A photo with my school friends from 34 years ago. Many have become successful individuals in the community. One person has gone on to become the State Director of the Malaysia Public Works Department, and another, a pediatrician.

I don’t just remember past events. I remember the emotions and the atmosphere associated with those events. You could say that I’m a sensory person or someone with an eidetic memory because those vivid experiences still live within me. It could be anything—a song playing in the background, the scent of rain on warm pavement, the gentle breeze swaying the leaves, the color of the sky on a particular afternoon, or even the call of a lonesome nightbird that woke me up in the middle of the night when I was four.

Sometimes, it feels like a gift. It allows me to tell stories with depth and remember people and moments with an intimacy that others often lose to time.

Several months ago, my ex-schoolmate invited me into their chat group. I was delighted to reconnect with old friends I hadn’t spoken to in more than three decades. We talked about many past incidents, mostly funny moments from that time in our lives. I told stories as if they had just happened recently. Many friends come to me when they need to piece together an old memory, to recall things they’ve long since forgotten. In many ways, I have become the keeper of our shared histories.

However, it is not always easy to carry so much of the past. You might think nostalgia is a wistful feeling, but to me, it’s a lingering echo of what once was. Memories often return unbidden, resurfacing with the right song, a familiar scent, or a sudden shift in the wind. And sometimes, it feels like I am standing at the threshold of two worlds: one that has already been lived and one that I am trying to step into. Moving forward can be difficult when the past refuses to fade quietly.

I make art and write to make sense of it all. My poetry and art are more than just venues for self-expression—they are my way of processing, seeking closure. I have the habit of revisiting the same themes and emotions again and again until I have finally made peace with them. Only then can I move on, allowing the memory to rest. It is like closing a book. I don’t erase or discard these memories; they will always exist within me. They just no longer hold power over me.

Perhaps, through all of this, I am learning how to honor the past without being held captive by it. My memories shape the person I am, but they do not confine me. And maybe, in sharing these stories—putting words or images to what lingers—I can find a way to move forward without leaving anything behind.

The handwritten draft of this post.

Inheriting Courage From My Warrior Ancestors

When I close my eyes, memories rise like smoke from a dying fire. I can still hear the gendang’s beating and my family’s joyful chatter from Gawai. I was ten years old and surrounded by the warmth of my people. The elders shared stories of our ancestors—Orang Kaya Pemancha Dana Bayang, Aji Apai Limpa, and Nakhoda Panglima Budin Gerasi—all courageous warriors of great renown. That courage, I’ve been told, is in my blood. But what does that mean in a place so far removed from their reality?

I’ve recently been reading Xiaolu Guo’s Nine Continents: A Memoir In and Out of China. Her exploration of identity, displacement, and cultural heritage resonates deeply with me. Xiaolu often addresses issues of alienation and belonging in her works, and she has become one of my favorite authors. Her writing inspired me to think about my own journey, which led me to write this post.

Our Warrior Culture

The Iban were famed for their warrior culture, defined by war expeditions and headhunting. It was once an important aspect of our spiritual beliefs and society framework. To be Iban means to be a warrior. Headhunting was not a barbaric pastime, as outsiders may believe. It was a necessary way of life since it signified protection, honor, and a connection to the spirit realm. While the act itself faded into history, the essence of the courage has been passed down through generations.

I often asked myself, “What remains of the warrior spirit?”. Sometimes it feels like a quiet force pushing me forward. In moments of difficulty, I draw on the courageous spirit of my ancestors. Their legacy reminds me that I have the strength to persevere in the face of overwhelming odds. Perhaps it is genetic memory, the invisible link that ties me to my ancestors and passes down the legacy of courage across generations.

The Loss of Tradition

However, bravery alone cannot fill the gaps. Living in urban places like Kuala Lumpur has distanced me from the traditions that constitute my identity. When my extended family embraced Christianity in the 1950s, it marked a shift from animistic beliefs. Urban living also entails replacing the communal life of the longhouse. Many other aspects of our culture are disappearing, such as the extensive oral poetry tradition.

I am caught in a dilemma. On the one hand, I value the opportunities and conveniences of modern living. On the other hand, I mourn the loss of vibrant traditions that shaped our way of life. These losses make me wonder how we can honor the past while embracing the present.

Image source The late Temenggong Koh (left), one of the last Iban warleaders of the 20th century, before headhunting was completely outlawed by the British colony.

The Sense of Alienation

Life in the city often exacerbates this disconnection. Here, I am just a fragment of an Iban: a name that suggests a foreign land, a face that others might find unfamiliar. When people ask where I’m from, my responses may seem inadequate. How can I explain a longhouse? Or, even if I can explain it, how do I dispel their misconception that modern Ibans still live on trees and wear loincloths? How can I explain our different Gawai, or traditional festivals, when they typically only celebrate one or two holidays, like Eid or Lunar New Year? However, in the heart of this alienation, I’ve realized that identity is not static. It is a fluid interplay of past and present, shaped by our decisions and circumstances.

Strength Through Cultural Roots

Nonetheless, I remain connected to my roots. They are not always visible, but they are present. My ancestors’ courage motivates me to face my fears and embrace the unknown. The warrior spirit is not a relic from the past but rather a driving force in my life today.

During difficult times, I found myself returning to the stories of my ancestors. They endured jungles, battles, and scarcity. I remind myself of their tenacity—if they can endure, so can I.

The loud proclamation of success does not equate to strength. Perseverance and the ability to adapt without forgetting are qualities that define strength. The warrior spirit is about enduring in a world that often forces us to forget who we are.

Preserving Tradition

My original poem from Sarawak collection of poetry

Poetry has been one way for me to preserve my culture. Writing has become a means of connecting the past and present, who I was and who I am becoming. It allows me to hold onto what feels like it’s slipping away.

I aspire to one day publish my poems and leave a legacy for my children. When the time comes for them to discover their roots, I hope my words will serve as a guide, helping them understand who they are and where they came from. Writing allows me to keep the stories alive as the world around us changes.

My identity is a patchwork of memories, stories, and dreams. I am neither fully of the past nor fully of the present. But maybe that’s what it means to be Iban today: to walk on a bridge, perpetually caught between two realities.

I am part of something bigger than myself, a heritage of power, fortitude, and endurance. While I may live far away from my people’s homeland, the essence of my heritage lives on, molding my journey and grounding me in a world that is often divided.

I carry the warrior spirit with me because I am descended from people who endured. So I take a step forward, not knowing where the journey will take me, but knowing it is worthwhile. Like the warrior spirit that runs through my blood, this journey is not always easy, but it is always worth it.

My cousin’s traditional wedding.

Reflection | Fossils, Letters, and Love Across Time

So, I came across The Last Guard the other day. No, it’s not the latest K-drama or Hollywood movie. It refers to the discovery of multiple fossilized psittacosaur cubs found alongside what appears to be an older sibling. The older sibling was guarding or babysitting the cubs when they were buried by a volcanic debris flow. This group of fossils was discovered by a paleontologist, Dean Lomax.

“The largest fossil does not have the dimensions of a sexually mature adult, so it is not it could have been one of the parents; most likely who has been the older brother of the little babies” The find is exceptionally preserved, and appears in his book “Locked in Time – Animal Behavior Unearthed in 50 Extraordinary Fossils” Source

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It stopped me in my tracks and made me reflect. I mean, imagine that a big dino brother is protecting the younger siblings and its final act is frozen in time. It’s heartbreaking, but it got me thinking: why did dinosaurs even exist? Were they here just to live their lives and then become the fossil fuel that now powers our world?

It’s kind of wild to think about it. Now, just a side point: do you know that during the time of dinosaurs, the earth’s atmosphere was thicker due to higher levels of volcanic activity and greenhouse gases? The sky would be hazier, possibly obscuring the clarity of the night sky. So these dinosaurs probably couldn’t see the crystal-clear starlit night we enjoy today. These massive creatures never saw a sky full of stars the way we do, but now millions of years later, their fossils power our rockets, propelling us into that very sky. It’s poetic, isn’t it? That nothing in this world really lost. They were just transformed. Dinosaurs that once roamed the earth are now the force sending us into the universe. It’s all connected, a continuum of life, death, and dreams.

And millions of years later, here we are looking at their fossils and reflecting on their existence. An older sibling protecting the cubs. If this is not love, though instinctual in nature, I don’t know what is. Their story didn’t end with extinction. It lives on in the fuel that powers our world and in moments like this when we pause to think about them.

Have you heard about The Letter to Lee Eung Tae? The Last Guard made me think of that letter too. The Letter to Lee Eung Tae was written 500 years ago by a grieving pregnant Korean Joseon widow to her deceased husband Lee Eung Tae. The Last Guard versus The Letter to Lee Eung Tae. Two moments in history, so different but connected. One is a silent act of love embedded in ash, and the other is a deep grief written onto paper. Both moments are remnants of love carried through time.

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I wept when I read the widow’s letter to her beloved husband. Five hundred years didn’t erase the pain and longing in her words.

“You always said to me, “We’ll be together until our hair turns gray, then die together”, so how could you go and leave without me? Whom should I and our child turn to; how should we live? How could you leave us all behind and go on your own?…Each time we lay together, I asked you “Dear, do other people love and cherish each other as we do? Are they like us?” How could you forget my words and abandon me?…I cannot live without you. I want to go to you quickly, so please take me to you. I cannot forget the feelings I had for you in this life, there is no limit to my sorrow. I don’t know if I can go on; where do I put these feelings that I have, while raising a child that misses their father? Please read this letter, then come to me in my dreams…” Source

Definitely stuff of K-drama.

This letter is like The Last Guard; it silently speaks of that protective love. This is love in all its forms, instinctual or deeply human, that transcends time.

And maybe that’s the real point. Nothing is ever really gone. Whether it’s a dinosaur’s final sacrifice or a widow’s grieving words, their legacies find us. They connect past and present, life and death, in this vast web of existence. Even in extinction or loss, there’s continuity and transformation that reached us at this present age.

It makes me wonder, what if millions of years from now, someone looks back at us? Someone finds our digital fossil buried beneath layers of forgotten time. And there they’d be reading our words and confessions, once alive and fragile but burning deeply. Would they feel the same reflection and connection we feel now when we look at fossils or read ancient letters?

In the end, maybe love is what truly matters. And maybe that’s also what it’s all about, leaving traces of ourselves behind. Traces of our existence, our love, our dreams, waiting for someone to find them and feel them all over again.

Handwritten draft of this post.

Becoming Me | A Journey Through Love, Heritage, and Doubt

Daily writing prompt

What experiences in life helped you grow the most?

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It’s funny how the experiences that change us the most often slip by quietly. There is little fanfare, and we rarely recognize them until much later. However, in retrospect, I can trace my growth to the struggles and the soft, persistent ways life nudged me forward.

I believe it started with loneliness. Growing up, I often felt invisible and alone. I wasn’t the most outgoing, pretty, or popular. I was just…there, among other outstanding siblings and peers. It’s strange, but loneliness formed the foundation of who I am now. It taught me to listen to both myself and others. It taught me to be more observant and sensitive to details that most people overlook, which I now use in my art and writing.

Then later came love. It was messy, imperfect, but glorious nonetheless. My relationship with my husband—my lover—has been one of my biggest teachers. We’re opposites in so many ways, and those differences have forced me to stretch, to compromise, and to forgive. Being married this long (two decades), going through joys, heartbreaks, financial strains, and raising kids has all been a daily practice of choosing love, even when it’s hard. Especially when it’s hard.

However, I believe that reconnecting with my Iban roots has been the most transforming experience for me. For a long time, I felt detached from my cultural identity, as if I were witnessing it from afar. It was not intentional. Life was tugging me in different directions. But being a mother changed that. I realized how much I wanted my children to know where they came from. I want them to learn and feel that deep connection I had almost let go of. Teaching them about my Iban heritage has been like teaching myself again by rediscovering the stories, the poetry, and the parts of me I had tucked away.

I am currently working on a collection of poems that explores my Iban roots and traditions, weaving together memories, folklore, and the cultural theme that continues to shape who I am today.

And then there’s the lifetime of inner journey: the insecurities, the doubts, and the fear of not being good enough. Those have been some of my hardest teachers. I’ve struggled with impostor syndrome more times than I can remember, particularly when it comes to my art and writing. Moments such as being harshly criticized for lack of originality, feeling misunderstood, or being dismissed had a deep effect on me. But these experiences also pushed me to create a space where I feel free without fear of judgment, like starting this blog.

All of these experiences—loneliness, love, the return to my Iban roots, and issues with self-doubt—have influenced me the most. These experiences didn’t come with shiny lessons, but they taught me to be more compassionate, patient, and a little kinder to myself.

I’m still growing and figuring things out. But if there’s one thing I’ve learned, it’s that growth doesn’t always happen in the big, loud moments. Sometimes it is in the moments you least expect, gently nudging you forward, one tentative step at a time.

The Advice I Needed as a Teen (And Still Do Sometimes)

Daily writing prompt

What advice would you give to your teenage self?

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If I could go back and sit beside my geeky teen self, I think I’d reach out, touch her cheek, and say this:

“You are enough, just as you are.”

I know she wouldn’t believe me right away. She’d probably frown and give me that skeptical side-eye, thinking I was just being nice. But I’d say it again, assuring her I’m not being cheesy, hoping it would sink into her heart and seep through her doubts.

“You don’t need to be prettier, louder, or more extroverted to be seen or loved. Your sensitivity, the depths you hold, the way you notice the smallest details, and the emotions you feel so deeply: they are not to be ashamed of. They are your gifts.”

When I was growing up, I often wondered why people liked me. I didn’t see what they saw. I wasn’t the popular kid, or the prettiest, gentlest girl, and I definitely wasn’t the life of the party. I was scrawny, awkward, quiet, and always second-guessing myself and my decisions. I spent so much time trying to figure out what made me special.

I’d tell her this too: “Don’t waste time wondering why others like you or if you’re worthy of it. You are worthy just as you are. Let yourself be vulnerable without feeling weak. Let yourself dream without fear of not being good enough.”

There were so many time when I felt like I was running, desperate to catch up, to fit in, to be noticed, to be the best. I’d want her to know she could stop running and start breathing.

I’d tell her, “Trust your voice because it will take you places you never imagined. And when the world feels overwhelming, turn to the things that make your heart sing—music, poetry, art. They will remind you of who you are when you feel lost.”

If I could give my teenage self anything, it would be that sense of peace. The peace that gives her understanding that she didn’t need to constantly strive to be more. She was already enough and complete. And maybe, just maybe, hearing that would have made her journey a little gentler.

So, if any of you are reading this and feel like you’re still that teenager inside, this is for you too:

You are enough, just as you are.