The Hour Between Us

I have been grieving these past few days. It’s not intense but ever present, making every morning feel like a careful step. I have been taking things slowly. I sleep when my body asks. I journal when I feel overwhelmed. I make simple meals and spend less time on social media or reading the news.

Today, on Valentine’s Day, the pain rises closer to the surface. I read that the brain areas that register physical pain also register emotional hurt. The idea almost makes a paracetamol seem logical, as if the heart carried a headache, though I know medicine will not soothe it.

I am sharing two poems I wrote years ago because they hold what I feel more clearly than I can right now. They come from two sides of the same moment. The first poem speaks from her view, aware that time never pauses. The second answers from his side of the same room, the same bed, the same slowly emptying hourglass.

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Her Perspective

Slipping Away

We are dying a little more each day,
you, me, the neighbor with the cracked glasses,
the woman at the train station
who waits for no one.
The boy who lost his dog
last November.

But,
we live like we have
all the time in the world,
we wake to alarms that steal
the dreams from our skin,
eat breakfast,
leave dishes in the sink,
argue about the bills,
make love as if our bodies
aren’t maps of vanishing places.

Denial is an art,
we are its faithful painters.
We fill our days with notifications,
deadlines, grocery lists,
traffic jams, dinner plans,
laughter.
We say, “see you later”
knowing full well that one day,
one of us won’t.

I watch you
in the soft glow of evening,
the furrow in your brows,
the absent scratch of your fingers.
I watch the flicker of your eyes,
as you skim through a book.
You mutter beneath your breath,
making sense of your read.

Later,
in the hush between midnight and morning,
our fingers trace unseen
constellations across warm skin.
For a moment, time disappears,
leaving only us.

I want to tell you,
the sand in the hourglass
doesn’t pause because
we are too afraid to look.
Instead,
I kiss you,
as if that will keep you here,
just a little longer.

His Perspective

Before the Hourglass Breaks (for Liv)

We are fading,
you and I,
like paper that yellows under glass.
Each day lifts a little color.
I count the changes, afraid
I’ll miss the exact moment
we become part of the past.

And still,
I meet you in the mornings
as though the clock has stalled.
I pour coffee,
listen to the three slow turns
of spoon on porcelain.
We talk about nothing urgent,
leave the bed unmade,
let the light spill over our carelessness.

I keep my hands busy
because if I stop,
I’ll touch your face
and give away too much.
Instead, I watch the shadows
move over your shoulders,
trace the curve of your wrist
as you turn a page,
note the small frown
that settles when a sentence traps you.

Later,
when the world finally goes quiet,
your fingertips search for me in the dark.
I memorize their path,
the pauses,
the breath you release
before you closing the space between us.

I want to tell you,
I feel the sand running too.
That I’ve been learning
how to love without holding,
how to stay without staying.
Instead,
I let my lips find yours,
hoping the taste carries forward
into whatever comes after,
and that you’ll feel me there,
just a little longer.

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.

Living in the Gaps

I left church early this month, right at the beginning of another year. Maybe it just lined up that way. But I like to think I want to start afresh with a new spiritual direction after years of being conditioned to think and behave a certain way. I don’t mention this to brag, express bitterness, or suggest some dramatic unraveling. It was just time. The rituals I’d lived by for almost two decades fell away, and in their place, there was a space in my soul that needed filling. There are mornings now when I notice how empty the calendar looks and how the old routines have faded into habits I no longer keep. Sometimes the silence feels clean. Other times, it’s just unheard noise echoing in my head.

What comes after that kind of ending stays unclear for a while. I’ve been reading about Japanese philosophy. Wabi sabi, mono no aware, all those names for things I’ve always sensed but never managed to explain. There’s something grounding in how it speaks to imperfection or how it leans into acceptance without chasing resolution. Not everything is a lesson. Some things are just facts. Life changes, and I find myself moving slower, sometimes unsure if I’m pausing or simply stuck.

Right now, my days are crowded with interruptions. My daughter is starting Form 4. The house shifts on a new schedule, full of reminders and small emergencies. I keep thinking I’ll find a stretch of time. A few hours in the morning, or an evening when everyone is asleep, to work without interruption. That stretch never comes. The days are chopped into fragments: drive here, answer that, sew a button, check a schedule, stir a pot, fold the laundry. The idea of “flow” feels distant, like something I used to believe in but haven’t seen in months.

Some days, I catch myself measuring everything. I have work I want to do. Books on the shelf, half-finished zines, old artwork I think I might want to bring back to life for an upcoming festival. I keep thinking of artists with quiet studios and long blocks of time, while I’m piecing together minutes from whatever’s left. Sometimes, when I’m honest, I wonder if it’s enough to just keep going at this pace, never catching up, always watching the unfinished stack grow a little higher.

But I read. It’s less than I’d like, but still something. I journal, at times with purpose. Other times, just to sort through the mess in my head. Lately, I’m reading about wabi sabi and the value of things left incomplete, the quiet beauty of days that never fit into a neat story. There are passages I highlight, sentences that feel familiar even though I’m seeing them for the first time. Some days I manage a few pages, sometimes less. But I let it count.

When my mind is too tangled, I move. I walk outside just to breathe under the trees. After years of abandoning it, I return to my yoga practice, but I do it at my own pace. I don’t follow anyone else’s rhythm, and I’ve stopped tying value to flexibility or control. Sometimes I sit in silence and watch the room change with the light. Most days, I have more questions than answers. That seems to be how it is now.

This isn’t a season of high productivity. My kids’ schooling, the changing schedules, the constant need for adjustment—none of it feels like the life of an artist I used to imagine. But there’s something in the interruptions themselves that feels honest. My work is built from what’s left after everyone else’s needs are met. I don’t resent it, even when I’m tempted to. Some days I wish it were less chaotic, but it’s still the life I chose.

There’s an indigenous festival in May. I plan to participate, but nothing is confirmed. I think about it more than I admit. I wonder if what I have is enough artwork to sell, or if I should be making more or pushing harder. The urge to push is still there, even though I’ve seen where it leads. I try to remind myself that journaling, reading, and living through this time are not a detour. They shape the work, whether I see the results yet or not.

Most days I don’t feel behind or ahead. I just feel present. Some days I’m restless, convinced I’m wasting time. Other days, I find relief in moving slow, in giving myself permission to pause. I’m not heading toward anything specific. I’m just living, one interruption at a time.

My shelves are full of books I haven’t read yet. Some I’ve kept for years. I’ve stopped treating them like tasks I need to finish. I pick one up, read a few pages, underline something that catches my attention. I put it down, sometimes for weeks. The book waits. So do I.

If there’s any lesson in this season, it isn’t obvious. The days pass. The interruptions pile up. The unfinished work waits on the table. I don’t know when I’ll finish the next zine, or if the festival will happen, or if I’ll ever catch up on all the books. But I’m still here, moving quietly, not rushing the days or trying to make them mean more than they do.

Antu Ngarung | The Guardian Spirit That Shapes My Iban Identity

In Iban belief, the souls of those who die go to Sebayan, the afterworld. Some remain there permanently, but certain individuals are believed to return. These are people who lived with exceptional courage or accomplishment during their lifetime. When these ancestors come back, they do not appear as humans. They come ngarung, meaning concealed, taking the form of animals. These returning spirits are called tua, or guardian spirits.

In the Saribas region, guardian spirits are often seen as snakes such as cobras or pythons. They move quietly, stay in the shadows, and leave without drawing attention. When I picture antu ngarung, I always imagine a cobra coiled in the dark corner of a house or at the edge of the forest. It stays still for a long time and slips away the moment it decides to leave. To many people, it would be just an ordinary animal. To us, it can be an ancestor paying a visit.

A guardian spirit usually belongs to an entire lineage. Because of that connection, the family must never harm or eat the animal that represents their guardian. This is a form of respect. The belief is straightforward: the guardian protects the family, and the family must protect the guardian’s form on earth.

In my family, our guardian is the kijang, the Bornean yellow muntjac. When I was four or five, my late grandparents reminded us repeatedly never to harm, kill, or eat kijang. They did not offer long explanations, but the message was clear. Someone in our line was once a brave person, and that ancestor is believed to return as the kijang to watch over us.

That instruction frightened me growing up. I was afraid I might break the rule by accident. I used to remind myself to always ask what kind of meat was being served when we visited people. At that age, it felt like a tremendous responsibility. Over time, the fear changed. I started to feel that my life was connected to something older and larger than myself. I also realised that this experience was not common among many non-Iban communities, which made me value my heritage even more.

The belief in the kijang has shaped the way I understand myself. It gives me a sense of courage. I am still afraid of many things, but this belief keeps me steady. It reminds me that my ancestors lived through hardship, violence, and uncertainty. My problems today are nothing like what they endured. I often tell myself to live in a way that does not dishonor the people who came before me. I exist today because they survived so much. That thought helps me face difficult moments.

When I imagine the kijang watching me now, I think it sees a woman who lives differently from the Iban women of earlier generations. My lifestyle and interests are not the same. Yet I believe it recognises my effort to understand my roots. It may also encourage me to continue forging my own path even when no one else in my family is doing this kind of work. Many women in my family excel in traditional crafts like beadwork and weaving, but none of them are writers. I have to accept that I may be the first woman in my family to preserve our heritage through writing. Someone younger in the future may look at my work the way I once looked at my namesake, the master weaver. Remembering this keeps me going, even when the work feels lonely.

This leads to something important.

We risk losing our identity when we do not learn about our heritage. The loss does not happen suddenly. It happens slowly. We begin identifying more with other cultures. We forget the meaning behind our names, our customs, and our stories. When we fail to protect what we inherit, we leave an empty space that can be filled by influences that do not reflect who we are. This is happening in many communities around the world, and the Iban are no exception.

Iban identity will not endure by chance. It survives because someone chooses to learn, write, document, and share it. It stays alive when people believe their heritage is worth protecting. It continues when people care enough to ask questions and remember the stories their elders passed down.

Our ancestors returned as antu ngarung for a reason. We owe it to them to honor the heritage they entrusted to us.

Fragments of Obsession V | What Remains of Him

This fragment of obsession is a continuation of Part 4. You can find the first four parts here: part 1, part 2, part 3, and part 4.

The Victims

They stay with him. That much I know.

They weren’t merely evidence in sealed bags. They had names. They had voices. They were echoes in a room where someone had begged, bled, or died without being heard. They live somewhere behind his eyes, hidden deep down but never completely out of reach.

He doesn’t discuss them. But I can sense it in the way he moves, sometimes too still like he’s bracing for the inevitable. I wonder which one visits him in sleep. Whose case file he opens up in his dream without meaning to.

He must have a list in his head. A list of faces, some vaguely remembered, some impossible to forget. The girl with the red hoodie. The elderly man found with his hands tied. The body that no one claimed.

I used to think that grief only belonged to families and those who loved them. However, there is a certain kind of pain that comes from being the last person to look at their picture, read their texts, or trace their final hour backwards. He carries that deep in his soul, mourning for people he never knew.

Maybe it hardens something in him. Or maybe it makes him gentler in ways he doesn’t realize. The truth is I don’t know. I just know that he touches the evidence gently. And he blinks slower than usual when he stares at a photo too long.

In my culture, the spirits—antu—linger when death is unresolved. Some say they roam, whispering into the ears of the living. He doesn’t fear ghosts or darkness. The ones that haunt him are printed on paper, kept in boxes, and saved on hard drives. There they remain. Always waiting. Always watching.

The Walk

He walks at night, but not every night. Only on those when sleep is a stranger and the weight on his chest refuses to lift. He seeks the hour between two and four. That’s when the world goes quiet, signaling him to step out.

He brings no phone, has no destination. Just his feet on the pavement, carrying his momentum through sleeping streets. He passed shuttered shops, empty lots, and the lonely glow of neon signs. In this slumber, the city is transformed—muted, and temporarily pacified.

Is he trying to shake them off? The blood, the tragedies, and the ghosts that cling to the inside of his eyelids? Or is he chasing the silence he can’t find inside? Or maybe he just believes that if he walks long enough, the chaos in his head will have to settle.

Hands in pockets, shoulders a permanent slope. From afar, he’s just a man. But a closer look at his eyes would tell you everything.

This is the unseen part. The aftermath, stripped of crime scenes and case files. There is no suspect to corner, no puzzle to solve. He’s a man alone with the night, waiting to feel human again.

In that moment, I don’t see the criminologist. I see a tired man who would rather move through the honest darkness of the streets than lie still in a loud, empty room.

Epilogue

All of this, I’ve only imagined. The desk. The scene. The interrogation. The victims. The walk. They’re a part of his life that I will never touch. He doesn’t talk about it much, at least not directly. A line may slip out from time to time, and that’s it. Most of it comes through in other ways, like when he gets too quiet and his hands stop moving. The tension in his jaw after a long day. The shadows beneath his eyes that no amount of sleep seems to erase.

There are nights he startles awake. He never says why, just lies there, breathing heavily. I never ask either. I simply wait for his return.

What he endures is his own. And I’ve stopped trying to reach for it. His work is an extension of who he is, bound to his bones. It affects how he sees the world and how he protects others without even thinking about it.

However, there are times when it becomes apparent. Like when he touches me and listens to me even when I say something silly. Or how he holds silence like it’s sacred.

I used to think he was distant. But now I understand: he was too full of things he could never say. I write these fragments not to know him better or to hope that he’ll find them. He won’t. The door closed two decades ago. These are the only pieces I kept.

Fragments of Obsession IV | The Criminologist

Some time ago I began writing Fragments of Obsession, brief glimpses into a private world of desire and distance. These new pieces pick up where the last ones left off, but they explore a darker area: the world of a criminologist.

I can’t sit at his desk or walk with him into the places he inhabits. All I have are fragments, imagined through the silence between us. They’re not about the crimes themselves but rather the places around them: his desk, the crime scene, and the interrogation room.

What interests me is not the evidence he gathers, but the burden that persists afterward. These pieces are how I watch from the outside and write about things I’ll never see. They belong to the same map of longing I began tracing in the first three Fragments of Obsession — part 1, part 2, part 3.

The Desk

I never stood in front of it, but I know it like I’ve touched its surface a thousand times in my mind. A desk that holds the stories that no one wants to tell, and even fewer want to hear. Its top is scratched, probably from years of people dropping folders, forgotten coffee cups, and constant shuffles of pens and clips. Sturdy but with scars like him.

On one side, there is an uneven stack of papers threatening to tumble. Case notes, autopsy reports, and transcripts of late-night interviews with men who lie easily and women who have given up on getting justice. I imagine the edges fading from being read too often, held in worn hands. Underneath them, photographs turned face down, and the victim’s eyes still burning even when hidden.

The other side is neater. A computer. A notebook with a page full of his neat, small handwriting. His pen would sometimes rest diagonally across it, with ink smudges on the margins where he applied pressure too hard. I imagine him hesitating mid-thought, his brows furrowing.

There must be a hidden gun nearby. Cold, clinical, and within his reach. The barrel pointing nowhere, a constant reminder of how violence is always a part of his life. My people never lived with guns except for the ones that were passed down to us. My grandfather’s shotgun passed to my father and now to my eldest brother. A hunting tool, not for murder. Unloaded but heavy with potential, lingering like a sinister presence at the periphery of every thought.

I can see his hand, with raised veins and long fingers, tracing the tabletop absentmindedly when fatigue creeps in. A gesture that seems almost loving, as if he were anchoring himself. He’s a man who has read too many lies in too many statements. He doesn’t stop. He keeps returning to this desk, like a man returning to his menua, the land he was born in, where his roots are waiting for him, no matter how far he has gone.

I’ll never sit across from him there. I only know it through imagination. This distance allows me to observe things that others may overlook: the silence around him, the way the desk has become an extension of his body, his determination, and his solitude.

The Crime Scene

I picture it as the opposite of his desk. No order, no familiar scratches, no steady ground. There was chaos sealed off by yellow tape. It’s a place where a life has ended and everything normal—shoes by the door, a half-empty cup on the table, a curtain in the wind—suddenly feels obscene.

The air is thick with things that can’t be cleaned. The iron tang of blood and the sour staleness of fear. A house where someone used to laugh is now silent. He goes through it methodically, but I know he notices everything. The scattered belongings. How things look wrong when they aren’t where they belong. The imprint of violence that remains like smoke after a fire.

He kneels by the details others step over. A broken clasp. Mud tracked across the tiles. Fibers snagged on a nail. His hand hovers above them, never in a hurry or careless. He bends down low to collect evidence. I imagine how his eyes narrow as he gathers pieces that the rest of us can’t see.

Somewhere close, a camera flashes, officers talk, and someone fills in a logbook. He moves like none of them are there. The scene is speaking to him. It tells him what to look for, what to doubt, and what doesn’t belong.

And maybe he thinks of the victim too. Not just as a body drawn in chalk, but as a person who went barefoot over this floor and brushed their teeth at that sink. He’s seen too many of them. Each scene digs into him like a thumbnail.

According to my people, when someone dies tragically, the place becomes restless. You don’t linger there long unless you want to carry that darkness home. He has to stay. He lets the silence seep into him and the darkness push against his skin. This is the only way to read what the dead left behind. The chaos doesn’t stay behind when he finally steps back over the tape. It follows him and becomes the real evidence he can never log.

The Interrogation Room

I can see it clearly, even though I’ve never been inside. The walls are bare and dull gray with faint finger prints on the paint from palms dragged in terror, boredom, or defiance. A single table in the center with uneven legs. One chair on each side but only one feels in charge.

I imagine the air stale with breath and the absence of sunlight. There are no windows to the outside world. Only a dark pane of glass on one wall. He knows they’re watching. He doesn’t care. His focus is always here. This is a space where people stall, spin, crack, or burn.

He sits across from them. Calm. Still like the river at dusk before swallowing the last light. He doesn’t raise his voice. He waits and lets them fill the silence with their own guilt. Lets them fidget, lie, and repeat themselves. Lets them feel uncomfortable about what they said.

There’s always a file in front of him. Sometimes it’s closed. Sometimes it’s open to a photo or a sentence scribbled in red. He doesn’t look at it much. He stares at them, watches how their jaw moves, how they scratch their nose, and how their eyes dart to the door when they think no one’s watching.

I wonder if he thinks of the victim while he listens. If he remembers the angle of the neck, the bruise on the cheek, and the time of death. If he keeps those pieces in his pockets like charms, reminding him of who he’s really speaking for.

In my people’s old way of life, truth wasn’t pried out in rooms like these. We invoked Ini Andan, the goddess of justice, and waited for signs. Now there are only fluorescent lights and CCTV. The ritual remains the same. Watching. Listening. Putting the soul on a scale.

He doesn’t need to catch them lying. They’ll hand it over eventually. Little by little, like decaying meat falling apart in their hands.

Note:

I’m still working through two more fragments—The Victims and The Walk. They’ll come when they’re ready, and together they’ll complete this small sequence of obsession.

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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.

The Cry of the Koklir | An Iban Ghost Story

Before I share my experiences, I’d want to clarify who the koklir is and what she represents in Iban belief.

People often think of the Iban people of Sarawak as headhunters, which is a part of our history, but it tends to eclipse the deeper aspects of who we are. However, our culture is not only based on headhunting. We have a strong spiritual connection to the natural world, which is rich in stories about spirits that live in rivers, lands, mountains, and dreams. Our folklores are alive with omens, taboos, and the spirits of people who have departed. Some spirits protect, some guide, and others, like the koklir, are said to return because something in their death was left unresolved.

In Iban culture, the koklir is one of the most feared spirits. She is believed to be the spirit of a woman who died during childbirth or shortly thereafter, specifically during the vulnerable bekindu period, which lasts for forty days of healing and recuperation. Her death is known as busong mati, or a spiritually unfortunate death, and her soul is considered to become jai (malevolent). Her soul is malevolent not because she did something wrong in life, but because her death was unnatural and tragic. Her spirit doesn’t cross over to the other side in peace; instead, it lingers behind, transformed by pain and grief.

As a ritual precaution, lime thorns (duri limau) are poked into her hands and soles before she is buried. It’s a symbolic act aimed at weakening her spirit and preventing her from becoming a koklir. Some people allege that her tongue is also pierced.

Then a prayer is being offered, asking her to rest and not come back to bother the living. But if the ritual isn’t done or if the death is really violent or sudden, people say she might still come back to haunt, seek, and punish.

The koklir is believed to target men. Most of the time, you can hear her presence through a chilling cry that starts out like a hen calling her chicks: “kok, kok, kok…” and ends with a piercing, terrifying “haiiiiii waiiiiii!” Before she attacked her victim, she would scream “kokliiiiiiiiiiiiiiirrrrrrrrrr”. She sometimes takes the form of a beautiful woman, hiding her face with a tanggui serawong (woven sunhat) or a kubong leaf. Sometimes she manifests as an enturun, a shaggy, nocturnal bearcat with long claws. Some men say they’ve heard her voice in the jungle or by the river at night. Some people say they’ve seen her scratch at windows or doors with fingers that look like claws. The stories are shared quietly among men, usually late at night, and sometimes with fear or bravado.

I’ve never seen her. But would you believe me if I told you I heard her twice? And I remember it very well both times.

First Encounter

I was fourteen. It was the first day of the school break. Because my flight home was later that night, I was the only student left at the girls’ hostel at my boarding school. Everyone else had left throughout the day. The hostel was quiet and empty.

That morning, the warden told me to turn off the lights and close all the doors before I left. I said I would. After dinner, at about 6 PM, I took my bags outside and waited for my cousin to pick me up. It was getting dark already.

Before leaving, I went back in to do what I promised: turn off the lights and close the doors. I went up to the first floor, strolled through the empty corridor, and did what I had to do. The only sound was the rustling leaves blowing in the breeze. Everything else was still and quiet.

I heard something as I came back down, near the bathroom on the ground floor.

“Kok… kok… kok…”

It was soft and faint, exactly like a hen calling its chicks.

But this was a school compound. No nearby houses, no chickens. Just trees and a greenhouse. I stopped and listened again. I thought maybe I imagined it. I finished what I was doing and went back to the entrance. I stood there in the light of the corridor, looking out at the road. Everything else around me was dark.

Then, around 7PM, I heard it again.

“Kok… kok… kok… kok…”

It was slower and closer.

I felt chills and goosebumps all over my body. I was too scared to look around. I just kept my eyes on the road, expecting to see my cousin’s headlights. He came soon after that. I hastily loaded my bags into the car and drove away. I never looked back.

I didn’t see her, but I know what I heard. We believe that the koklir doesn’t harm girls or women because she only targets men. That gave me some comfort, but the sound stuck with me for years.

Second Encounter

I was still living in the same hostel a year later. I didn’t hear her voice this time, but I did hear something else. My bed was next to the door. Sometimes, I would wake up to a loud scratching sound at the door. I believed it was stray dogs trying to get in, so I went back to sleep.

However, I looked at the door one morning because I was curious. There were scratch marks, but they weren’t at the bottom where a dog could reach them. They were higher up, around chest height. That detail stuck with me. What kind of dog can scratch that high?

I didn’t say anything to anyone. I didn’t want to scare the others, especially the younger girls. But I remembered what the elders used to say: the koklir scratches at doors and windows with her long nails to find a way in.

After that, the scratching happened every now and then. I didn’t say anything about it until much later. I told the story years later in our WhatsApp group for former dormmates. I was surprised to learn that I wasn’t the only one. Others remembered the same sounds from the same door and that same feeling of unease. However, we all stayed quiet, but we were all scared.

Some people might not believe these stories. They can argue it’s merely animals, wind, imagination, or ridiculous stories from the natives. But I don’t think I made anything up since I know what I heard.

These encounters aren’t just stories about ghosts. She is a reminder of how deeply the Iban people see death and life as intertwined, how even grief has a place in our stories. As Iban people, we understand spiritual realms that involve death, grief, and the things that linger. The koklir is a reminder of women who died too young or too soon, often forgotten or feared, yet still searching for peace. She didn’t show herself to me. But I heard her cry and have never forgotten it, even after decades have passed.

When the Car Broke Down, So Did I | But Here’s What I Learned

The car broke down today. Again.

It’s my husband’s car, and this would be the third time this year. We’ve brought it to different workshops, different mechanics, each one poking around and shrugging like it’s just one of those ghosts in the machine. But today, the mechanics finally identified the issues: spark plugs, cooling gasket, weak battery, frayed cables, a clogged pipe, and a radiator that desperately needs cleaning.

RM2,000. That’s the estimate. We have savings, sure, but can we replenish that money in time? That question alone pulled me into a mental spiral I’ve come to know too well. A slow, heavy dread that swirls up in the pit of your stomach. But I caught myself. I reminded myself I had two choices: let that worry snowball and bury me, or breathe, look at the situation for what it is, and figure out what I can do.

We still need to fix the car and to keep living. And worrying, as familiar as it is, won’t do the fixing for me. What weighs heavier than the cost, though, is the guilt. There’s this stubborn voice inside whispering that I’m not doing enough. It keeps insisting I should be contributing more consistently. My husband works full-time, and I write, and I have small online hustles. Sometimes they bring in decent money but sometimes they don’t. But I squirrel away every ringgit I earn. And over the years, those small savings have paid for medical bills, groceries, furniture, school supplies, and, of course, rainy days that came without warning.

When I zoom out, I see that I’ve contributed steadily throughout the years. And yet, the guilt persists. Because we live in a world that ties a person’s worth to the size of their paycheck. Is that the only currency that matters? But what about everything else?

What about the sleepless nights, the emotional labor, the struggles of parenting and managing a household, especially when they are rarely acknowledged? What about the unpaid hours spent raising children into kind, curious humans? What about those people who hold things together behind the scenes? However, I’ve learned, slowly, not to compare. I tried not to look at working mothers and feel small. I make an intentional effort not to pit stay-at-home and working women against each other. We each make trade-offs and we all carry invisible costs. I’ve stopped wasting energy trying to measure myself against others. I’d rather pour that energy into things that feed my soul, like writing and making art.

Still, the financial anxiety is real. We’ve been living frugally for years. And yet, one broken part in a car can shake the balance. It’s a common story. Everywhere I look, people are stretched thin, in Malaysia or elsewhere around the world. Even in countries like the U.S., I read about 80-year-olds still working because they can’t afford not to. That article haunted me.

It reminded me how fragile things can be, how illness, aging, or a single emergency can drain years of careful saving. And it made me think, what kind of life do I want to build? What kind of resilience do I want to have? I don’t want to live in fear. So I’m choosing to stay patient, calm, and clear. I’m choosing to meet this setback with grace, even when it feels unfair. I tell myself this: take a deep breath. Don’t panic. Worry adds nothing. It just takes and drains. And right now, I need all my strength to stay grounded and keep creating and contributing, not just financially, but emotionally and meaningfully.

If you’re reading this in the middle of your own breakdown, whether mechanical or emotional, I want you to know: you’re not alone. It’s okay to feel overwhelmed and cry. It’s okay to spiral too. I did that often but when the tears dry, try again. If you’re like me, you have people who are depending on you for survival, and no matter how unfair it might sound, we have to keep going even when we feel like falling apart.

Sometimes, a broken car teaches you more than a working one ever could. It reminds you of what you’re capable of. And if you’re still standing after everything life has asked of you, then maybe you’re not broken at all. You’re probably just in the middle of building something unshakable.

Olivia Atelier offers printables, templates, and art designed to inspire reflection, healing, and creativity. Visit Olivia’s Atelier for more.

Why Andrea Gibson’s Death Hit Me Harder Than Our Movie K-Drama

This past week was hard because Andrea Gibson died, and I’m still trying to figure out what that means. I never met them, but their death feels strangely personal to me. But if you’ve read Andrea’s poems, you know exactly why. Andrea’s poems aren’t just pretty words but they are pieces of themselves they left behind. They are bloody, honest, and vulnerable.

I also watched Our Movie, a Korean drama about the slow, painful journey of dying and saying goodbye, that same week. The themes of death, memory, and love all fit together, but my response to each couldn’t have been more different.

Our Movie is exceptional. The cinematography is soft and dreamy. The acting is gentle, the soundtrack minimal. Namkoong Min plays Lee Je-ha, a quiet man who watches the woman he loves, Daeum (played by Jeon Yeo-been), die of a rare, incurable disease. She is calm, joyful, and completely at peace with dying. And he is steady, restrained, and almost stoic in the way he grieves. It’s not a bad drama; in fact, many people praise it for the gut-wrenching themes of death, dying, and hope. But for someone like me, who demands emotional rawness, it made me feel underfed.

I know the character choices were intentional. Daeum doesn’t fight her death because she is content and fulfilled. She has lived, loved, and achieved her dreams. She got what she wanted. Je-ha doesn’t break down or scream when he thinks of her. His grief is not outward but you still see it in his eyes and gestures. You see the grief, but you don’t feel it.

And maybe the show makers wanted to show us that some losses are quiet. Some people don’t break when they’re hurting. They simply retreat, bend inwards, and go still. But for me, that restraint made it hard to connect. I was waiting for something to break open. I wanted Je-ha to scream, cry, or do something that would show me how much Daeum meant to him besides memory flashbacks and stares into space. Oh, he did cry but somehow I couldn’t connect with the way he grieves.

The drama wasn’t wrong. It’s just that I couldn’t connect with it emotionally. And that made me think of Andrea.

Andrea Gibson didn’t whisper about death. They roared and cried on stage. They made you feel uncomfortable because their truths were so intimate. Their words weren’t polished or pretty; they were rough with honesty. Andrea’s poems made you feel seen. And that’s why so many people are mourning their passing.

Andrea wasn’t afraid of being vulnerable and real. They weren’t afraid of naming the pain, sitting with it, and saying, “You’re not alone in this mess because I’m here too.”

And maybe that’s why their death feels more real than a fictional one. Andrea was there for us in the kind of grief that makes you feel like your heart is breaking and your voice is shaking, and it reminds you that this life is fragile, but it’s also worth feeling everything for.

I realized this week that I don’t just want beauty in art. I want pain and emotional bruises. I want to feel the grief and not just admire it from a safe distance. And I’m not ashamed of that anymore.

It’s not selfish to want art that speaks your emotional language. Our Movie was very well made but I think it’s okay to say that it didn’t satisfy me on the level that I had hoped for. The way I live—intensely, with longing, and an endless desire for truth—shapes my expectations. So when something falls short of that, I notice. And I’ve learned to be honest about it.

Maybe that’s the reflection for this week. This is not a review or critique. It’s just a simple truth that some stories observe grief and others enter it with you. And this week, Andrea Gibson reminded me that I will always need the latter.

I’m grateful for the reminder. And I hope that when my time comes, I’ve written even a little bit as honestly as Andrea did.

Rest gently, Andrea. And thank you for the gift of your words.

I leave this excerpt from Andrea’s poem, Love Letter From the Afterlife. You can read the complete poem on their Substack. Mind you, the imagery in this poem is breathtaking.

“My love, I was so wrong. Dying is the opposite of leaving. When I left my body, I did not go away. That portal of light was not a portal to elsewhere, but a portal to here. I am more here than I ever was before. I am more with you than I ever could have imagined.”

And this poem, When Death Comes to Visit was written by Andrea years ago and released posthumously by their wife, Meg, today (25 July 2025).

Olivia Atelier offers printables, templates, and art designed to inspire reflection, healing, and creativity. Visit Olivia’s Atelier for more.

Things I Was Told Not to Say (But I’m Saying Them Anyway)

Like everyone else, I was raised to be polite, to lower my gaze, and to keep my mouth shut before it bleeds arrogance or truth. But truth doesn’t always need to wait for permission and I’m done looking for it.

This is a list of things I was told not to say because they are deemed shocking and inappropriate. But I’m saying them anyway, because being silent isn’t always safe. It was a slow suffocation and death.

I was told not to say:

“I’m tired of being the emotional one, the one who feels things.”

But I am. It’s draining carrying the burden of my own feelings and everyone else’s. You say I’m too touchy. I say you need to be more sensitive.

“Sometimes I don’t want to be a mother.”

It doesn’t mean I don’t love my children. It means I want to disappear sometimes. To be free of endless burdens and responsibilities. I want to just be me without being attached to roles and expectations, even just for a while. Just long enough to find myself again.

“Marriage is lonely.”

Yes, even the good ones. Especially the good ones; when you’ve been together long enough, you know each other too much there are barely any surprises anymore.

“I still think about the one who left.”

No, I don’t want him back. But he lives in the hallways of my memory, like when I stop to think about certain songs or street names or places. That’s not being unfaithful. It’s my memory and the only way to forget it is if I lost my memories to dementia or brain damage. Otherwise the memory remains. And I’m allowed to carry it.

“I don’t want to go to this church anymore.”

I believe in God. But I don’t believe in being controlled and being silenced. I don’t want to pretend everything’s fine when my spirit is clearly not. I’m not giving up on faith; I’m moving toward the truth.

“I feel ugly on some days.”

No amount of affirmations makes it disappear. There are days when I can’t stand my body. Some days I don’t even notice it at all. Both truths exist.

“I envy women who get to choose their identity.”

Because I never did. I was born into roles before I could choose which ones I liked. Wife and mother. Good girl. Christian. I played every one of them. But now I want to rewrite the script where the real me can finally be set free.

“I don’t want to be grateful all the time.”

Gratitude is holy. But forced gratitude is performance. I don’t owe anyone a smile when I’m breaking inside. I can be grateful and grieving at the same time.

“I want more.”

More silence. More passion. More space to create without guilt. More people who see me without needing me to explain myself. I want more than I was told I should ask for.

And yes, sometimes I want to be desired and not just needed. There’s a difference. And I feel it every time I’m touched with obligation instead of longing.

I was told not to say all of this. They are taboo and a good Christian woman, a wife and a mother, shouldn’t entertain these sinful thoughts.

I was told to play it safe. To keep my life neat, soft, godly. I was told not to stumble others in their faith.

But truth isn’t always soft. Truth can hurt and burn sometimes. And I’d rather burn than spend another decade in silence.

Call me whatever you want. A premenopausal woman in the heat of a midlife crisis. A delusional Christian woman being lured by the devil. These are some of my truths and I’ll not stop writing about them and shrink myself for others’s comfort. I’m so done with being prim and proper and always saying the right things all the time. I’m done with lying. It’s time for me to proclaim my truths and make them known to others.

The Things That Undid Me

I cooked my love down to tar,
a black syrup in the bottom of the pot.
It taste like a lie
but I said nothing.
I was raised to chew my
tongue for supper.

I sewn myself into the good wife’s dress,
blessed and above reproach,
but I swallowed my own teeth
like communion wafers.

My children pressed their ears to my palms
and heard singing.
But some nights,
my fingers were fists
full of burnt letters.
I’m no witch,
only a woman
who learned too late
that silence is murder.

The pastor preached be pure.
But I loved the smell of rain
in my dirty hair,
my body wanting
without shame.

God, forgive me–
not for sinning
but for the way I loved it:
the unwashed sheets,
the stains on the hymns,
the animal in me
that refused to kneel.

I’m not sorry for the smoke,
or the fire I’ve become.
I’m sorry it took me
this long to strike the match.

Olivia Atelier offers printables, templates, and art designed to inspire reflection, healing, and creativity. Visit Olivia’s Atelier for more.

What I Know Now That I’m in My 40s

As I get older, I realize that change doesn’t stop. You don’t reach a certain point where you finally feel “together.” When I was in my 20s, I thought that women in their 40s had it all figured out. They knew how to love, how to parent, and how to stay calm when their world fell apart and the bills were late and the kids were fighting. But now that I’m here, I know the truth: we’re all still learning and figuring things out.

In my 40s, I no longer chase the idea of being extraordinary. I want to be real, present, and kind to myself. I’ve stopped apologizing for being quiet, for needing time alone, or for feeling deeply. I used to shrink myself so people would find me easier to digest and tolerate. Now I let the fullness of who I am take up space, even if it makes other people feel uncomfortable.

I have learned that performance doesn’t determine one’s worth. Worth doesn’t come from being productive, getting praise, or doing everything right. Even when I’m still, I am still worthy. Or when I’m unseen or unnoticed. Or when I am not achieving a single thing. This kind of emotional growth doesn’t happen overnight. It came through years of burnout and soul-wrestling, trying to be everything to everyone and having nothing left for myself.

Motherhood taught me that but not in a pretty, “Pinterest-quote” way. It taught me in the messy, heartbreaking moments that often happen in the trenches of parenting. Motherhood revealed the gaps in my patience, where I lost my sense of self or the ghosts I hadn’t exorcised yet. It forced me to look at myself when I was at my worst and ask, “Can I still be nice to my kids? Can I still stay and get through it all?”

Marriage, too, has been a teacher but not always a gentle one. Love in your 40s is less exciting and can be boring but I’m speaking from my experience. It’s less about the big, impressive things and more about the small, boring things like showing up for each other. Or listening when you’re tired and don’t really care about the nitty-gritty of it. Or saying you’re sorry first. I used to think that being in love was like being high. But now I know better.

My art and writing have saved me more times than I can count. They gave shape to emotions I couldn’t name. They held me when I felt invisible. When I returned to writing poetry after years on hiatus, it felt like coming home to an old friend who never stopped waiting. I don’t write to impress anymore; I write to learn and understand. I want to tell the truth without worrying about how it sounds or how it looks. That’s the heart of my creative healing.

And this is my truth: I am a woman who is no longer afraid to feel everything.

I’ve learned to slow down and take my time. I’ve learned to walk away when something costs me my peace. I’ve learned to take a break without guilt. I’ve learned to feed myself what nourishes, not what numbs. I’ve learned that joy isn’t something you chase relentlessly. Joy is something you notice. You can find joy anywhere you look hard enough. In your child’s laughter. In the soft, fading light at 7.30pm. In the peaceful and dull parts of your life.

I’ve stopped needing everyone to like me. Not everyone will. And that’s okay. I am not for everyone. But I am for the people who value honesty over performance, presence over perfection, and depth over decorum.

Being a woman in your 40s means I carry both tenderness and steel in my bones. I know how to hold space and when to keep things to myself. I know how to tell the truth even when it hurts. I still make mistakes, of course. I still feel anxious most of the time, but I’m not as scared of being seen as imperfect. There is no pretending. What you see is what you get.

I don’t have it all figured out. But I know who I am now. And I like her more than I ever have.

Now That I Know

I don’t need fireworks.
I light my own sky
with the hush
of knowing I survived.
No more performance prayers.
No more bloodletting for love.
If I bend now, it’s not to please–
but to plant.
My thighs and belly are soft.
My words are sharp.
I’m no longer a girl
waiting to be chosen.
I have chosen myself,
my whole being–
transforming.

Olivia Atelier offers printables, templates, and art designed to inspire reflection, healing, and creativity. Visit Olivia’s Atelier for more.