Tag: passion

The Only Way I Know Not to Forget

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

It’s silent. Steady. Rooted.

I am passionate about remembering and honoring.

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

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

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

Will they recognize the sound of pantun sung at dusk?

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

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

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

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

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

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

So that is my passion.

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

And that is how I love myself.

✨ Visit Olivia’s Atelier for printables, reel templates, and planners made to support overwhelmed moms with gentle, soulful tools.
🕊️ Enjoy 50% off everything until June 30.

Time, a Book, and Me

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

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

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

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

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

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

✨ Visit Olivia’s Atelier for printables, reel templates, and planners made to support overwhelmed moms with gentle, soulful tools.
🕊️ Enjoy 50% off everything until June 30.