The Way I Laugh

Daily writing prompt

What makes you laugh?

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.

When I Was Five, I Was Just Trying to Survive 5 Languages

Daily writing prompt

When you were five, what did you want to be when you grew up?

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Anne Sexton, one of my favorite poets. Image source.

I don’t remember what I wanted to be when I was five.

Maybe that’s because nobody asked. Or maybe because the word “ambition” didn’t exist in my world yet. It wasn’t a concept that came naturally to me. At five, I was navigating five languages all at once.

I started kindergarten at five, never dreaming of jobs or what I wanted to be when I grew up. I didn’t see it as something odd back then, but living in a multicultural country, I (and every Malaysian kid) was already exposed to different languages at a young age. My mother tongue was Iban and Malay was the national language. However, I was sent to a Chinese (Mandarin) speaking kindergarten. At the same time, I was learning English, my third language. On top of all that, many of my classmates spoke in another dialect—Sarawak Malay, which sounded nothing like the formal Malay I read in books. At the tender age of five, I was exposed to five different languages or dialects all at once: Iban, Malay, Mandarin, English, and Sarawak Malay.

I was grappling with words. My head was full of unfamiliar sounds, new rules, and foreign grammar. Maybe I didn’t have space for dreams then because I was too busy trying to understand the world through different languages.

Things started to shift when I turned eight. That’s when my mother made me a library card.

I was too young to go to the library on my own, so every couple of weeks, she borrowed two books for me—one in Malay, the other in English. I don’t remember what the first books were, but I remember how it felt—the excitement of holding stories in my hands. This is when I learned to lose myself in other people’s words and slowly began to find my own. I was a voracious reader and continued to devour books after books in the years to come.

I didn’t know I wanted to be a writer until my teens. And even then, it wasn’t ambition—it was longing. Since the age of 10, I had started to write poems and stories on the side. I never imagined it could be more than a hobby. I come from a place where literature isn’t part of daily life, where writing isn’t seen as a real path. Writers, I believed, didn’t make money and there was no future in it. So I studied computing instead because it was practical and could land me a great career—which it did.

But I kept writing. Privately. For fun.

Then the era of the Internet came, and with it, a different kind of freedom. I started blogging in 2008, but when the children came, I had to set it aside to raise them. However, I went back to it in 2017 and wrote actively on a platform for years. I gained a decent following (2000+) and was getting paid for my work. It was a very nice side gig until the platform’s new policy made me rethink my direction. When you were using a platform that wasn’t yours, you had to endure the whims of those in charge. So I started this little home here, in my own corner of the internet.

Since the pandemic, I’ve published four poems in literary journals and am currently working on a novella. I’m writing more poems and submitting them to literary journals for publication.

Writing may not pay the bills, but it pays in ways that matter more. It connects me to myself and gives me the courage to face my truths and share them with the world. Writing fills me in the ways that matter most.

So no, I don’t remember what I wanted to be when I was five.

But maybe I’m becoming it now.

The Loneliness That Lives Inside Love

Daily writing prompt

What’s something most people don’t understand?

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Most people don’t understand that you can love someone deeply, share a life with them, raise children together, sleep side by side every night—and still feel alone.

You still feel alone—not because they don’t love you or they don’t try. It’s because they can’t meet some of your deepest needs. Again, this is not because they’re unwilling or are dense but because that’s not how they’re built. That’s not who they are. You can’t force people to be what they are not.

This post is not meant to bash my husband.

My husband and I had been together for 26 years. That’s a long time to share a life. Throughout our marriage, he carries many burdens. He works hard and often under tremendous pressure. He provides and makes sure we have what we need. The kids and I never lack anything and I see that and never take it for granted. Every time he comes home from work, no matter how exhausted he is, he still smiles and gives me a warm hug. When the kids were little, they would race to the door to greet him. And sometimes they still do, even as teenagers. I know what that kind of weight does to a person—the pressure of being the provider and the silent burden of responsibility.

But I carry a lot of weight too. And most of them are invisible. It’s emotional and mental load. The labor of noticing, of anticipating needs, of asking questions to diffuse stress, soothing tensions, bridging gaps.

People rarely see that part. They think that if a marriage lasts, it must be balanced. But many don’t realize that love doesn’t always mean symmetry.

My husband is a sweet, sweet man. He is not cruel or careless. He simply wasn’t taught how to sit inside discomfort and witness pain without attempting to fix or fleeing from it. He tries in his own way by cracking awkward jokes, physical closeness, showing up with food or spoiling me rotten. And I’ve learned, over the years, to see the love in those things.

But I must be honest and as a writer, confronting my deepest truth is necessary. I want more than physical efforts or gestures. I want to be seen and not just supported. I want conversations that delve deep and not just coexistence. I want someone to meet me at the door of my inner world and not be afraid to come in.

Am I being bitter and writing all these down under the cloak of anonymity? Certainly not. We discussed this many times and he’s admitted he can’t meet me there because he is who he is and not built that way. And I acknowledge and accept him as who he truly is. And with acceptance, there is peace. Because I know I haven’t met all of his needs either. Marriage always goes both ways.

Most people don’t understand that kind of grief. It’s the grief that comes with loving someone who can’t meet you where you are. It’s bittersweet and lonely. That loneliness doesn’t scream—it’s just there, aches, and lingers.

But even within that grief, there is love. There’s kindness, history, forgiveness, effort, sacrifice, and acceptance of all that is good and bad. I love him so much. We are trying. Maybe not always in the same way, but still—we try each and every day.

We both carry weight. His is visible, important, and perhaps measurable in the eyes of the world. Mine is not. And that’s what most people don’t understand.

I wrote this poem to accompany this post. Here you go:

Marriage

I fold the laundry—
his shirts, inside out,
boxers with holes,
T-shirts over-stretched,
but we wear them anyway—
like this marriage—
flawed, warm in its own weather.

My mind jumbled with lists—
he doesn’t see them.

He brings home groceries
but forgets the eggs.
The kale is yellowing on the edges.
When good mood returns
he touches my hip like a question,
but never waits for the answer.

Still, he comes home.

Every night,
hanging his silence next to mine.
We sit.
We eat.
Scroll through our newsfeed.

I carry the emotional X-rays,
the careful calibration of my moods
to his weather.

But he carries things too—
numbers, bills,
the fear of shame
of not being the man
his father never taught him to be.

We are not broken,
only bruised by expectation.

And still,
he holds the child when I break,
warms the bed before I slip in.
Calls me “babe”.
In return,
I still reach for his length
to soothe myself to sleep.

So no—
I don’t need rescue.
This is the truthful
opening of the hearts
of two people
carrying what they can.

He lifts the roof.
I hold the floor.

And in the middle,
we meet.

You are welcome to subscribe to my blog if my words resonate with you. Thank you.

When I Am an Older Woman, I Shall Continue to Write with AI

Daily writing prompt

How has technology changed your job?

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I know my title is going to ruffle some feathers, but hear me out.

“When I am an old woman, I shall wear purple…” Jenny Joseph wrote these words in her best-loved poem, Warning. She wrote it as a form of rebellion and a declaration that she no longer needed permission to be who she is. She used the poem to assert her freedom to live, dress, and speak on her own terms.

I found this poem after stumbling upon a video of Helena Bonham Carter reading it.

As someone in her late 40s, I think about that poem more often these days. No, I don’t feel old (well, slightly). I’m no spring chicken anymore, but I think of that poem because I feel done. Done asking for permission, done explaining myself, done seeking validation—to and from anyone. This sentiment is especially true when it comes to how I write.

Here is my declaration: I use AI, and I am not ashamed of it.

I’ve written about this before—here—when I discussed the growing tendency to shame people for using AI in their creative work. I’ve watched from the sidelines as creatives everywhere bickered among themselves about who is original versus who is not (read: cheaters). Right versus wrong.

It’s as if we’re all secretly cheating on some literary or art exam, as if the tools we use somehow invalidate the core essence or soul of what we’re trying to say or illustrate.

Let me be clear: I don’t condone copying and pasting from a chatbot and claiming it as your own. That’s not my message. I advocate for the ethical use of AI—as a thinking partner, a sounding board, a tool that helps me do the work I’ve always done, just faster and more efficiently.

I’m a portrait artist too. This is one of my past works.

AI helps me brainstorm. It guides me in structuring my ideas, refining my voice, and clarifying my points. It helps me generate new angles I might have overlooked when I’m struggling with perimenopausal brain fog. AI also reminds me to be grateful that I live in an era where I have access to high-tech tools and that my creativity doesn’t have to work alone.

Could I do all these things without AI? Absolutely. But it would take me days. And often, time is a luxury I can’t afford—not with work, family, responsibilities, and a thousand other things that make up my life. I’ve written this before and I’m repeating it again:

AI is helping more people to express themselves than ever before. Why are we writing? We write to express our emotions, share stories, and communicate ideas. I enjoy writing, and I do so on a daily basis. I want everyone to have that right and that joy, regardless of their circumstances. We can’t all go on long writing retreats by the sea, with our spouses pouring us delicious cups of coffee. The reality for most of us is that writing can be difficult. Maybe we have kids tugging at our clothes, maybe we’re exhausted from a full-time job, maybe we didn’t have great opportunities in school. Maybe English isn’t our first language—like me, an indigenous woman from an obscure tribe in Borneo—or maybe we’re fighting dyslexia, ADHD, or arthritis just to get the words on the page.

So I use what’s available, with intention and discernment. And I keep writing and making art.

AI is a tool, just like Photoshop is to photographers. No one accuses a skilled photographer of cheating when they enhance their work using Photoshop. The tool doesn’t make the art, but it helps bring the artist’s vision to life. It’s the same with me. I brainstorm and discuss my ideas with a chatbot (ChatGPT, Gemini, DeepSeek) before writing my own work. Then I refine it using tools like QuillBot or Grammarly. Others might prefer ProWriting Aid. These are just part of the process—like spellcheck, revision, or editing.

To my fellow middle-aged friends—especially those of us who’ve lived long enough to know what we want but are still figuring out how to say it—don’t be afraid of AI or feel ashamed of using it. Never let someone else’s discomfort dictate how you create. We have to speak boldly, not shrink.

The truth is, AI is here to stay. We can’t put it back in the box and pretend it doesn’t exist. There is no going back to a world before it. And if you can’t go against it, make it your ally. Use it wisely, and with integrity.

That’s what Jenny Joseph was really talking about, wasn’t she? The unapologetic freedom.

When I am an older woman—well, older than I am now—I shall continue to write with AI. I shall ignore the gatekeepers and the purists. I shall write freely, fiercely, authentically, and without shame. And I shall wear purple.

Just because I can.

I handwrote all of my writing, including this blog post, before editing it using QuillBot.

Reflection | A Rebellion Beneath My Breasts

Daily writing prompt

How often do you say “no” to things that would interfere with your goals?

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I don’t usually say “no” out loud. Not like people imagine—with steely resolve or loud announcements.

But I speak quietly—in small decisions, in between invitations, or when I left several trivial texts unanswered.

When I moved to Taipei two decades ago (for work), I didn’t have a set list of goals. I arrived with curiosity and a bag full of lonely ambition. The first several months felt like a jumble of polite conversations and an endless stream of data on spreadsheets. I attended dinners with coworkers because I had to, not because I wanted to. I replied yes because of responsibility but no in my heart.

However, I gradually began to make other choices.

I stopped wasting my evenings with pointless nonsense. I found cafes with fogged-up windows and dim lighting where I could write. I stopped accepting weekend plans simply to avoid being alone. I began declining activities that diverted my attention away from what was important: reflection, art, and authentic experiences.

Some people express “no” by closing doors. I say it while slowly walking in the opposite direction.

I may not always know where I’m heading, but I do know what I’m no longer willing to participate in. That’s a start.

These days, my “no” does not imply rejection. It’s a diversion or a simple acknowledgment of the space I require to breathe, create, and exist.

I recall the moment I nodded and allowed him to sit across from me in that café. It was hardly anything. However, it was pregnant with meaning.

I had always said no to strangers, spontaneous encounters, and anything that threatened the careful solitude I had built around myself like armor. But that day, I didn’t.

I didn’t say “yes” aloud. I simply didn’t say “no”.

And sometimes, that’s okay.

Quiet Nod

It wasn’t a yes.
Just a twitch in my neck
and a rebellion beneath my breasts—
a dare whispered to the
soft animal of my body:
Stay.

You dragged the chair
and stirred something feral
I’d buried beneath work
and loneliness.

You sat and
asked nothing.
Still, I answered
by not running.

And maybe that’s how it starts—
without longing,
but with the smallest betrayal
of your own solitude.

Maybe the truest ‘no’ is the one we say to fear—so that something else can finally answer yes.

After the Rain | When He Returns—in the light, the puddles, the sky

Daily writing prompt

What is your favorite type of weather?

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My favorite weather is right after it rains—when the sky turns clear and blue, and the air feels cool against my skin. There’s something about that moment that always makes me think of him.

This poem is my response to the blogging prompt “What is your favorite type of weather?” For me, it’s not solely about the weather but the memories it brings back: the cafe we used to go to, neon reflections in rain puddles, our walks by the riverside, his glance when I turned slightly toward him, then looked away. And that one moment I’ll never forget—when love became something sacred between us.

I wrote this to hold onto all of that. Maybe you’ll feel a bit of it too.

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After the Rain

After the rain,
a sky reborn in blue and cool air—
where I miss you most.

I remember the café,
between raindrops and neon on puddles—
pink, yellow, red, blue—
of cooled steel and second chances.

You were always most beautiful in that light—
when the clouds shifted
to make way for clarity.
There you sat, gazing through the window.
I nodded—
and we stepped outside,
two shadows in the wet streets,
to the path along the riverside,
where children raced their scooters,
wild, unburdened joy.

Your hands in your pockets.
I turned just enough to meet your gaze,
then looked away.

And then,
in the aftermath, unbound by the gentle drizzle,
I found you—
on bended knees,
where I was both altar and sinner,
reminding me that love,
in its truest form,
is its own sacred weather.

Do you remember
how even the storm became a confession,
and every clear sky
revealed the beauty
of our impermanence?

I still wander in the clear wake—
a pilgrim of rain and neon dreams,
and every breath of cool air
carries the wonder of you.

Little Things I Wish I Had More Time For

Daily writing prompt

What do you wish you could do more every day?

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Waking up before dawn

The darkness is soft, almost porous. I lie on my bed for a moment, in half-light, listening to the world exhale. The refrigerator hums in the kitchen. Somewhere above, a toilet flushes. And far away, in my mind, a train shudders along its tracks.

Then—silence.

This silence is my companion. I want to sit with it longer and let it wrap around me like a blanket. But the world is already stirring. The koel calls for its mate. A muezzin’s call to prayer rises in the cool morning air. The day’s demands creep in like the first rays of sun.

I answer, always, because I must. The world moves, and I move with it.

Being a flâneur

Flâneur. It’s called being a flâneur. Wandering aimlessly without a destination or agenda. Just feet on pavement and hands in my pockets, watching people, and life. I’d notice things—sunlight cracking through the sidewalk, ants hauling crumbs from a toppled trash can. I go nowhere in particular, but in that nowhere, I find everything.

But being a flâneur is a luxury. Everyone wakes already moving. Our minds rushing three steps ahead, ticking off tasks, rehearsing conversations, calculating time. Even before our feet touch the ground. There’s no space for aimless wandering. Even when we try to slow down, something reminds us: idle time is wasted time.

Writing before the world intrudes

I write every day, carving out one to three hours, but what I long for is unhurried time, quiet hours where the mind is soft and open and the words flow smoothly. I have so much to say. But the day rushes in, relentless and loud. Its noise chips away at the focus I try to guard.

Reading without guilt

One page, one sentence, savored for the sheer pleasure of it. Like stealing time in a world that never stops asking. But the books pile up like a reminder of the time I don’t have or the attention I can’t spare.

What do you wish you could do more of every day?

Yours, Once

Daily writing prompt

What tattoo do you want and where would you put it?

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The Past

I found the tattoo parlor while wandering aimlessly through one of the narrow, lantern-lit streets of Datong District. The parlor looked old, tucked between a toy store and a Chinese medicine hall.

The needle vibrated and pierced. I closed my eyes and welcomed the sting. I imagined the ink seeping in, letter by letter.

Yours.

It was on my left breast, right above my heart.

Days later, his lips are on my skin. When he reaches the ink, he stops. His fingers tighten ever so slightly against my ribs. He exhales slowly. No questions asked. No words uttered. He kisses it tenderly at first, then again, firmer this time. His tongue traces the letters.

That night, it is different. Neither rough nor fast.

Just intense.

The Present

It’s been years. I have gray hairs now, mostly at my temples. I don’t think of him often—at least, not like I used to. But today, I catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror. Bare skin. My body is softer now, but there it is.

Yours.

My fingers brush over the letters, the ghost of his lips flickering behind my eyes. I should get it removed. I tell myself that sometimes.

But I won’t.

Back then, his fingertips grazed the ink absentmindedly. While the night bird called in the distance, he’d press his lips against it and whisper—mine.

Now, my fingers trace the letters, following the path his touch once took. The ink remains, but his touch is long gone. I keep waiting for the pain to dull, but it never does.

Back then, it was a vow.

Now, it’s just a relic.

Someone new notices it once. His fingertips pause over the letters.

“Who did this belong to?”

I hesitate. And then I say, “Me.”

If I Could Speak Every Language

Daily writing prompt

What’s a secret skill or ability you have or wish you had?

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He often walked me home, and sometimes we ended up on the rooftop of my apartment. I never invited him to my apartment. It was too soon for that.

From the rooftop, the city shimmered like a galaxy spilled across the earth. Neon light—electric blue and fiery red—streaked through the darkness. I can hear the distant traffic and feel the cool breeze carrying the faint scent of a nearby night market. Above, Taipei 101 tower pierced the sky, glowing against the stars. He leaned against the railing, gazing into the distance.

We talked about anything. There was no rush of pressure with him, just a gentle assurance that he would hold whatever I shared with care.

Tonight, I asked him what he would do if he woke up one day able to speak every language, even those of animals.

I watched the way the wind played with his hair.

He smirked. A small, knowing curve appeared on his lips.

“That’s a very you question. What would you do with it?”

I thought for a moment.

“I’d talk to the stray cats near the cafe. I’d ask them if they’re hungry or safe. Maybe they’d tell me where they hide when it rains.”

“You’d befriend all the strays. What else?”

I talked about my culture.

“The Burung Bubut* isn’t just a bird; it’s a messenger of omens. Its eerie call is thought to announce the passing of a soul to the realm of the dead. I’d ask it if it truly carries omens or if it knows when a soul is about to pass.”

“I’d also ask the Malayan tiger and the Bornean orangutan how they feel about losing their home. I’d listen to the stories that humans never hear.”

He tilted his head, considering.

“You think animals would trust us with their truths?”

The distant wail of a cat in heat cut through the night. It echoed down the narrow alley and off the damp brick walls like an eerie plea. I thought briefly about that pitiful, horny creature before answering.

“Maybe they wouldn’t trust us at first. But if they did, we could offer help. Imagine knowing what an endangered species really needs instead of assuming. Conservation would be a collaboration and not just a human effort.”

His fingers tapped idly against the metal railing.

“And humans? What about all the dying languages?”

“I’d want to preserve them. Speak to the last few speakers and hear their stories before they’re lost forever, like the language of Orang Kanaq that has fewer than 35 speakers left. If I could learn and document their language, maybe it wouldn’t disappear. And what would it be like if I could speak to the Sentinelese in the Andaman Sea? Maybe we’d find common ground without breaking their solitude.”

I could hear a couple arguing somewhere in the distance, probably further down the alley.

He looked at me with a gentle smile.

“Imagine cooperating with animals to make art. Bird melodies for songwriting. Dance movements from the dolphins. Poems inspired by the haunting cries of the whales.”

I nodded and smiled at the possibility.

He exhaled and was quiet for a while.

“You don’t have to speak to them all the time. You want to listen too.”

“Yeah. I’d love to sit peacefully next to an orange stray cat who basked lazily under the sun.”

Our gaze met, and I quickly averted my eyes. We stayed silent while the city stretched endlessly before us. In that moment, perched on the edge of the rooftop, it felt like the world was alive with voices—rising, falling, each one clamoring to be heard and to be understood.

Note:

Burung Bubut—Greater Coucal. In Iban culture, it is believed that when the bird calls, someone has passed away.
Orang Kanaq—One of the 18 Orang Asli ethnic groups in Malaysia. They are classified under the Proto-Malay people group, which forms the three major people groups of the Orang Asli. (source: wikipedia)

The Word He Chose for Me

Daily writing prompt

What is one word that describes you?

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I’ve never been able to describe myself in just one word. Maybe because I am too many things at once. Or maybe because I don’t see myself the way others do. The way I feel changes depending on the circumstances in my life, and often these circumstances involve family and those I hold dear. My feelings also shift depending on the things that weigh heavily on my mind. They could be anything—the weather, financial challenges, the news, or health issues. Some days, I am quiet and contemplative. Other days, I am restless with anxiety, burning with the need to create, to write, or to complete whatever in my to-do list. How could I ever reduce myself to a single word?

As an INFJ, I am made of many layers, each one revealing itself to different people in different ways. To some, I am reserved and intense. To others, I am something else entirely. I exist in fragments—never fully visible all at once. Perhaps that’s why I struggle to define myself. I am never just one thing.

So I asked him.

One word that describes me without hesitation. I want him to tell me the first thing that comes to mind when he thinks of me.

The room is quiet. The late afternoon light is slipping through the curtains and spilling across the floorboards. It illuminates the dust dancing in the air. The breeze blows the curtain gently, playing with the edge, lifting it, and letting it fall. It cools down my skin where the sweat still clings. His chest rises and falls under my cheek. The sheets lie twisted. Half are on the floor, while the remaining ones are still clinging to us.

I don’t know why I ask, but the question comes out before I can stop them.

“Tell me. One word only. What’s one word to describe me?”

He pauses for a second. “Unforgettable.”

I didn’t expect that. I don’t move or look up. I let it sink into me before curiosity bubbles up.

“Why?”

“Because once someone knows you, they can’t go back to a time before you.”

The curtain lifts again. The breeze is brushing over us. His hand moves to my back, caressing. The light is fading now. I close my eyes and press my cheek closer to his heart.

Unforgettable.

It caught me off guard because I had never thought of myself that way. I had never thought that I could leave an impression on someone so deeply that the idea of me could never be erased. It made me wonder how much of myself I have left behind—in the places I’ve been, in the people I’ve met and loved. It made me question if I truly see my worth and accept and love myself as I truly am.

We all go through many things in life that alter our perceptions of ourselves. And our brains have ‘negativity bias,’ where they are wired to process negative information more intensely than positive ones. So it is safe to say we internalized unflattering things about ourselves, including lies, more than our good qualities.

And maybe other people see us differently than how we perceive ourselves. And maybe that’s the tragedy of it—we spend our lives searching for the words to best describe ourselves when all along we are already leaving our impact in ways we don’t even realize.

Unforgettable is not a word I would have chosen for myself. But maybe he is right after all.