Toxic Modern Beauty Standard | Looking Back at the Girl I Was

I grew up in the 90s, an era when beauty was defined in strict, unyielding ways. The girls in the magazines didn’t look like the women I knew at all. They had thin bodies, sharp cheekbones, long arms and legs, and faces that hadn’t changed with age or life. At the time, I didn’t have the words to articulate it. I only knew that I didn’t look like the girls on the covers, and something inside me subconsciously decided that meant I wasn’t good enough.

Back then, I thought that being beautiful was necessary to fit in. I thought that people who judged worth by physical appearance were the ones who gave approval. I thought that the only way to make up for what I was missing was to be good at other things. So I worked hard and made sure my grades were good. I worked hard to get a good job. Throughout the years I learned how to pretend and not draw attention to myself and how not to embarrass myself. It felt like the safest way to get around in a world where my body never matched the acceptable standard.

It took years for me to see how fake and shallow that standard was. The Western beauty standard that we got from TV, fashion magazines, and advertisements was very narrow and spread far beyond where it started. It glorified extreme thinness, having smooth skin, hairlessness, small features, and not showing signs of aging. These traits were shown as universal signs of beauty, even though they didn’t apply to most real women. I didn’t think about this when I was a teenager. I assumed the failure was my fault.

As more information from the Epstein files has come to light in the last few months, I’ve been looking back at that period in my life in a different way. I don’t want to accuse anyone or make direct connections between crimes and culture. But it’s impossible to ignore how closely some parts of the fashion and beauty industries were linked to powerful men who surrounded themselves with very young girls. When youthfulness was not only admired but also aggressively idealized, and when the individuals who shaped those ideals possessed significant power and influence, the standards ceased to appear neutral. They start to look like reflections of a gaze that was never meant to be good for women.

For decades, feminists have been critical of beauty culture. I could understand the criticism in theory long before I felt it in my life. I didn’t know any of this when I was a teenager. I only knew that my body looked different from what the world thought was beautiful and celebrated. I only felt the silent, constant feeling of not being good enough. Now that I know that some of those ideals were reinforced in places where people were taken advantage of, that old insecurity feels more profound and complicated, and it’s harder to brush off as teenage self-doubt.

When I think about my teenage self now, I see a girl who was trying to figure out where she fit in a world that kept narrowing the definition of beauty. I see her flipping through fashion or teenage magazines with her friends at school and tracing the lines of faces she thought she was supposed to aspire to. I see the way she was hiding her pain behind success. She didn’t know that what she was doing was part of a much more complex system. She only knew that she felt like she was outside of something she couldn’t see but felt deeply in her core.

If I could sit with her today, I would not offer some cliche advice. Advice points to a resolution, but I honestly don’t have any resolutions to offer when I still carry the echoes of those insecurities. I still notice how easily I slip back into old comparisons. I still feel the effects of growing up in a culture that taught girls to always judge themselves. Even decades later, the healing process has not been smooth, and I doubt I will ever fully heal. Some days are better. Some days are not. When the pattern is deeply rooted in you, it’s impossible to heal, though mindset can be trained and shifted.

These are the things I would do:

I wouldn’t tell her to be confident. I wouldn’t tell her to love herself more. Those instructions would still feel empty and shallow. I would tell her that I’m sorry they lied to her. Nothing was wrong with her body, I would assure her. That she was never supposed to look like the girls she compared herself to. That the standard she used to judge herself was not made for real women, and definitely not for teenage girls who are still figuring out who they are. This standard was shaped by power, profit, and a perspective that narrowed the definition of womanhood while objectifying women. I would tell her that the shame she felt didn’t come from inside her. It was learned and religiously absorbed. It was reinforced daily by images and messages she had no reason to mistrust at that age.

I can’t change what she went through. I can’t restore the years she felt insignificant or invisible. However, I can accept what happened without trying to justify it or improve it.

The anger I feel now is not directed at her. It is directed at a culture that normalized her self-doubt and insecurity. It’s an evil culture that told girls to shrink themselves to be accepted and then rewarded them for compliance. My rage is directed at a culture that taught vulnerable women to mistake discomfort for personal failure.

This is all I can give her. I don’t have a solution or any comfort to offer: You were never the problem. You were growing up in a system that didn’t know how to treat girls with respect and dignity. And confronting that truth now reshapes how I understand those early years.

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.

What Remains After They’re Gone

Daily writing prompt

How do significant life events or the passage of time influence your perspective on life?

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There are losses that come with sudden announcements and those that slip in quietly. This loss falls into the latter category. I slowly came to understand that someone I loved had chosen not to stay in contact. This sudden change didn’t involve death or drama. There was no final argument or clear explanation. It was a distance that grew until it was gone. There were messages one day. Then they were gone. There was familiarity one day. After that, there was nothing.

At first, I didn’t know it was grief. I told myself that this was normal. People go their separate ways and lives move in different directions. Not every connection lasts through change. Still, the body notices things before the mind does. I reread old conversations and paused before sending messages. I knew I wouldn’t send it, so I held on to my phone longer than I needed to, as if I was waiting for something that had already decided not to arrive.

This month has been full of transitions. I’m leaving a church community that has been a big part of my adult life. I’m finally giving up a part of myself that learned to put up with things by remaining small and compliant. Along with that, I carry the loss of someone who was important to me and was a part of my daily life.

None of these changes came with clear endings. Leaving a community takes shape through many small choices that build on each other. First, the practical tasks, and then the emotional ones. Memories come back to me at the worst possible times: familiar songs, old habits, and routines that make up almost two decades of my life. You don’t leave cleanly. Pieces linger even if you don’t want them to.

Estrangement follows a similar pattern. The loss is evident in mundane instances—such as the impulse to share something and then halting midway, or the instinct to reach out followed by the silent adjustment that you no longer do that. It lives in little things and in spaces where another person used to be.

I used to think that as I got older, I would learn how to let go and carry less weight. The years have made me more aware, though. I notice what I hold on to and how much I let people into my private life. Even brief connections can make a big difference. Age hasn’t made me tougher. It only made me more honest about how I feel.

You can show up, be there, and care for someone, but you can’t make them remain in your life. When they leave, all that is left is how you deal with the absence, probably not in big ways but in how you carry that loss within you.

Some days I feel fine. Some days I feel grief over unfinished conversations or bonding. Sometimes relief, sadness, clarity, and weariness all come together. When you leave the church, you feel both free and lost. Losing someone I loved makes me feel both grief-ridden and accepting. Both changes happen at the same time, and neither one makes things easier.

Transitions don’t usually come one at a time. One ending loosens another. One shift makes room for the next. You can’t always deal with them one at a time; sometimes you have to deal with many changes at once and do your best to stay present.

There is no big breakthrough or a sudden resolution here. I’m just paying attention to things in my life. Mornings are different. Some memories resurface without warning. Silence is more valuable now than it used to be. I also feel a growing sense of stability, not because life is easier, but because I have stopped fighting against change.

Estrangement teaches something quiet but powerful: love doesn’t last forever. People come into your life for reasons you may never fully understand, and sometimes they leave without saying why. There is no guarantee of closure, and answers may never come. Your task is to keep going while carrying what matters.

Right now, that task looks like letting the absence exist without rushing to replace it. It means letting sadness exist without turning it into a story about failure. It means accepting that this season is about letting go, even though I would have liked things to stay the same.

Time moves the days forward without healing these particular wounds, and I do the same. Not with certainty or everything worked out, but with awareness and willingness to remain with what is, even when it means losing someone you loved.

The Art of Subtle Complaints

Daily writing prompt

What do you complain about the most?

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Some people complain loudly. You can hear them from the next room: loud voices, sharp words, and their hands thrown in the air. That has never been my way. My complaints are more subtle, and most of the time they are only in my head; they never leave my mouth. Most days, if you asked, I would say I have nothing to complain about. If you knew me long enough, though, you would notice the places where my patience thins.

I complain about feeling invisible, though I rarely say it aloud. Sometimes I sit in the middle of a conversation and laugh while my mind wanders. I become a spectator in my own life. People around me don’t notice the things I want them to, like how I become quiet or how I focus on small details. I think that if someone really listened, they would hear the pain in my silence. Most people don’t, so I let it go.

I also have a subtle need for reassurance. It doesn’t have to be grand. I don’t want promises written down or words repeated until they lose their meaning. I want little things that I can count on: someone who is always there. I want to matter, not just when I’m joyful and bright, but also when I’m quiet, unsure, or difficult to love.

My complaints are not always about others. Often, they turn inward. I wish I didn’t care so much or that I wasn’t so sensitive. I notice every change in tone, every unspoken hesitation, and every silence that drags. It can be tiring to live with this awareness, and I sometimes wonder if anyone else feels the same way. I grumble to myself about how restless I am and how I’m never fully satisfied with the present moment or always want a little more than what is offered.

Some days I wish for more warmth and honesty before I have to ask. I don’t like chasing affection or trying to figure out hidden meanings. I want things to be simple, even though I know I’m not built for it. I study what most people overlook, a habit that can make me feel better and worse at the same time. I know I can be hard to read and that I expect a lot from the people I love, but I’d rather feel too much than not at all.

Sometimes I complain about not being in the know and having to guess what someone else is thinking or why their mood has changed. I want clarity. I want to know where I stand, even if it hurts. More than anything, I hope to be met where I am, not where it is convenient.

If you pay attention to what I’m saying, you’ll see that my complaints show what I value: being present, paying attention, giving reassurance, and having someone steady to lean on. These things aren’t obvious. Most of them fade away before anyone finds out. Instead, they live in the spaces between conversations, in the small annoyance of not getting a proper explanation, and in the longing for things to resolve. The truth is, I don’t need much. I just need to know I’m not invisible and to feel like I belong.

Reading at My Own Pace

Some months I read with hunger. Other times, a book sits unopened for weeks, waiting for me to catch up to whatever it’s trying to say. I used to feel guilty about it, for not finishing or for moving too slowly. Now, I treat it like a ritual. The book finds me when I’m ready or it doesn’t. It doesn’t matter. I’m not competing with anyone.

This year, my to-read shelf is more invitation than obligation. I don’t care about finishing stacks. I want each page to be a gentle interruption, like rain on my balcony while I’m working or the way dusk slips through the window when I’m too busy to notice it.

Fiction

Hear the Wind Sing by Haruki Murakami
This is Murakami’s first novel. It is short and understated. Some people said it wasn’t as good as the rest, but I don’t care. I’m drawn to where his work began, long before the fame. I expect quiet nights, music, and empty spaces.

Getting Lost by Annie Ernaux
I love Ernaux. Her writing style is very clinical.’ This book is a raw diary of obsession and doubt. Ernaux writes with clarity about longing and uncertainty. The subject matter is personal and direct.

Poetry

Take Me With You by Andrea Gibson
I started to pay attention to Gibson’s work after discovering her on Instagram. She was bravely battling cancer and was very public about her struggles, but it was her message that touched me the most. This collection opens into pain, love, and vulnerability. Gibson doesn’t disguise what hurts. I want to spend time with poems that stay close to real feeling.

The Madness Vase by Andrea Gibson
Another book by Gibson. These poems circle fear, survival, and tenderness. The language stays plain, even when the emotions are complex and raw.

Yoga & Body

Every Body Yoga by Jessamyn Stanley
I return to yoga after abandoning my practice several years ago. I figured I need a gentler form of exercise so my perimenopausal body can cope. And since I am struggling with my larger body, I naturally gravitate to Jessamyn Stanley. Stanley welcomes every level of experience. Her voice stays grounded and open. I’m looking for guidance that doesn’t expect perfection.

Yoke: My Yoga of Self-Acceptance by Jessamyn Stanley
A collection of essays on making peace with your own body. Stanley is candid about what that process has looked like for her.

Japanese Philosophy & Non-Fiction

Wabi Sabi by Beth Kempton
I’m reading this now. I have gravitated to Eastern philosophy since I began to deconstruct my Christian faith. Kempton explores imperfection and beauty in ordinary life. Reading this book gives me a peaceful feeling.

Kokoro by Beth Kempton
This book considers “heart” and spirit in Japanese culture. She writes with clarity and restraint.

Freedom Seeker by Beth Kempton
Kempton traces the slow return to self beneath noise and duty. I love her, Wabi Sabi, so I think this book will resonate with me as a dogmatic religious dissenter.

The Way of the Fearless Writer by Beth Kempton
A book on writing with less fear and more presence. I’m curious what she sees that I don’t yet.

The Baby on the Fire Escape by Julie Phillips

I am so looking forward to reading this one. I think this is the first book I found on this subject. It’s a study of women who made art while raising children. It gathers stories of how creativity and care live beside each other.

I am a slow reader because I want to savor the text and let the message sink into my heart. There are days I chase after answers, but sometimes I just want to reflect on the beauty of a good line. I know these books will keep me company. They will remind me I’m not the only one who desires or questions things.

Maybe you read like this too, like a habit. If you do, I hope you find something on your shelf that waits for you and meets you quietly, without asking you to be anywhere else.

Clutter and Deconstruction | An Ongoing Inventory

There’s a distinct silence when you leave a place that once ordered your days. After nearly two decades, I quit church. The decision formed slowly, after years of tension I tolerated until it grew extremely intolerable.

I now stand closer to agnosticism than belief, letting questions stay open instead of forcing answers. The air at home feels changed, heavier in some corners, lighter in others. When routines fall away, you notice the clutter, not only what sits on the kitchen table but also the weight you’ve carried for years.

Most people picture clutter as stacks on a shelf or a drawer in disarray. Lately I’ve started spotting it elsewhere. I feel it in how my shoulders settle when I walk through the house, in the space that appears when I stop bending to others’ expectations. Life after a big change feels quiet and unfinished, as though I’m watching to see what remains and what slips away.

Old loyalties settle quietly, like dust on my cheap formica desk. I kept showing up for people and places out of habit, drawn by an obligation I couldn’t quite figure out. For years, leaving felt impossible even when every part of me was worn out. The routines outlined my life, and familiar faces offered belonging, but the price was always a private ache. I tried to convince myself gratitude was enough, but the truth is, I was shrinking to fit a space that no longer fit me. In the end, walking away involved no spectacle, only a simple moment when I realized I owed no one loyalty if it meant losing myself. The relief felt strange, almost unwelcome.

I carried self-blame like a child’s favorite blanket. When something went wrong, I looked inward, convinced I could have tried harder, meeker, humbler, demanded less. Apologies formed before I even knew why I was sorry. It’s a habit that takes time to unlearn. Even now, when voices rise or tension thickens a room, my first instinct is to smooth things over, to make myself smaller so others stay comfortable. But I am starting to see that shrinking doesn’t save anyone; it only erases the person I am. These days, I let discomfort and silence linger. It’s uncomfortable, but I’m being honest with myself.

People can fill up space in your life, sometimes so gradually that constant fatigue sneaks up on you. I think about those who never noticed the toll their presence took. Letting go brings no drama and no confrontation, only a quiet shift in where I place my energy. I’m learning to keep my circle small, giving my best to those who show up without asking for more than I can offer. The others drift to the edges. The distance feels necessary and carries no resentment.

The clutter that rings loudest lives in my own head. Voices linger as fragments of sermons, advice from people who never really knew me, and anxious run-throughs of every conversation where I might have chosen the wrong words. These layers pile up until I can’t tell which thoughts are mine and which belong to someone else. Lately I pay attention to the pauses, the moments between bursts of noise or activity. When my mind is quiet, I notice what I miss and what I don’t. Some voices fade on their own. Others, I have to let go by choice. I keep what matters, and the rest slips away with time.

What remains after clearing everything feels unfamiliar. The house still clatters each morning, the calendar still crowds the wall with reminders, but something has shifted. There is more space, more air. I linger at the window a little longer, breathe more slowly, refuse to pack every minute with motion or explanation. The openness feels odd, as though I am learning to live without the old weight. There is no hurry to fill the silence.

Fragments of Obsession VI: The Art of Lingering

This is one of the things I did for fun and did it with only my memory and imagination as company. It’s an old habit: writing fragments of obsession that I started years ago and keep coming back to when I’m feeling heavy or restless. When I finished Fragments of Obsession V: What Remains of Him, I knew there was still more to figure out—more shadows, more tenderness, and more moments haunted by tragedy. So I let myself return to his rooms, his silences, and his gaze, and I wrote a few more. This is what play looks like for me now. This is not an escape but a way for me to process past experiences and to turn them into gentle longing, finally tame and set free.

Riverside

I fall behind pretending I care about the river, when all I really want to do is watch him move ahead. He never misses anything. His hands in his pockets and his shoulders tight. But then he slows down, turns around, and gives me that look, like he’s been waiting for me all his life. I see that half-smile he only gives me. It almost feels private, something he keeps to himself and lets slip just for me.

I could live in that space between us just for the thrill of him staying still and making me want to get closer. He doesn’t say my name. He never does. He stands there with his boots on, the city and river catching in the leather of his jacket, making him look both real and unattainable.

He watches every step I take. He doesn’t fill the gap. He makes me feel the anguish of wanting to be closer. He let me reach him and let me be the one to move first. He tilts his head, keeps his eyes focused and drawls softly, “Took you long enough.”

I can’t help it. I smile. Because I know I’ll always keep chasing him, and he’ll always let me find him.

His Apartment

His apartment is nothing like I imagined, though in some ways it’s exactly what I expected. There are books all over the place. Some were stacked, some were abandoned in the middle of a thought, and some had bent pages where he stopped reading. When he isn’t looking, I run my fingers along the spines and read the titles like clues. I wonder about the books he returns to, those he doesn’t finish, and the ones he holds close. I try to picture which lines he remembered and which sentences he underlined in his mind.

His boots are next to the door, with the laces loose and the toes pointing out like he kicked them off without thinking. There’s a mug on the table with a faint coffee ring drying at the bottom. I pick it up, turn it slowly, and picture his mouth there. I always do that—touch the things he touched, like maybe I can learn something from him that he doesn’t say.

A jacket hangs off the chair, slumped over and heavy in the shoulders. It looks worn out. I wonder how long it’s been carrying him like that. A scarf draped carelessly over the back, still holding the shape of his neck. I don’t touch it. I don’t want to change how he left it.

There are pictures by the window. I look at them when he’s in the other room. Family. People I don’t know. I study them for too long, trying to remember their faces and figure out where he came from and what made him who he is now. He doesn’t explain them. I don’t ask. But my mind keeps going around and around them, restless and unfulfilled. I want to know who he was before he learned how to hold back.

In the morning, sunlight spills over the rug, revealing dust, creases, and the signs of the days he’s lived without me. I see everything. The fact that he always puts his keys in the same place. The small pile of my belongings that have started to gather—a pen, a hair tie, and a notebook that I left on purpose and pretended was an accident. He never moves them.

When I sit on his couch, I pull the blanket over my legs and breathe in his scent. His smell is faint but stubbornly sticking to the fabric. There are dents in the pillows. I press my hand into the hollow and imagine how he fell asleep there on the nights he was too exhausted to care.

In his bedroom, the bed is never made. The sheets were twisted, and the blankets were half fallen to the floor. A shirt is hanging over the chair, and the sleeves are knotted like it was taken off in a hurry. I lie there and stare at the ceiling, counting the cracks and listening to the city breathe outside. Here, my body relaxes in a way it doesn’t anywhere else. Here, his hands don’t have to hold evidence, or grief, or anything but me.

At night, I watch him sleep. I memorize how he breathes, the slight pause before it settles. I tell myself that I will remember it later. That’s what I always think. Like memory is something I can stockpile.

In the morning, the light climbs the wall slowly, indifferent. I know I’ll be leaving again. I do it all the time. But I also know that I leave parts of myself behind that are too small to see but impossible to take back. A strand of hair in his bed. A warmth that stays even after my body is gone. A familiarity he’ll feel later and not know why.

His apartment is not mine. But my desire is everywhere in it. And every time I leave, I can’t help but think that I know him better through his absence than his words.

Haunted

He comes in late, and the door closes quietly behind him. He doesn’t turn on the main lights; instead, he lets the dusk hang softly between us. His shoulders are hunched under the old leather jacket, and I know right away that something heavy followed him home. I can tell by the way he takes off his boots and the silence he carries with him.

He sits on the couch, elbows on his knees, head bowed, and hands dangling. There is blood on the edge of his shirt cuff, but it might not be his. I see how his fingers flex and how he runs a hand through his hair. He’s not with me yet. Still stuck in whatever he saw and can’t say out loud.

This is how I remember him: the hollows under his eyes, the day-old stubble on his jaw, the cut on his knuckle from a door he probably shouldn’t have punched. I look at him and see the small tremor in his hands and the shallow breaths he inhaled. He stares at the wall instead of me.

He doesn’t talk about work, at least not the real stuff. But the story always creeps into the room, clinging to his skin, hair, and the distance between us. I want to reach out to him, pull the darkness off his back, and hold all the sorrow he tries to hide. But I don’t. I just watch and let myself memorize him when he’s like this: unreachable, falling apart, but still here.

He finally looks up, and there’s something wild in his eyes. A flash of pain that isn’t meant for me but finds me anyway. I take it all at once. I tell myself that if I can remember him like this, haunted and broken, then nothing the world throws at us will ever make me forget him.

So I keep watching. I let my eyes linger, wanting to see every scar and every unnamed pain. I keep watching until he starts to come back, when his breathing slows and his hands stop shaking. And when he finally looks me in the eye, it feels like apologies and resignation to survive.

Noticing What Has Changed

I feel like the question “What have you learned recently?” is simple, but when I try to answer it, I have to pause. I don’t notice most changes in my life until I look back. I go about my day, dealing with whatever comes up, without really thinking about whether I’m getting better or not. But sometimes it’s clear that something has changed. That’s what this is, an attempt to notice what’s changed or improved.

Lately, I’ve been more aware of how much space I let myself take up. I made myself small for most of my life. I only spoke up when I was sure I wouldn’t hurt anyone’s feelings. I tried to guess what people wanted, what they would put up with, and what would make me look out of place. Staying hidden can make you feel safe, but it wears you down over time. I didn’t realize that waiting for permission to share an idea, make something, or want something for myself was a choice because it had become such a habit. I don’t remember when it changed, but I do know that I don’t ask for so much approval anymore. I write or draw what I want, when I want. I publish things with my name on them sometimes, and other times I use a different name. Other times, I just leave the words on my hard drive. I don’t have to do anything for anyone. I quietly came to this realization, and it has remained with me.

I have also slowed down, both by necessity and by choice. It’s difficult to put into words how heavy this year has been. There were times when my body just gave up on me, like when I was always tired and had migraines that came out of nowhere and persisted. I quit working out. I stopped pretending that pushing myself harder would help. I waited for a while, trying to deal with the pain and uncertainty by not moving much. I did figure out the cause of my fatigue and migraines, and since then, they have improved a lot. That experience taught me to slow down and listen to my body and get the help it needed.

The worst of the symptoms have disappeared, allowing me to move again. I don’t mean that in a figurative way; I really do walk and jog more. Three kilometers, three or four times a week, and there’s no need to hurry. There isn’t any more pressure to “get fit.” I just walk. I see the trees, hear the birds, and feel my legs moving again after months of inertia. It’s normal, but it means a lot to me. It feels like returning to my skin after months of being wrecked by fatigue and pain.

Setting boundaries is still new. For years, I thought it was my job to be there for others, take on their moods, and ensure things went well. Now, I say no more often. I let people deal with their problems. I don’t explain myself as much. It doesn’t feel empowering or freeing; it’s awkward and tense at times, but it’s real. Guilt comes and goes but I let it go. I’m starting to realize that saying yes won’t fix everything.

Another lesson learned and change made: I don’t doubt my right to want things as much as I used to. For a long time, I told myself that I was easy to please and that wanting too much would only make me disappointed. It was better to keep my needs vague and not say them out loud. However, I want more lately—more peace, more meaning, a stronger connection, and more room for my writing and art. I’m not sorry for it, even though I know I won’t get everything I want. I write and create because I need to, not to please anyone or gain more followers and likes. Those things are undoubtedly flattering, but they are just a bonus.

Trust is also a big deal, especially knowing that my voice matters. I still doubt myself, especially when I write in English. The urge to hold back is still there, but I keep going. I write what I think is honest, even if it’s not perfect. I establish boundaries when necessary. I don’t pretend like I know more than I do. Sharing is a form of practice in and of itself. I don’t know if anyone is interested in what I have to say. It doesn’t matter as much now; I just write and create.

Routine is what keeps me grounded. My days are typically plain. I get up, do what needs to be done, take a morning walk or jog, cook, read, draw, and write. Repetition is comforting. Things that used to be trivial are now important, like how the light changes during the day, the sound of rain in the morning, or a quick note from a friend. I don’t ignore these things anymore. I remember days by their texture and temperature and not by what I accomplished.

There’s nothing dramatic about the last few months. The most significant changes are internal, and I can’t see them unless I write them down. I’m not as interested in what looks appealing as I am in what feels right and true. I still mess up and sometimes I fall back into old habits. I’m not sure if there’s a lesson here at all. It’s just a slow process of living and noticing what’s different.

If you asked me a year ago what I’d learn, I wouldn’t have guessed any of this. Most things happen without a plan. They reveal themselves in silence after the fact, when I look up and realize I’m not in the same place anymore.

What Sparks My Admiration in Others

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There are many qualities people celebrate in this world: confidence, achievement, ambition, and charm. I understand why those traits draw attention, but the things that spark my admiration are usually less noticeable, simpler, and harder to measure. I’m drawn to people who move through life in a steady, consistent way that is easy to miss. Their strength is not loud or dramatic. It does not demand attention. You feel it more than you see it, and it appears in small, everyday moments.

One quality I admire deeply is quiet strength. Some people carry difficult histories, but they never turn their pain into a performance. They don’t talk about what they have survived or how exhausting their days can be. They wake up and continue living with purpose. They make thoughtful choices. They speak gently even when life has not been kind to them. This kind of strength does not need recognition to exist. It reminds me that courage isn’t always fierce or loud. Sometimes it sits in the background, unnoticed but ever present.

I also admire consistency. There are people who show up the same way regardless of what season they are in. They do not disappear when things become complicated, and they do not change their personality based on convenience. Their presence feels reliable, like a rhythm you can return to when everything else feels uncertain. Consistency requires emotional maturity and the willingness to take responsibility for your actions, which is why it is uncommon. When someone carries the same sincerity on ordinary days as they do on meaningful ones, it leaves an impression on me. It feels like witnessing integrity as a lived practice rather than an idea.

Another quality I value is the ability to handle emotional weight with grace. These are people who can sit through difficult conversations without becoming defensive or dismissive. They try to be honest with themselves and acknowledge their shortcomings instead of hiding behind excuses. They grow without needing applause. They apologize when they hurt anyone. They listen carefully and speak clearly. Seeing someone go through life with this level of emotional awareness feels like observing wisdom in action. It encourages me to reflect on my habits and to grow at a pace that feels true to me.

Another thing that draws me in is depth. I admire people who see the world in layers rather than quick snapshots. They pay attention to little things, like how the light moves through a window at a certain time of day, how someone’s tone changes when they’re trying to hide their sadness, or the meaning behind a seemingly ordinary gesture. They remember things that other people forget. They ask sincere questions because they want to understand, not because they want to impress. You can tell that they are really paying attention. Being around them feels like exploring something together rather than exchanging information. I appreciate how they make room for complexity without turning it into confusion.

Authenticity is another trait I hold in high regard. I respect people who remain true to themselves even when the world pressures them to fit into narrow definitions of success, beauty, or worth. They do not pretend or shrink themselves to gain approval. They do not hide the parts of themselves that feel different. Living this way honestly takes courage, especially in environments that reward conformity. When I meet someone who seems comfortable in their skin, it reminds me to honor my path. Their presence gives others permission to be real as well.

These traits all share one thing: they don’t relate to performance. They show who they are slowly, through small actions instead of big ones. They come from character rather than image. They are lived, not displayed. I admire them because they feel human in a world that moves too rapidly for humanity. These qualities remind me of the kind of person I want to be: steady, focused, brave enough to change, and honest enough to stay true to myself.

Admiration is a gentle emotion. It comes softly, and I don’t always notice it right away. It happens when I see how someone deals with the stress of everyday life and how they cope with uncertainty. It also happens when I see how someone treats people who can’t provide them anything in return. It grows when kindness doesn’t seek attention and when strength doesn’t seek reward. It deepens whenever someone chooses integrity even when no one is watching.

When I contemplate what makes me admire something, I always come back to how simple it is. I like how people carry themselves. I admire the choices they make when it would be easier to pick something else. I notice moments where truth matters more than convenience. These are the qualities that remain with me. They might seem small at first glance, but they become meaningful when you truly see them.

Aji Apai Limpa: The Ancestor I Wish I Could Meet

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Some mornings begin with a calm sense of familiarity. The air is still cool from the night when I step outside. Dew gathers on the grass, clinging to each blade as if it has been waiting there. In Iban, we call it ambun, and I grew up believing that it is more than moisture. We believe that ambun holds memories and also the substance of our ancestors that find their way back into the living world. The elders in my family often spoke about the cycle of the soul. This belief is deeply held among the Saribas Iban, where my ancestors lived. When someone dies, their soul travels to Sebayan, the land of the dead, traditionally believed to be located at Batang Mandai in Kapuas, West Kalimantan, Borneo. Life in Sebayan mirrors life here. Souls continue living in longhouses, planting rice, raising families, and keeping the same rhythms they once had on earth.

This cycle is not eternal. The soul is believed to live and die seven times. After the seventh death, whatever remains dissolves into a fine mist that falls back to earth as ambun. The dew is especially meaningful at the end of the dry season, when families complete their planting and the land waits for water. The ambun nourishes the young paddy shoots, feeding the next generation. It is a beautiful belief, one I never questioned when I was young. I simply accepted that those who had gone before us returned quietly each morning. When I saw thick dew on the grass, I thought of people I loved who were no longer here, finding their way back to us through the rice we depended on.

I have been thinking about this belief again today because of a simple question from a blog prompt: If you could meet a historical figure, who would it be, and why? It is a straightforward question for most people, but for me, it brings up a feeling I can only describe as longing. In the history of the Iban, the figure I would choose is not distant. He is not a king, a philosopher, or someone from a faraway land. He is my ancestor. My great-great-great-grandfather, Aji Apai Limpa.

Aji was a well-known war leader of the Saribas Iban in the mid-nineteenth century. Between 1854 and 1858, he led his warriors against the advancing rule of the second White Rajah, Charles Brooke. His resistance was fierce and relentless. He died in 1858 in a battle at Sg. Langit. His bravery was not only remembered; it was immortalized in the oral traditions of the Iban. The lemambang (bards) recited his name in their ritual poetry. His courage became part of the narrative of our people, carried through chants and invocations, passed from one generation to the next.

If I could meet him, I would not meet him as a historical figure. I would meet him as an ancestor whose choices shaped the path that eventually led to me. I wonder what he was like as a person outside of battle. I wonder what he feared, what he hoped for, and what drove him to carry responsibility that heavy. The written records focus on warfare and resistance, but I imagine a man who also worried about his people, who made decisions that weighed on him, a man who had moments of doubt and understood that his actions would have consequences beyond his lifetime.

I would ask him what courage meant to him. I would ask him what it felt like to stand in front of his warriors and lead them into danger. I would ask him how he held his ground when the world around him was changing. And I would want to know what he thought about the legacy he would leave behind. There are times when people describe me as sharp or strong-willed, and I think about where those traits may have come from. Perhaps those traits were passed down from him to me, just as ambun returns to nourish the young paddy shoots without anyone noticing.

I think about the belief in Sebayan and how it shapes the way I imagine meeting him. I do not picture a physical meeting. I see it more as a recognition, something that happens inwardly through the echoes that live within us. When I feel the urge to protect my roots or speak about my heritage, I think that he might be part of that voice. The belief that the soul returns as dew makes the idea of connection feel less abstract. If ambun holds the last traces of our ancestors, we may encounter them repeatedly through the land, the rice, and the aspects of ourselves that seem older than our years.

The blog prompt seems simple, but it opens a deeper reflection for me. Meeting a historical figure means meeting someone who has shaped the world you inherited. For me, that figure is not distant or symbolic. He is the ancestor whose bloodline runs through mine, whose story lives on in my people’s poetry, and whose bravery still affects how I live my life.

When the ambun is heavy on the grass in the morning, I think about the souls who have traveled their full journey through Sebayan and returned to nourish the living. I imagine Aji among them. I think that in some small way, he is still here, still part of the cycle that continues without end. And in that sense, the meeting I long for might already be happening in the early morning, when the world is still and the dew falls softly on the ground.

The Risks I Haven’t Taken Yet

When we talk about risks, people often think of something brave or daring like skydiving, quitting a job to travel, or moving to a new country. Those are great choices, but the kind of risk I think about isn’t loud or exciting. It’s quiet, personal, and deep inside me.

The first risk I want to take is to be honest and tell the truth. Not the polite kind that makes things easier, and not the one that hides behind metaphors to avoid being judged. I want to be honest about how I feel and what I believe, even if it makes people who think they know me uncomfortable.

For a long time, I’ve written about love, faith, culture, motherhood, and identity. Writing has always helped me remember and make sense of things. But I’ve also noticed how often I hold back. I choose my words carefully. I filter and rewrite. I tell my stories in ways that feel safe because I’m afraid of being misunderstood or seen as disrespectful. I was taught to value peace, and I learned early that honesty was not always as safe as obedience. But as I grow older, I realize that silence can also be a form of dishonesty.

I want to talk about how faith changes, how love doesn’t fit into neat boxes, and how I’ve changed as a person after years of trying to please everyone. I no longer want to hide behind my writing. I want my voice to sound like it belongs to someone who has lived, made mistakes, and learned from them. Of course, the risk is that people won’t like what they read. But that’s a risk I’m finally willing to take, because what I write now is not for approval—it’s for truth.

The second risk is more physical. I want to get a tattoo.

It might sound simple, but it means a lot to me. I’ve wanted one for years, but I hesitated because of my religious beliefs. For a long time, I thought it was wrong. I thought my body should remain unmarked. Over time, though, my faith changed. It became simpler, gentler, and more personal. It no longer revolves around rules or fear; it revolves around love and truth. And part of that truth is that I want to mark my body in a way that tells my story.

When I finally get a tattoo, it won’t be something trendy or meaningless. It will be something that ties me to my heritage. I won’t use traditional Iban motifs that were meant for men, because I deeply respect the cultural and spiritual meaning behind those designs. But I’ve thought about creating something inspired by them—perhaps the tali nyawa spiral from the bungai terung, which represents the rope of life, or a design based on the buah engkabang, a forest fruit from Borneo with wing-like shapes that symbolize growth and resilience. Both carry meanings that reflect my life, my culture, and the changes that have shaped me.

I also like the idea of tattooing the coordinates of my parents’ longhouses—one for my father and one for my mother. Two longhouses in two different villages, both by the rivers that have run through my family’s history. It feels like mapping where I come from, a way to connect with the places that made me who I am. It would remind me of my roots and, in a strange way, serve as a promise that I will never lose them.

And to be completely honest, the practical side of it gives me comfort too. If I ever died far from home without identification, the coordinates would at least tell someone where I belong. It sounds morbid, but the thought brings me peace. It feels like a way of saying, “If you find me, bring me home.”

I plan to get the tattoo when I turn fifty. That gives me time to think, refine the design, and make sure it feels right. It will also mark a milestone: fifty years of living, growing, and learning to live on my own terms. The tattoo will not just be art on my skin; it will be a story written in ink, one that connects my body, spirit, and heritage.

These two risks—telling the truth and marking my skin—feel deeply connected. Both are about claiming ownership of who I am. Both are about letting go of the fear of how others might see me. I no longer want to live quietly in the background, trying to make everyone happy. I want to speak with honesty and carry symbols that reflect the life I’ve lived and the ancestors who came before me.

Risk might not always mean danger or being careless. It could be as simple as having the courage to live in a way that is true to who you are. That’s the risk I want to take.