Luther — The First Boy I Ever Loved

It was 1989. I was twelve, shy and dreamy-eyed, in Primary Six. Luther was fourteen and in Form Two. He had the most beautiful eyes I had ever seen. We met at Christening classes on Wednesday nights. I watched him from across the room, my heart racing. I was torn between wanting him to notice me and wanting to stay hidden.

It was my best friend who, with a cheeky grin, told him my secret. I was so embarrassed that I wanted to sink through the floor. But that night, everything changed. Luther noticed me and paid attention from then on. We exchanged love letters, filled with clumsy, big-hearted words, and met on small dates behind some buildings; nothing grand, not even kisses. We simply held hands and talked.

But by December of ’89, my father’s job took us to a new town, and just like that, our brief, sweet chapter ended. We didn’t keep in touch because we were too young, and maybe we both knew deep down that first loves are only supposed to last a short time.

Now that I think about it, that experience really changed how I think about love and connection. It wasn’t just about the boy or the letters or the stolen glances. It taught me that love, even in its simplest form, is about seeing and being seen. It’s about feeling, in that fleeting moment, that you matter to someone.

It makes me think of The Wonder Years, an American TV show that was on our local channel at the time. Kevin Arnold’s journey through the awkwardness, joy, and heartbreak of growing up felt so much like my own coming of age. His sweet, tentative relationship with Winnie Cooper; their shy glances, their first kiss, the way they kept circling back to each other through the ups and downs. I understood that kind of love, the sweet young love. Luther and I had our own little universe for a while, much like Kevin and Winnie. We taught each other about hope, tenderness, and letting go, just like they did.

Luther

You had eyes that swallowed me whole—
a storm behind glass,
soft enough to fool me.
Your lips never touched me,
but I felt them anyway,
like rain through a roof crack.

We wrote each other down in crooked lines,
gave ourselves to paper,
to the dark between stars.
For a while, you were a fever I didn’t want to break—
a name I kept folding smaller and smaller,
to hide.

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Favorite Thing About Myself

What’s my favorite thing about myself?

I pause at that question. I seldom contemplate what I like about myself. If I sit quietly with it and really try to answer, I think I’d say this: my quiet perseverance.

I keep going. Even when I’m tired. Even at moments of fear. Even when doubt creeps in and whispers, “I’m not good enough.” I don’t live my life loudly or boldly in the way that the world typically applauds. However, I move steadily. I keep turning up. I never give up. I never stop learning. I’m always evolving. I complete the task even if no one notices. That’s something I’m proud of, though I rarely say it out loud.

I don’t hesitate to admit my struggles, no matter how terrified I am. I’m not scared to admit and address my weaknesses. I don’t behave like they don’t exist or blame others for my flaws. I say, “This part of me is fragile.” I need to care for this aspect of myself. After that, I look for ways to improve and make those parts better. I admit I’m not always right. But I don’t give up on myself either.

I’ve learned that quiet perseverance doesn’t mean never faltering. It involves repeatedly pulling yourself together despite trembling hands. It’s about accepting the difficult situation and stating, “I’m still here, still trying.”

Perhaps that’s my favorite thing about myself. I try even when I’m scared, not that I’m fearless. Regardless of how overwhelming the day feels, I decide to keep moving forward, one step at a time.

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How Do I Want to Retire?

I don’t want more when I retire. I want less, but more depth.

I don’t want a big house or a busy social life. I want peace and solitude. A small, warm place that is mine. Maybe a little house by the sea or in the hills, where the air is soft and the days go by slowly. But that’s just a dream. In real life, my husband and I have already decided to spend our retirement years in my childhood home in a small town. We live, work, and raise our family in a big city right now, but when we retire, we’ll definitely go back to that small town where life is more peaceful and simple.

I see bookshelves full of stories I love and words I’ve written. A corner with a window that lets in soft light where I can write. A place where I can breathe and not feel like I’m running out of time.

I don’t want a garden because I’ve never liked taking care of plants. But I do want trees swaying outside, the smell of rain-soaked earth coming in after a storm, and green all around me.

I’d be happy to keep writing and quietly sharing my words online. No need for applause or noise; I just want to put my voice out there for anyone who needs it. I picture myself still running an online store, but just one. Easy. My own website. No more switching between platforms. No more doing too many things at once.

I want to take it easy when I retire. To wake up without a rush. To sip my tea while the morning unfolds before me. To be at peace with what I’ve done and what I’ve left behind.

That’s all I need.

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Nights Beneath the Mosquito Net

It’s a memory so soft, so far away, it almost feels like I dreamed it. But it was real.

I was ten, maybe eleven. We were back at the longhouse, in our bilik, the apartment that was our family’s space within the longhouse. There were no bedrooms, no separate rooms. Just us, rolling out our mats, hanging mosquito nets, settling down for the night. There was no electricity then, so nights came early. A single oil lamp flickered in the middle of the room, casting shadows that danced along the wooden walls.

And this was when my grandmother would start telling her stories.

She didn’t sit up to tell them. She lay down, just as we did, her voice weaving through the silence. She spoke of people she had known, incidents long past, things that had happened when the world was younger. Her words filled the dark, mingling with the sounds of the jungle outside. We’d listen as sleep slowly pulled us under, her voice becoming part of our dreams.

I don’t remember the details of her stories. Decades have passed. But I remember the feeling. The peace. The comfort. The sense of being anchored to something larger, older, gentler.

Sometimes I wonder if my children will ever have moments like that. Moments where stories are not read from books or screens but spoken softly in the dark, meant only for their ears.

That memory, fragile as it is, is one of my favorites. Because in that moment, I felt safe. I felt home.

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The Only Way I Know Not to Forget

The answer isn’t loud. It doesn’t arrive with flashy ambitions or bold declarations.

It’s silent. Steady. Rooted.

I am passionate about remembering and honoring.

I honor and remember not only to preserve personal memories but also as a way of fending off cultural erasure. It is also a sign of devotion to my ancestors, the land, and everything that made me.

I didn’t grow up in the longhouse as my parents did. I was raised in the urban areas. But culture was never absent from my childhood. When my grandparents were still alive, we’d return to the longhouse for the holidays. It sat peacefully by the river, where the rainforest hold ancient tales and the air smelled of damp earth and woodsmoke. Our songs were sung in Iban. Our prayers were whispered into the land and borne by the wind. We spoke to the land as if it were family. Because it was.

At thirteen, I left home for boarding school, relocated to the big city, and then traveled to other countries for work. Over time, English became my dominant language, and I now speak it more fluently than Iban. I’ve raised my children in a world of shopping malls and neon lights, where the only rivers are highways and the jungle exists only in manicured, trimmed parks.

Will they recognize the sound of pantun sung at dusk?

Will they appreciate the taste of kasam ensabi or understand the beauty of our rich poetry and invocation to the deities who live in Panggau Libau, the land above the skies?

I am passionate about preserving these things. Even if it means teaching them clumsily. Even if I feel like a deteriorating bridge attempting to bear the weight of two worlds.

Why? Because culture isn’t something we simply inherit. It’s something we keep alive.

So I write and draw. I create poetry rooted in my heritage for my children and myself.

I do this not because I believe it will change the world.

But it’s the only way I know to avoid forgetting.

So that is my passion.

And that is how I love my people, my identity, my culture.

And that is how I love myself.

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I Don’t Have a Season

We don’t have seasons as in the West. No snowdrifts, golden leaves, cherry blossoms, or pumpkin spice. However, I still have a favorite season.

It arrives gradually and without fanfare.

The sky goes from bright to bruised. The heat intensifies and eventually turns into rain. I can always feel it in my body before it happens, a certain aching and restlessness. The monsoon.

Some people dread it. The damp laundry, flooded drains and floods, and the wet days. But me? I wait for it.

The monsoon season is the one time when I feel like the world slows down enough to breathe. When the rain beats against the zinc roof and the windows fog up, I feel my inner loosening. It allows me to pause.

It reminds me of my kampung days, when we ate durian under the awning as the rain fell sideways. When I would lie on the floor with a book while my sisters listened to the radio.

Now in the city, I’m still waiting for it. I still write or create my best work when the sky is gray. I’m still craving hot Milo and stillness the rain brings. It’s the time of year when I return to the page with less hesitation and my memories seem more vivid.

So, no, I don’t have a favorite season, such as autumn or spring. I have a favourite sky and rain. A season that lives inside me rather than outside.

And when it arrives, I know who I am again.

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Time, a Book, and Me

If I had to choose one luxury that I couldn’t live without, it wouldn’t be pricey or rare. It’s not about expensive bags or luxurious holidays. It isn’t even a spa day, though I would like one. No, the one luxury I cling to with both hands, the one that saves me over and again, is this: a peaceful moment with a book or time alone to create.

Books have been a luxury for me since I was a child. Long before I knew what luxury meant. I would save my pocket money to buy used storybooks from old bookstores, read beneath the blanket with a torchlight, or turn pages while eating Maggi at the dining table. Even decades later, the emotion remains unchanged. I still find solace in books, the way they consume me and transport me away. I still underline lines that cut through the chaos of life and say, “Yes. This.”

Even more rare is the luxury of time. Time dedicated completely to myself. As a mother and a woman with too many responsibilities, time feels like a borrowed commodity. But when I have a moment of silence, when the kids are away at school, the chores can wait, and the world stops knocking, that’s when I return to myself.

I write. I sketch. I look at the sky and let my mind wander. In such moments, I’m remembering and reclaiming. I’m not simply surviving.

So perhaps the true luxury is not just time or books, but a mix of the two: time to read, time to create, and time to rediscover oneself. Not anyone’s mother, wife, or daughter. It’s just me, Olivia, alone with her thoughts and her art.

And that, to me, is the most beautiful thing in the world.

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Becoming Alara

If I had to change my name, I think I would choose Alara.

It’s not that I don’t like my name; Olivia has served me well. It’s soothing, familiar, and if I’m allowed to be honest, it’s gorgeous. I like my name, and I also have a beautiful second name, which is my indigenous Iban name; however, to protect my identity, I won’t disclose it here. But sometimes I imagine slipping into another skin, one free of past associations, like cooling rain falling on virgin land.

Alara.

There is something liquid about it. Like water rushing through stone. It reminds me of rivers, of things that adapt and keep going, carving their way through barriers with patience rather than force. That is the woman I am striving to become. Less harsh edges, more grace in motion.

Alara is said to mean “water fairy” in Turkish legend. I like it for the thought of living near water, gently transporting things from one place to another, rather than for the whimsy of wings and magic. Some people believe it implies the qualities of a guardian, being exalted and joyful. I’ll take all of it. I’ve spent years learning to keep my sanity, to lift myself when things get heavy, and to find joy even in the midst of silent suffering.

Will the name change me? Maybe not. However, it would be a turning point, like a reclaiming or a reminder that I’m allowed to become someone new if I want to. That I may wrap my past stories in silk and place them on a shelf as relics from a life I lived.

Alara would write barefoot, under the trees. She would talk only when she felt moved. She would love without apologizing for how deeply she feels. She would walk away from things that crushed her spirit, no matter how painful it was. She would live, not perform.

But here I am, still Olivia. And that’s perfectly fine too. Maybe I don’t have to change my name to be more like myself.

Still… if I ever did, you’d find Alara somewhere by the shore, writing poetry and stories about the woman she used to be.

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Unplug | Clearer. Lighter. Me

I don’t usually see it at first.

The signs begin subtly, like a familiar fatigue that persists despite rest. I scroll longer but feel empty. I start comparing rather than connecting. I feel like I’m behind, that I should be doing more, yet I lack the motivation to start.

That’s when I realize it’s time to unplug.

Not only from social media, but from anything that takes me out of myself. The noise. Validation seeking. The constant pressure to be productive. Even the urge to keep creating when my heart feels dry.

When I feel scattered, I unplug. When I lose control of my own rhythm. When my body tenses, my thoughts become rigid. I don’t wait for burnout anymore. I notice it earlier now. I don’t always succeed, but I try.

When I unplug, I get back to simple things:

A slow walk without my phone.
A long shower without a sense of urgency.
Pen and paper—writing with no audience or outcome.
Music. Books. Blank space. Silence.

Unplugging isn’t an escape. It’s a return to serenity, peace, and the gentle rhythm of who I am beneath all that noise.

And when I come back, I come back clearer. Lighter. More like myself.

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On Friendship | A Constellation of Qualities

What quality do I value most in a friend?

I’ve been staring at this question for a while, trying to think of one thing. Only one. But the fact is that I can’t. I’m not wired that way.

Because the sort of friend I need, particularly at this point in life, is not characterized by a single trait. They are more like a constellation. A consistent, steady presence held together by little, delicate details that most people overlook.

I value emotional depth. That is the first thing. I want to sit across from someone and talk about grief, about old love that never left the body, motherhood’s challenges, and the sense of not knowing who you are at times.

But depth without safety is dangerous. So I value a friend who gives me a safe space to unravel. The ones who don’t rush to fix or dismiss what I say. Who don’t recoil when I cry or go quiet. Who don’t see my softness as a burden to carry or a puzzle to solve. Just someone who can sit with me in the dark without needing to turn on the light.

Then there’s “soulful curiosity,” which isn’t the nosy kind. The sort of friend that says, “What have you been thinking about lately? What moved you this week?” Or the sort of friend that sends me a poem, meme, article, or quote because it made them think of me. The kind that listens when I talk about my culture, my writing, and the fears I’m still grappling with. The type of friend that doesn’t shy away from depth, but instead leans in closer and with care.

I also appreciate loyalty. Not the performative kind that only appears when things are going well, but the kind that sticks around. The sort that recalls what I said months ago, follows up, and forgives my silences. Who doesn’t require constant tending yet is always there when I return. I don’t open up easily. So, when I do, I want to know that it mattered.

And, because I often live in my head, I appreciate people who understand my silences. Who is not insulted when I take a step back to breathe. Who don’t associate presence with constant texting (I dislike this type of people. They need to connect all the time and that’s suffocating and tedious). Who recognizes that solitude is part of how I survive, and yet remain close.

Lastly, I value kindness in words like honest, gentle affirmation. Not flattery or forced optimism. I second-guess myself too often. I often feel like an imposter even in rooms I’ve earned my place in. So a kind word from a friend that is spoken without expectation, lingers. It becomes an anchor and assurance for me.

So no, I can’t choose just one quality because I’ve never been the type to love in halves.

Not in friendship.

Not in life.

Not even in my answers to questions like this.

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