The Girl Who Made Allies

Daily writing prompt

Describe something you learned in high school.

I went to a boarding school from the ages of 13 to 17.

There are plenty of things I could say about that time in my life, including lessons learned from teachers, moments of growth, and unforgettable teenage mischief. Living among hundreds of other teenagers means that learning is not limited to books alone. You learn from one another and sometimes you learn the hard way.

But if I had to pick one thing I learned that shaped me the most, it would be this: when you live far away from your family and the familiar world you came from, you must learn to survive.

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And I don’t simply mean doing your laundry, or budgeting your allowance, or having the discipline to study for exams. I mean learning how to survive socially.

Teenagers can be cruel. Such incidents can happen either unintentionally or intentionally. They might say something hurtful or make fun of you. They identify your insecurities and turn them into jokes. Maybe they think it’s harmless fun, but nothing is harmless when you’re the one being laughed at.

In this environment, I learned very early about the importance of making alliances. Not in a shallow or cliquey manner but surrounding yourself with people you trust. You have to find a group of friends who support you and can pull you out of a downward spiral.

My allies helped me in surviving the hard, messy reality of growing up among other kids who were equally confused, hormonal, and emotionally immature as I was. Some kids were nice; others were not. But when you have a group of friends to fall back on, it makes life less shitty.

We were all going through a lot—changing bodies, volatile emotions, embarrassing crushes, homesickness, and struggles with identity. Having kind, faithful friends didn’t solve everything, but it certainly lessened the edges of the hard days. And that made all the difference.

I used to have many friends. This group included not only my classmates but also younger and older kids from various dorms or forms. I made an effort to stay on good terms with everyone. I kept myself out of the drama. I tried not to be a shitty person to anyone because I knew what it felt like to be on the receiving end of cruelty.

Boys bullied me, but I wasn’t afraid of them—I even got into a few fights with them. If someone made fun of me, I fought straight back. I wasn’t aggressive, but I wanted to show them that I wouldn’t make it easy for them to have fun at my expense. They left me alone because I was someone they couldn’t easily pick on.

Looking back, I’m grateful for that version of myself. I was the girl who formed alliances and stood her ground. I was the girl who desired peace but wasn’t afraid to push back when necessary.

And I’m especially thankful to the friends who stuck by my side. They were the people who helped me get through sorrow, hormonal chaos, homesickness, and all the bizarre, wonderful mess of being a teenager. I’m still friends with many of them. I still talk to them regularly, decades after we left school. Some of them are now influential people in the community or becoming leaders. I’m so proud of them.

That’s what I learned in high school.

Survival entails more than just getting through the academic stuff. Sometimes it’s simply finding out your tribe and learning how to be that person for others as well.

And as I grew older, I realized that what I learned in that chaotic, communal world of boarding school helped me lead life more effectively, particularly at work. I knew how to read a room, who to trust, how to set boundaries, and how to find my people in unexpected places. That early education in social survival proved to be one of the most valuable tools I carried with me into the real world.

Writing Myself Back Into Wholeness

Daily writing prompt

Describe one positive change you have made in your life.

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“To express yourself, first you have to know yourself.” ~ Ethan Hawke

For years, I spoke in half-truths. This was not due to dishonesty, but rather a belief that the world could not fully comprehend the depth of my emotions.

I used to censor myself, not because I was polite but because I was fearful. I was afraid of being misunderstood—of being too much or not enough. I spoke and wrote what I thought was acceptable. I shared what I believed was sufficient to maintain a safe distance. I was close enough to be your acquaintance or close enough to read, but never close enough to truly know me or see me.

But eventually, something inside me shifted.

The most positive shift in my life hasn’t been visible from the outside. It’s not a milestone or a new habit. The shift is internal and deeply personal. I was tired of telling myself lies, so I started telling the truth—to myself first and then on the page.

I don’t write to seek validation. I write to describe how I feel, even if I don’t fully understand it. I write about things I used to feel ashamed of or guilty about, like longing, joy, or even grief. Writing became my way of breathing again, where I could process the things I was never allowed to say aloud.

I began to write for myself. I don’t care about approval or applause. I finally showed myself kindness by listening to the voice inside me that had been silent for too long. And in that listening, I let go of the idea that everything I write needs to be perfect. I made peace with my voice and gave myself permission to write messily with broken English and fragmented sentences. The point was to get the truth across.

In the past, I equated worth with perfection. If it wasn’t polished, it wasn’t worthy. But now, I see beauty in the rawness. I trust that my words, even the unpolished ones, still matter. And in letting go of perfection, I made space for something more important: honesty.

Writing authentically is not the only positive shift in my life. I also gave myself permission to want more.

I used to feel shame about my desires—emotional, intellectual, and physical. Especially physical. I thought craving intimacy made me selfish or inappropriate. A taboo. I told myself it wasn’t appropriate to want it so much at my age. I convinced myself my body should’ve quieted by now.

But I’ve stopped silencing that part of myself. There is nothing wrong with having desire. It’s not something to be ashamed of. Desire is a sign that I am human— that I am still alive and that I am still curious. I finally accept that I’m a woman who feels deeply, who longs fiercely, and who no longer wants to apologize for it.

I also started being more honest in love. I used to hide my needs, swallow my sadness, and avoid confrontation. However, silence turned into resentment, and pretending not to feel only made me feel more alone. Now I speak my needs plainly, knowing no one can read minds. I also write about facets of love that are difficult and rarely celebrated in public.

And somewhere along the way, I discovered my voice.

My anonymous blog became my safe place. This is a place where I can write without worrying about who might be reading. I can express myself freely without worrying about receiving criticism for revealing too much or being too honest. In this space, I don’t write to offend or oppose anyone. I write to unburden and silence the inner critic that once kept me small.

This blog is my safe space for healing.

And maybe the bravest thing I’ve ever done…is to let my healing speak for itself.

The Way She Moves

Daily writing prompt

What’s the most fun way to exercise?

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In 2021, I started doing boxing workouts, not to compete in fights, but to regain confidence in myself. It’s been my way of regaining energy, confidence, and joy. This mini story offers a little insight beneath that fire.

He walks with me to the gym, his hand brushing against mine every few steps. It’s enough to remind me that he’s here.

The sun has set low behind the trees, enveloping everything in that golden hour glow I like. The city noise fades. My hoodie clings to my lower back, and my skin feels warm before I’ve even thrown a single punch. I see him eyeing me out of the corner of his eye, like he usually does.

“You’re quiet,” I observe, glancing over.

He grins. “Just thinking how hot you look when you’re about to ruin someone.”

I roll my eyes but can’t control the smile that appears on my mouth. He knows. He’s seen me in the ring—gloves on, hair slick with sweat, arms sharp and fierce. He’s seen me transform into someone else. Or maybe become more of who I’ve always been, despite the weight of years, expectations, and softness I had to bear.

We pause at a bench near the entrance. I sit and sip my water. He leans on the railing next to me, close but not touching. He’s giving me space to breathe.

“I used to hate this body,” I mutter softly. “I used to think it wasn’t mine. Huge, heavy, thick in the wrong places.”

He does not interrupt.

“Boxing gave it back to me. I no longer care about losing weight. All that matters is the fire in my blood, the energy and power it gives me.

He turns to face me, his eyes serious. “It shows. The way you carry yourself now. “It’s… magnetic.”

I laugh. “Magnetic, huh?”

“Absolutely.”

I stand, slinging my towel over my shoulder. He leans closer.

“Try not to knock anyone out in there.”

“No promises.”

And then I walk in, knowing he’s watching. I know he’ll be there when I’m done. And I know too that I’ve already won something far more important than a fight.

And here’s a poem to accompany this story.

Grit

They said my body was a church.
No, it was a battlefield—
all pew and destruction.
I learned to swing
to pull breath from
the edge of bruise,
to let sweat baptize
what shame could not.
I fought like a searing fire,
feral that dances,
not soft or safe.

He watches,
as if I was the last
honest thing
he’d ever lay eyes on.

Why I’ll Always Come Back to The English Patient

Daily writing prompt

What book could you read over and over again?

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Some books become landmarks in your life. It becomes more than something you read when you return to its pages again and again, like a familiar scent or a half-remembered dream. For me, that book is The English Patient by Michael Ondaatje.

I got my copy in 1997 while waiting for my night shift to start. I was 20 at the time, working part-time while studying for my IT diploma. My shift began at 6 p.m. and finished at 6 a.m. the following day. After dinner, I went to a nearby bookshop and picked up the novel. The film adaptation was playing in cinemas at the time, but I didn’t watch it until years later. I read the book during my breaks at work, but it took me a long time to finish it.

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Ondaatje’s prose was difficult. It didn’t care for neatness. The narrative was fragmented, the rhythm unpredictable—the whole narrative is a long lyrical poem. But I stuck with it, turning each page slowly, sometimes painfully. And I’m glad I did. While others found it disjointed, that was precisely what drew me in. It was too poetic for the mainstream, too fragmented for easy consumption, and too sensual for readers who prioritize plot. That’s what I enjoyed about it then—and still do.

When I went to university to pursue my IT degree, The English Patient became a silent friend. I read it during long, lonely afternoons in my hostel room as a soothing escape from the chaos of university life. Through Ondaatje’s pages, I could retreat to the worn walls of Villa San Girolamo, into the burned silence of the English Patient, and the sun-drenched memories of the Cave of Swimmers. I must have read the book ten times throughout the years.

The story unfolds in the same way that memory does: disorganized, sensory, and half-lit. We learn about the English Patient’s past before, during, and after WWII. Of Katharine Clifton and their forbidden love. Of Hana, the grieving nurse who cares for him in the villa. Of Caravaggio, the thief turned British spy with missing thumbs. Of Kip, a gentle Indian sapper who dismantles bombs and falls in love with Hana despite their cultural differences.

The patient’s only possession is a battered, annotated copy of Herodotus’ Histories that survived the flames when his plane crashed in the desert. The crash badly burned him and caused amnesia. He couldn’t remember his name and lost his identity, but his voice led many to believe he was English. In time, we learn he is actually László de Almásy, a Hungarian cartographer and desert adventurer. Almásy’s character is loosely based on a real-life counterpart, Count László Almásy, a Hungarian aristocrat and explorer.

I remember reading passages aloud to my lover during late-night chats. We watched the movie adaptation on VCD, but I hated it. It lacked the haunting lyricism of the novel. The lushness of Ondaatje’s words cannot be translated to screen. His sentences breathe, linger, and seep in. They don’t just move the story forward. They remain in you long after you finish the novel.

I haven’t read the book in years. Maybe it’s time to read it again. Some parts of me have changed; others haven’t. I suspect the story will read differently now, the way all great books do when you return to them older and bruised with life.

There’s one passage that’s followed me for years, so much so that I placed it on my About Me page:

“She had always wanted words, she loved them; grew up on them. Words gave her clarity, brought reason, shape.”

This quote refers to Katharine Clifton, but I feel it suits me as well.

There are many other lines that have stayed with me through the years. There are too many to list, but here are a few that still haunt me:

“We die containing a richness of lovers and tribes, tastes we have swallowed, bodies we have plunged into and swum up as if rivers of wisdom, characters we have climbed into as if trees, fears we have hidden in as if caves. I wish for all this to be marked on by body when I am dead. I believe in such cartography—to be marked by nature, not just to label ourselves on a map like the names of rich men and women on buildings. We are communal histories, communal books. We are not owned or monogamous in our taste or experience.”

― Michael Ondaatje, The English Patient

“I believe this. When we meet those we fall in love with, there is an aspect of our spirit that is historian, a bit of a pedant who reminisces or remembers a meeting when the other has passed by innocently…but all parts of the body must be ready for the other, all atoms must jump in one direction for desire to occur.”

― Michael Ondaatje, The English Patient

“Moments before sleep are when she feels most alive, leaping across fragments of the day, bringing each moment into the bed with her like a child with schoolbooks and pencils. The day seems to have no order until these times, which are like a ledger for her, her body full of stories and situations.”

― Michael Ondaatje, The English Patient

“This was the time in her life that she fell upon books as the only door out of her cell. They became half her world.”

― Michael Ondaatje, The English Patient

“In the desert the most loved waters, like a lover’s name, are carried blue in your hands, enter your throat. One swallows absence.”

― Michael Ondaatje, The English Patient

“Sometimes when she is able to spend the night with him they are wakened by the three minarets of the city beginning their prayers before dawn. He walks with her through the indigo markets that lie between South Cairo and her home. The beautiful songs of faith enter the air like arrows, one minaret answering another, as if passing on a rumor of the two of them as they walk through the cold morning air, the smell of charcoal and hemp already making the air profound. Sinners in a holy city.”

― Michael Ondaatje, The English Patient

The English Patient is not a book you finish or a book you can read casually. It’s a book you carry, absorb, and savor.

And I’ll keep returning to it.

As long as I need to remember how language can ruin you.

And heal you.

And leave you haunted in the best way.

Becoming Celine

Daily writing prompt

If you could be a character from a book or film, who would you be? Why?

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If I could be a character from a book or film, I would be Celine from the Before Trilogy. Yes, I’d love to be Celine—Julie Delpy’s character in Before Sunrise, Before Sunset, and Before Midnight.

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Those films stayed with me for many years since I discovered Before Sunrise in the early 2000s. That movie was released in 1995, a year after Reality Bites—another hit movie starring Ethan Hawke. Its sequel, Before Sunset, was released nine years later in 2004, and the final installment, Before Midnight, another nine years later in 2013.

I adore the trilogy for its dreamy long walks, the poetic ramblings, the agonizing feeling of time passing, and also Celine’s character development. In Before Sunrise, she begins as a charming, idealistic Sorbonne undergraduate, wide-eyed and open-hearted. She was sweet and willing to talk to an American traveler, Jesse Wallace (Ethan Hawke), on a Eurail. They disembarked in Vienna to spend the night together and explore the mystery of what-if.

And then nine years pass.

By Before Sunset, she has grown sharper. Her voice is steelier, and her eyes are more guarded. Life has touched and damaged her in many ways. But behind it all, she has the same curiosity, the desire to comprehend life, and what it means to belong to someone or not at all. Jesse is married and a writer now and has published a book about his experiences that fateful night nine years ago. Celine shows up at his book reading in Shakespeare & Co., watching and listening to him from the side of the room. And then their eyes met. That scene always gets me.

“I always feel this pressure of being a strong and independent icon of womanhood, and without making it look my whole life is revolving around some guy. But loving someone, and being loved means so much to me. We always make fun of it and stuff. But isn’t everything we do in life a way to be loved a little more?”

― Julie Delpy, Before Sunrise & Before Sunset: Two Screenplays

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Then came Before Midnight, another nine years later. Celine and Jesse are now in their forties and parents to twin daughters. Their conversations are no longer romantic musings under moonlight, but fueled by the reality of parenthood, aging, and the jadedness that settles into long-term love. They’re on holiday in Greece, but even the beautiful scenery can’t hide the fractures that have begun to appear. There’s tension, resentment, and emotional exhaustion.

They take long walks and talk like they always have, but their conversation is no longer about dreams and philosophies. Now they talk about regret, sacrifice, and voids that love couldn’t fill. There’s a scene in a hotel room that feels like a slow, approaching storm. You begin to wonder, did Jesse cheat on her? Did Celine ever fully forgive him? Did they lose parts of themselves in choosing to stay?

Despite their love, it’s evident that love isn’t always enough.

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That’s what makes Celine feel so authentic to me.

Perhaps I see myself in her because I, too, often live in my head. I question everything—especially love. I pay attention to details and cherish them.

“You can never replace anyone because everyone is made up of such beautiful specific details.”

― Julie Delpy, Before Sunset

I remember moments long after they have passed. I try to appear sensible, but I’m a huge romantic underneath it all. Like Celine, I struggle with guilt, restlessness, and the anguish of wanting something elusive. And like her, I strive to be honest, even if it hurts.

In another life, I could see myself in Paris. Walking by the Seine, notebook in hand, or perhaps sitting at Shakespeare & Co. with cold coffee beside me. I aspire to visit that bookstore one day. Just stand there and breathe in the pages.

Celine isn’t perfect. She’s charmingly imperfect, impetuous, and multifaceted. But she’s also deeply present. She listens and sees people. Perhaps it’s what I admire most about her—she doesn’t run from questions. She asks, even if there are no answers.

“I believe if there’s any kind of God it wouldn’t be in any of us, not you or me but just this little space in between. If there’s any kind of magic in this world it must be in the attempt of understanding someone sharing something. I know, it’s almost impossible to succeed but who cares really? The answer must be in the attempt.”

― Julie Delpy, Before Sunrise & Before Sunset: Two Screenplays

And, if I could become her for a while, I wouldn’t do it for the romance or the cities. I’d choose it because of the way she continues to ask, feel, and try—even when the answers are ambiguous and love falters.

That is exactly what I’m hoping for as well.

To keep on walking.
To keep on asking.
To keep on becoming.

The Unpaid Work of Remembering | Him, You, and Our Warren of Rabbits

Daily writing prompt

What job would you do for free?

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This prose poem is not exactly a story, but something I carry deep in my heart. Some of it might be true. Some of it might be fiction. I don’t think it matters. The man. The city. Our warren of wild, soulful, tender “rabbits”—that’s what we called our children. It started as a joke between us. Five—wild, loud, deeply loved—and a sixth on the way. We bred like rabbits.

It’s a dream, truth and fiction, a love poem, but a lament too. A grief for a love suspended across timelines and realities. A love that endures in absence. In what could have been. And maybe—what still is, in another dimension of the heart.

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What job would I do for free? I’d write. I’d write about things no one else sees or knows about. About memories. About experiences no one else stayed long enough to remember. I’d write about the years in Taipei, about things that transpired long ago. Maybe they’re truth. Maybe fiction. No one needs to know. I’d write about the loneliness of walking alone through Da’an Forest Park, how the trees sheltered my secrets. About stray cats weaving between puddles in Datong alleyways. About the buzz of Ningxia night market, the smell of grilled squid, sweet mochi, stinky tofu hung in the air like incense for the gods of desire. I’d write about him, about you.

Our rooftop talks, sunsets at Tamsui Lover’s Bridge, our trips to Jiufen, to Sanmao’s house in Chingchuan, to Okinawa, to Kunming. About how silence is more powerful than words when two people want to touch but don’t, not yet, not now. I’d write about him walking the city when sleep won’t come— crime cases wrapped around his mind like smoke. About the nights he barely made it home before dawn. Keys tossed, shoes kicked off, collapsing into the couch still in his wrinkled shirt, smelling of gunpowder, coffee, and the rain that doesn’t wash anything clean. And in that half-dream state, he’d swear he could feel me there—my warmth brushed against his back.

I’d write about the nights when ghosts clawed their way back into his mind, when the faces of the dead refused to fade, and he’d hold me close, mooring himself in the beat of my skin, needing to remember he was here, not there. I’d write about the version of him no one sees—the one who stares into the dark, haunted, distant. The one I loved quietly. The one I reached for with firm hands, fingers running through his hair as if I could smooth away everything he didn’t say. I’d write about the moments when I knew that no matter how much I loved him, a part of him would always remain just out of reach.

And I’d write about our sweet rabbits. Our warren of tenderness and imagination. Aidan Do, Lina Do, Elias Do, Rayya Do, Noel Do. They were born out of desire and longing, not blood, and were spun into life with whispered what-ifs and gentle memories. Maybe no one else remembers them. Do you? I do. Their stories return to me while folding laundry or when my tea goes cold. Even now, two decades later. Aidan, with his quiet mischief and cloud-gazing heart. Lina, messy and luminous, chasing the world with charcoal hands and galaxy eyes. Elias, our sweet Elias, who has your eyes, hands, and feet, keeper of broken things. Rayya, a breeze in motion, laughter tucked behind her teeth. Noel, youngest and oldest somehow, knowing the end before the beginning even began.

They were ours. They are ours.

You brought them to life with your words, love. And I gave them breath with my remembering. We made them together. If I could bend time, I’d keep them safe in a garden behind our home. You’d sketch while I write. We’d argue over dinner, then laugh about it before bed. On mornings we rushed to work and school, you, darling, begged me to bend over the sink while our babies bickered in the car. And on rainy nights, we’d tell stories to our rabbits about the world before and after us and everything we tried to save.

But we can’t bend time.

So I write. Even when no one asks me to. Even when no one reads. Even when you forget me and our babies. Because, love, some stories don’t want to be sold. Some stories just want to be kept. And some jobs are not about money. They’re about keeping love from vanishing.

Like him.

Like you.

On Owning the Sacred Flesh & Plus-Size Olympians

Daily writing prompt

What Olympic sports do you enjoy watching the most?

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That’s me. I’m not obese but since I’m petite, a little weight gain would be very noticeable and I’m a lot heavier than I used to be. I boxed for fitness to maintain my weight and build muscles; however, since I’m struggling with perimenopausal fatigue, it has been difficult to stay consistent.

Since having children, I’ve spent most of my time learning how to hide my body. I learned to suck in my belly when I walked past mirrors or when I snapped selfies. I wore black to appear slimmer. When eating out, I chose a seat next to a wall so no one could stare at my belly roll. I smiled when someone talked about losing weight, even though internally, I felt diminished for other reasons.

But lately, something is changing. It began slowly, insinuating itself into my thoughts like a new language.

It began with a figurine I read about somewhere on the Internet. The Venus of Willendorf.

She’s only four inches tall, carved from oolitic limestone more than 25,000 years ago. Her breasts are full, her belly rotund, her hips wide. She has no face, but that doesn’t matter because she represents everything I felt insecure about.

Scholars have proposed various interpretations for her purpose—fertility symbolism, a goddess, or an idealized female form.

She looked like me, though I’m not as chubby. And for the first time, that didn’t feel like an insult. She somehow validated me after years of shame and “before” pictures had silenced me.

But the Venus of Willendorf wasn’t the only one.

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There are others like her found across Europe. These Venus figurines were carved from stone, bone, or ivory; their bodies were voluptuous, soft, and round.

Venus of Laussel—holding a cornucopia as if commanding attention.
The Black Venus of Dolní Věstonice—dark and earthy and one of the oldest known ceramic figures.
Venus of Hohle Fels—she was worn as a pendant. Her legs widely apart, flaunting her exaggerated vulva.
The Seated Woman of Çatalhöyük—she rested on her throne like a supreme ruler.
The Fat Court Lady of ancient China—elegant in her defiance of slim ideals.

Each of them is a declaration of what womanhood looked like—and what it still looks like today.

I am Iban. My ancestors were women who moved with strength and dignity. They never counted calories. They planted paddy, fished in the river, foraged for food, carried firewood, and cooked over open flames. Their bodies were lean, skin tanned, breasts bared. Their bodies were shaped for survival.

Obesity is a modern thing. It’s often a byproduct of modern conveniences like fast food, desk jobs, and little exercise. Many modern Iban women are overweight—some from young, and some after motherhood. I was never overweight until I had children. And then my body changed in ways I couldn’t control.

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My belly stretched, my skin thinned, my hormones fluctuated, and my fatigue made it difficult to exercise regularly.

And with those changes came something crueler—self-hate.

I started to avoid mirrors altogether. I admired other plus-size women who carried their softness with confidence. I thought they were beautiful and sexy. However, that admiration never extended inward.

But Venus is opening my eyes to the truth: my worth is not defined by my body. She doesn’t ask to be smaller or apologize for taking up space. She was carved by people who believed she was sacred and to be revered.

Perhaps this belly, bearing life, surgery scars, and years of shame, merits a sacred touch. Maybe these dimpled thighs still deserve to be kissed. Maybe my body is a home to return to—and not a failure or an embarrassment.

But the Venus figurines weren’t the only ones teaching me to love myself again.

Maybe it’s also the man who sees me with undiluted devotion. He who touches my body tenderly before dawn. He who tells me I’m beautiful when I can’t bear to look in the mirror. His love—ever so tender, constant, and full of reverence—has become the mirror I trust the most. In his eyes, I’m not broken but whole.

The glorious Olympian weightlifter, Sarah Robles. Image source.

Lately, I’ve even found myself moved by things I never paid attention to before—like Olympic weightlifting. I’ve never been big on sports, but when it comes to the Olympics or Paralympics, I always make sure to follow events like badminton, boxing, diving, and weightlifting. Badminton is a national love in Malaysia, especially since some of the world’s top players are Malaysian. As for diving and weightlifting, we have incredible athletes who come from my own home state of Sarawak.

But what truly strikes me are the women weightlifters. These plus-size Olympians don’t get the credit they deserve. The world tends to picture women Olympians as thin-waisted, with sculpted abs and long, lean legs. But what about the women who lift more than twice their weight? What about Sarah Robles, Emily Campbell, Holley Mangold, Li Wenwen, and so many others?

They are powerful, confident, and glorious. These beautiful Olympians remind me that strength does not look just one way. It comes in every size and shape.

I’m still learning, still grieving the body I used to have. I’m learning to be grateful, to appreciate the body that has endured trauma—and survived. I’m done hiding because I’ve looked into the past, and I saw Venus there. And in her and his gaze, I truly saw myself—beautiful and worthy.

And here’s a poem I wrote to accompany this post.

Venus

This belly
needs a tuck—
wrinkled, stretched,
after birthing our
warren of rabbits.
It’s a map of every time I broke
but kept going—
still, it asks to be kissed.

This skin—
salted, soft, and scratched
by fingers that fed, held, bled—
still dares to shimmer.

I am not
a before,
or an after.
I am the altar
where you kneel
at my temple,
again and again,
falling apart in my hands.

A Gentle Offering to the Quiet Ones

Daily writing prompt

How would you improve your community?

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I don’t have a community in the traditional sense. There’s no physical space to which I belong where people gather on a regular basis to exchange pleasantries and check in on one another. However, I have a discreet online presence where I build a slow-growing digital connection through words, art, and vulnerability.

If I could improve any community, it would be the invisible one. Women who write in the darkness. The silent creatives. Mothers who are stretched thin. Those who carry shame in their bodies, fear in their voices, and tenderness that they rarely express.

I want to spread gentleness where the world has been harsh.

I hope that my honest, imperfect, emotionally raw writing may help others feel less alone. They can breathe a bit better knowing that someone else understands how they feel. I aim to create a body of work that not only informs but also offers understanding. I want it to be a place where truth may exist unpolished.

My poetry, art, blog posts, essays, and even my online presence aren’t intended to impress. They are invitations to everyone to slow down, to feel, and to remember.

I come from a culture that seldom discusses grief, shame, or women’s private lives. By sharing my truths, I hope to offer people the freedom to explore their own. I want to be a part of a peaceful movement promoting honesty. It’s a movement in which we say to each other, “You are not broken. You are just human.”

So, how can I improve my community? By showing up with words, with heart, and with everything I used to hide. I don’t set out to fix anyone, but to say:

I see you. I’m still here and I understand.

The Color Called Olivia

Daily writing prompt

If you could have something named after you, what would it be?

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If something carried my name, it would not be a star, a street, or a species of bird. No, I believe it would be more intimate. I’m not always sure how to define myself. Sometimes I feel like a color. It is not a solid color you find in stores or on paint charts. It’s a blend of several shades at once. It burns slowly before softening into something else.

This poem is the first piece of a new series of poetry, stories, and art called Color Studies: Olivia. It’s a way for me to trace the shape of who I am through emotion, memory, and metaphor. This first piece is the closest I’ve come to naming the in-between shade I carry in my heart.

The Color Called Olivia

There’s a shade I carry
that no one’s ever named.
Not even the sky has a word for it.
It comes after the burn,
before the skin peels.
It’s not plum. Not violet.
It happens after violet,
when the bruise turns philosophical.

I wear it like breath—
soft, unnoticed, until it’s gone.
I’ve been called gentle.
But they don’t see
how my gentleness and sorrow
are barbed wire wrapped in silk.

My laugh has layers
echoing through my ribs.
They hear it—
but not the hush
that comes before.

I’m the shade of ink
tainted with memory,
of bruised hibiscus on the windowsill,
of dusk pressed between diary pages.
I’m the color of
“I want but I shouldn’t,”
of loving him in fragments
because whole is too dangerous.

They’ll never sell me in stores.
Bottle me up. Claim me.
I’m the color of dusk
over a foreign city,
where no one knows my name.
I could be anyone.
I could be no one.

I’ve always felt as if I exist in between what I desire and what I allow myself to have. Writing this helped me identify that feeling, not with a label, but with a color. I don’t think any of us consist of “solid colors.” We are many things: bruises, washes, and layers. I’m slowly discovering what shades I am, and this is the first one.

If you were a color, what would it be? Or what color do you become when someone sees you?

The Way I Laugh

Daily writing prompt

What makes you laugh?

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Some people can make you laugh without even trying. It’s not a loud or showy laugh, but the type of laugh that catches you off guard.

This is a mini story about that kind of laughter and a poem I wrote to accompany this story.

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It started with the way he looked at the tea I made.

“You put mushrooms in this?” he asked, peering into the mug.

I fought a smile. “It’s reishi. It’s good for your liver. Just drink it.”

He leaned in and sniffed, suspicion all over his face. “It smells like regret.”

That got a laugh out of me. “Don’t be such a baby.”

He narrowed his eyes, took a dramatic sip, and instantly recoiled. “Are you trying to kill me? Admit it. This is revenge for the pen.”

“You stole it,” I said.

“I borrowed it indefinitely.”

He drank another sip, dramatically clutching his chest. “If I die from this, please delete my browser history.”

I burst out laughing again.

He looked pleased with himself.

I tried to change the subject, flipping through a magazine on the table. He leaned over, peering at a photo of a hairless cat.

“Is that a testicle with whiskers?”

I almost choked on my tea.

“That’s it. Get out of my apartment.” I was still laughing.

He held up his hands. “I’ll go. But only if you admit that laugh means you’re secretly in love with me.”

I threw a cushion at him. He caught it midair and hugged it to his chest. “Even your cushion loves me.”

“You’re so full of yourself.”

He wandered over to my bookshelf, checking the titles. “Didn’t peg you for a Murakami girl.”

“Didn’t peg you for someone who uses the word ‘peg.’”

He smirked. “Careful. You’re laughing again.”

And I was.

Later, when the conversation slowed, we sat on the couch. I didn’t want him to leave. Not just yet. He retrieved a pen from my desk and held it in front of him.

“This one yours too?”

“Maybe.”

“Should I take it? Just in case I need another reason to come back.”

He didn’t need a reason.

But I let him have it anyway.

I Gave You Tea

I gave you tea
for healing.
You drank it.
Your fingers brushed mine
when I handed you the cup,
and neither of us flinched.

You made a face,
said it tasted like regret.

I laughed.
And laughed again.

See, love—
I don’t laugh easily,
like something that escapes
from deep inside,
and betrays the body.

I gave you bad tea.
And you
say things that unmake me
in all the right places.