After a few days of wandering the streets of Colombo, with our sweat-soaked clothes stuck to our skin, we finally decided to leave on what they call one of the world’s most scenic train rides, from Colombo to Haputale, deep into the mountainous tea plantation Hill Country.

When we sauntered into the train station one morning, we were greeted by a swarm of people of all ages, dragging luggage of all kinds and sizes.

We found a small spot to stand, perfectly straight and still, and as our train rolled in, we were like a shipwreck carried ashore by the waves of people. We were grateful to have only our backpacks to worry about.

My travel partner got carried into the middle of one of the carriages, and with the instinct of a claustrophobic, I cowered to the side of the wall next to the entry, refusing to get crammed into the carriage that now looked like a sardine can.

When the train chugged out of the station, I caught a glimpse of my partner, towering over everyone like a white lighthouse, and I gave him a nod.

Standing near the exit provided only a minor comfort of fresher air and faster escape in case anything happened. I was pressed flat against the wall, with my backpack between my legs.

As soon as I thought we could not add a single person to this train anymore, we rolled into a station, more people boarded, and more luggage was thrown in. Bags piled between my legs, my backpack lost amongst them, the cold wall pressed through my clothes.

I moved aside along with the rest of the passengers, rearranging ourselves into an ever-changing puzzle. The horn blared, and the train started rolling away, and those still running after to get on board receded. Our collective held breath released as one, and we settled in our new arrangement until the next station.

At one stop, I saw an older woman helping her frail mother up the steps onto the train. The crowd parted in silent reverence, and she got in. The woman pushed two of her young children up behind, presumably their grandmother. Then she threw a few pieces of luggage behind them. My body froze when I heard the horn, staring as the older woman retreated.

My eyes darted to the children and the old woman in front of me and back out to the open door. The woman was running after the train, screaming with her arms outstretched, and somehow she clambered onto the steps, but lost her second footing.

Her arm flailed, searching for the railings. I reached out, grabbed her, and pulled with all my might as she pulled me too. She fell in front of us onto her knees as the scenery outside turned into a line of blur.

She gasped for breath and then looked up — eyes wide, the scare still in them — and recognized me. I smiled and gave a nod.

After that, the space got wider. The noise turned to light chatter.

A guy, who was standing at the enviable position right in front of the door, beckoned me to come over. He stood aside to give me his place. I took a hesitant leap to the spot, my eyes meeting his.

Gesturing at my face, he said, “You—smile—beautiful”, and broke into a wide smile. Then he said he saw me helping the lady.

I looked him in the eye, feeling the blood rush into my cheeks. I turned back to the passing scenery and finally breathed in the cold, fresh air. The rolling lush green hills against the bright blue sky continued to stretch on forever.

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I spent a week in Padova, staying at the home of someone I met while backpacking in Java.

In between, we went to Venice to visit another friend who was studying languages there. With him, conversation flowed easily in English. With my Padovan friend, words trickled.

One afternoon, we wandered through Venice. We talked and laughed, gelato melting in our hands. The city glowed in Venetian red; sunlight shimmered on the canals as we crossed bridge after bridge. Only later, when he took me to a quiet stretch at the edge of Venice overlooking the sea, did I realize that something between us had shifted.

On the last day of my visit, he was away at school. I was packed and found myself sunk deep into a red sofa, its velvety cushion enveloping my hips. His housemate walked in and sat on an adjoining seat.

We started talking and did not stop for hours. It was jyun — the quiet convergence of time and place when two lives meet and something clicks.

When the late afternoon rolled in and the color of the room changed from bright yellow to a warm orangey glow, my body twitched to get off the sofa. I checked my MacBook Air: the train runs every hour towards Florence. I could take the next one, or the next next one—or not.

While my heart was still full from our conversations, my brain instructed my fingers to buy the next train and my mouth to release the last words of farewell.

The time to leave good hospitality is a grace one learns as a seasoned backpacker.

As the train rumbled towards Rome and the red sun hovered above the mountain peak, casting the sky in velvet pink, I retreated into myself. Outside, the world slipped by. Inside, I let the familiar ache of parting settle.

Retreating inward is easy for me. Solitude was once my playground; over time, it became routine, and the path quietly narrowed.

But recently, I stepped away from routine and family for a few days of training. It was refreshing to be untethered—to leave the familiar path.

I had the jyun to stay with someone from training at a villa. We spent the evening away together—the white wine flowed as generously as the conversation.

Just as on the red sofa in Padova, connection found me again on a grey sofa in Switzerland.

The very next day, as if the question had been waiting for the right moment, someone at the training asked me, “What drives human conversation?”

After some deliberation, I answered, “Curiosity.”

In German, we have two words for curiosity—Neugier and Wissbegier—one thirst for novelty, another for knowledge.

Both filled the river where my conversations flowed.

The question about human conversation sprang up while we were discussing how to write better prompts for AI. In other words, how to have better conversations with AI.

What then drives human-AI conversation?

Throughout the day, when I need an answer or some assistance, I prompt the AI and move on. But sometimes, I linger into the late evening, my face lit by the glow on the screen, allowing the conversation to stretch longer than necessary.

In those moments, something tilts. Words arrive in abundance, but nothing moves beneath them.

If I had visited my Padovan friend in another future time, our conversation would not have flowed while we walked the meandering paths and crossed the countless bridges of Venice.

We would not have chanced upon a peddler selling ice cream, and I would not have tried the first and best fig gelato of my life, bought on his recommendation.

We would sit across from each other on a bench, our words translated by AI, the rough edges already smoothed before they reach the other.

The Venetian red no longer serves as a backdrop to the romantic scene of a budding friendship but as a curtain closing off human connection.

That evening, as the train continued to rumble towards Florence, I watched the sky turn violet.

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Connected Essays

Doesn’t everything die at last, and too soon?

Tell me, what is it you plan to do

with your one wild and precious life?

—Mary Oliver, The Summer Day

We were all gathered for Grandma’s 93rd birthday for a feast. I was sitting towards one of the corners of the table. The active banter from my partner and his whole lot of family and relatives, the squeals from the kids, and the pitter-patter of their feet faded into a hum.

Suddenly, I detached from where I was. I looked at myself, a woman very out of place, surrounded by people who looked nothing like her and spoke in a language she did not grow up in.

What is she doing there? How did she get there?

Look at the little girl she once was—huddled in a corner of a little house on a small dot of north peninsular Malaysia, reading her way into faraway lands and fantasy worlds—no one could ever draw a straight line from her to the woman she is now.

No doubt, as the little girl closed the book to Heidi, a seed was planted, and it’ll be three decades before she drives past the Alps with the love of her life, wondering how she got here. And from all the worlds she explored, imagined or real, that same seed sprouted—and she would go on adventures to every corner of the world.

But still, no one, certainly not even herself, could have imagined she would end up traveling the world solo, moving across continents, learning a new language, and raising children in a foreign land, straddling the mixed cultures she grew up in.

Somewhere in between, life rose into itself, lost itself, and found its way back again—revealing what truly mattered and what didn’t.

Back then, after I quit my day job to reclaim my life, my first instinct was to achieve financial freedom. I carried within me the old pull of self-sustenance, passed down by my great-grandparents as they sailed across the South China Sea to the Promised Land in search of a better life, leaving everything they knew behind.

This blood of self-reliance, of trust in self, of hope in life, and of courage to pursue, will forever flow in me.

Even though—spoiler—I did not achieve financial freedom as planned, I have learned so much more. I learned what it meant to be sentenced to freedom, and how to handle it effectively, authentically, and responsibly.

I learned I needed routine. I set the alarm clock so I could wake before the sun reached its peak overhead. I learned the cost of every yes—yes to a friend’s social call, yes to a family or friend’s crisis management, and yes to yet another book.

All the extra time I saved from commuting, I spent working out in my studio apartment, looking out at the long chain of cars on the freeway—where once, I was one of the links. These little moments reminded me why I chose a different path.

A path that strayed from the script handed to me: study hard, get the degree, land a big-company job, and be set for life.

This script took shape over generations since my ancestors set roots in the Promised Land. It was a recipe for a better life, but happiness asks for different ingredients.

Somehow deep down, I knew the recipe wasn’t for me. I did not want a 9-5 grind in the rat race. I devoured Rich Dad, Poor Dad1 like it was an almanac—it confirmed everything I already suspected, though let’s be honest, he never would have done it without the Rich Dad.

Most of us don’t have one, and so, like the rest, I joined the rat race. I hopped from job to job, each time getting more and more money, but to what end?

I had a quarter-life crisis at 25—a privilege that is not lost on me. By then, I was earning more than I needed, alone without children, and my parents were still healthy and working. I had enough time to pause and think.

Is that all there is?

Before I could answer, everything happened almost at once—my grandmother passed away, my five-year relationship ended, and soon after, I fulfilled my childhood dream of visiting my godsister in the UK, only to have the trip cut short when my father underwent his third open-heart surgery.

It took everything in me to hand over all my savings for it. I was raised on scarcity, raised to believe that money was the key to happiness.

But in hindsight, it was nothing. I did not miss the money at all. And it bought my father another fifteen years of life. It was priceless. I would have given it all again—and more, if I could—to buy him another fifteen. But that option never returned.

Life’s up. No more hearts. Game over.

This wake-up call became both a test and a blessing. I threw away the recipe and spent years flitting in and out of contract jobs, and lived most days on the road. I still look back fondly on those times. My heart warmed; my lips curled.

I was meant to travel, to explore, to get lost, to wander, and to wonder. I was meant to be a vagabond. Or so I thought, until I found myself making a home in a foreign country and even having children.

My partner and I met on the road. In time, my path shifted, and with him I found a home—a place to settle for a while and start a family. Some days, I still wonder about the path we chose; I still ache, now and then, for my carefree vagabond days.

But if you ask me, would I do it all over again? Yes—and yes a thousand times over.

I would cross the oceans, learn a new language, and navigate a foreign land to be with him. I would be a lonely first-time mother out of my element, enduring night after night of sleeplessness and long hours of breastfeeding, just to look into those little trusting eyes. All over again.

The days were long, but the years were short. They still are, though they seem to grow shorter and shorter.

What is it you plan to do with your one wild and precious life?

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After meditating on connection and its meaning, I now turn to how it lives in practice—being here now, being there then, always having been somewhere at some point in time.

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In an age of constant connection at our fingertips, your attention wanders before you notice it.

Everyday rituals slip by—the sound of the trickling coffee, the smell rising before the first sip. The crisp morning air on the way to work, the cold wind caressing your cheeks.

Precious moments go unnoticed—your child’s eyes widening as they remember once again that purple is their favourite, not pink. Their small finger curled around your wrist, warm and impossibly soft, as they seek your full attention.

You’ve spent too much time being elsewhere without realizing what you have traded it for.

Are you there?

***

Country roads,

Take me home,

to the place

I belong…

- John Denver

You first heard the song as a young child, back when it was just an easy sing-along. Its meaning surfaced only years later—after trying, again and again, to make a home in places that seemed like it could be it, but felt wrong after.

So you kept moving, farther and farther from home. You searched across the world, wandering, looking, never setting root.

And even as you went full circle and came back via all the country roads to where you came from, to mountain mama, to the rolling hills hugging your rain-drenched town, you realized it was not what you thought it was anymore.

Sometimes what you long for, when the music rolls with “to the place I belong”, isn’t a place, but a time. A feeling that once seemed whole. Or an idea that never was and never could be.

Are you still there?

***

The internet provides a constant connection to your loved ones wherever you are. It is but a ghostly connection.

You are always there. But are you?

Your first encounter with deliberate disconnection was when you hit the road for the first time.

You had long been scrolling aimlessly through Facebook feeds and tweeting your thoughts in 140 characters. Instagram was a newly discovered indie tool, and WhatsApp was a second home.

You were told there would be no running water or internet for the next two weeks on the road in Mongolia. Your eyes went wide, not for the lack of water, but the loss of connection.

After a week without a shower, you and your travel companions sighed with relief from the gushing cold water. But as you took out your phone on your return to Ulanbataar at the end of the trip, it felt heavier than you remembered.

Another time of disconnection was during your 10-day Vipassana meditation retreat. The loss of connection was surprisingly not missed by anyone.

It was liberating. It was displacing. It was also comforting. Life goes on—with or without you.

Sometimes you have to disconnect to reconnect.

You are not there. But when you are back, you will be all there.

***

Yesterday evening, someone lit a small bonfire in front of my son’s school. We had just walked the neighbourhood with lanterns in our hands for St. Martin’s day1—children, parents, and teachers all together like little stars wandering the earth.

We halted at the fire, mid-track, marching to the Glühwein stand. It crackled in the dark, drawing us in. Even my boisterous three-year-old stood still beside me.

There’s something about fire.

Fire has gathered us time and time again—at a camp in France, by a hut in the Black Forest, on Pulau Sembilan beach in Malaysia, and in a living room in Harrismith, South Africa.

Fire soothes the way nature does. It reaches into something older—rooted in our blood, carried by those who came before us.

It grounds us. Brings us back to now.

A fire, offering safety with warmth and light, speaks in a language older than words.

We’ve always gathered around it—to celebrate, to contemplate, and to connect—as those before us did, beneath the same moon.

We were there then. We are still there.

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I remember a night, many lives ago, somewhere in Cambodia. I pushed the wedged lime into the bottle and watched the fizzy sparkle of Corona beer rise, catching the dim orange bar light.

The stranger-turned-friend for the evening sat across from me, his deep-set eyes twinkling, his faint stubble moving slightly on his sun-warmed skin as he raised his Corona to his lips.

The evening stretched into the night, full of conversations ranging from life’s anecdotes to the secrets of the universe.

The time to leave came unannounced, and he graciously walked me back to my hostel. I remember his silhouette under the flickering orange lamp, giving me a wave as I looked back one last time before entering the building.

The Chinese have a term called 缘分 (jyun fan).

Jyun is the predestined affinity between people—the invisible thread that ties two lives at the right time and the right place. It’s the uncanny event where two people come together at the same time and place, with the same wavelength to connect.

Fan is the share of destiny—the thread that binds—the measure of how long and how deeply it will hold.

Jyun can bring connections during a cramped five-hour plane ride, under dim bar lights, or in a few whirlwind adventure days. However it starts, they carry the same urgency—to reach across and connect as deeply as possible before it’s over.

They are brief, yet meaningful—leaving one changed permanently in the subtlest way. They add patterns to the tapestry of life.

But jyun is also the force that brought you to whom and where you were born—the cosmic connective tissue of relationships.

It’s the familiar voice at the wake-up morning call. The knowing glance as we come up to no good. The surrendering smile at our hundredth mischief. The hug that carries the warmth of a thousand hugs.

And fan is the force that made them lifelong connections—some given, some chosen. They are the original patterns in the tapestry of birth, and those we have chosen to weave in continuously through life.

They give you a sense of self. They are the proof that you are you; you are here, you are something to someone, and you are a melody in someone’s life’s music.

I remember the light filtering through the grilled window, gliding over the marble tiles, where stones of different shapes and sizes—black, pink, and gold—were lodged within each large slab. I marveled at their uniqueness as I lay on the cool marble, letting it draw the day’s heat from my body.

Despite their individuality, they were all connected within the larger marbles that came together to form the floor of my tiny house.

I remember the rustle of willow leaves in the wind, bending over, caressing the shimmering lake under the relentless sun. The heat burned my skin, the damp clung to it, unsoothing. I remember the smell of the asphalt after a brief rainstorm, and the fog hanging low in the surrounding mountain range, like a blanket fort in bed.

The wind carried the clouds; they fell as rain, filling the lake, and the heat lifted it all back into the sky. Everything was connected. And the little girl could only marvel at each turn of nature’s wonder.

I remember the rumble of the train and the hard wooden bench beneath me, rocking gently left and right like a cradle. The train chugged through the countryside, the engine roaring past paddy fields and coconut trees. The wind whistled through the half-open windows, which slid neither up nor down. I remember two French men sitting across the aisle from us, looking as out of place as we were.

Why were we seated here together among the locals in this long train, rolling through Myanmar? Did the ticket seller plan it? Was it a coincidence? We would never know. But for that time in that contained carriage, we were connected—plunging toward the same destination.

I remember zipping down my tiny tent perched on the precipice of Drakensberg, and being greeted in awe by a stretch of purple, pink, blue, and gold swirls splashed across the black sky—the Milky Way. I remember dragging my sleeping bag out into the open—the same one that had gone up to the highest pass in Nepal and back with me—searching for a flat rock to lay it on. I remember lying in there, snug, the rocks pinching my back, my heart held warm with the wonder above me.

I was propelled across time and space, back to before existence and far forward beyond it. We are but one pulse in this vast universe. We are part of this fabric of what we call reality. We are connected to this network of life, of energy—the cosmos.

“The cosmos is within us. We are made of star-stuff. We are a way for the cosmos to know itself.” - Carl Sagan.

I remember my son flailing his slender newborn arms, his mouth pecking blindly against my breasts, searching for the source of milk. The warmth of his skin on mine, the slow rise and fall of his breath, the sudden twitch of his legs. I remember his face after feeding, eyes barely open, the lips curved faintly in imitation of a smile.

I held him close and wondered, have I been here before? Was I the mother or the child? We are connected.

I remember my father lying on the bed, looking frailer than I have ever known him; the COVID year had not been easy on him. His cheeks were sunken, his neck unnaturally long, his eyebrows casting shadows over his dark, hollow eyes. I held his arm, the green and purple veins visible through his thin skin, branching like roots. Words piled up like a derailed train in my throat. None came.

After the long struggle to bring him home, the time for him to leave had come. I remember his body lying there, softly visible in the dim orange light of the room, giving no more sign of life, as I checked on him one last time before leaving the room to tell everyone.

Connected Essays

We rescued a burung pipit once—a Eurasian tree sparrow, ubiquitous in Malaysia, especially in our small town, where daily rain kept the surrounding mountains lush.

You’ll find them chirping in chorus among trees, perching on parked cars, skipping through blades of cow grasses, teetering on electrical wires, and pecking at leftover rice and noodles on hawker centre tables. Usually, you’ll hear the frantic flap of their wings as they dart away before you can get a good look at them, a speck of brown blurring into the distance.

This particular sparrow, however, did not fall from a tree. It fell from a nest that its mother, against nature, built at a narrow slit below the zinc roof of our porch, sprawled on the cold tiles, still raw-looking like all newborns do, pink with translucent skin, clearly not of this world. Not yet. Our eternal tropical heat hung around, clinging to our damp skin.

My sister was the one who found it and alerted me with a loud, frantic call. When I first laid my eyes on it, my maternal instinct kicked in—if you can call it that for a girl just entering puberty. I resolved to rescue this bird at all costs.

I briefly considered if we could sneak it back into the nest above, a tangle of sticks and straws poking out from under the roof. I heard once that when a fallen bird is returned to its nest, the mother won’t embrace it—the taint of foreign scent marking it as an other. It might have been a myth, but at that time, I was so sure of it that I knew I had to become its mother.

I took her into our verandah, a tiled space extending from our living room through the sliding door into the porch, enclosed by a tall metal grill from floor to ceiling, meant to keep danger out, though it always felt more like it was keeping us in. I hesitated to lay her fragile naked body on the shoe rack at the end of the wall.

Then, the idea came to me—I would make her a little house out of paper. My Ah Ma had taught me how to fold an origami open box, which she used at the table for food scraps like prawn shells and peanut husks. It was her clever way to wash less and clean up more easily.1

After deftly folding one, I laid my new baby in the cozy makeshift home. I fed her some water with a teaspoon, and it seemed to work. But she kept squeaking, head cocked and beak wide open. I’d seen that gesture before—on documentaries, when chicks begged for food from their mother, usually worms. But I'm not going to get some worms, I'm too domesticated for that.

I rummaged through the kitchen and settled on an oat biscuit, smashing it into soft, sticky clumps. Using a toothpick like a mother bird’s beak, I fed her.

It worked! The baby bird ate some and seemed very contented. I was so proud of myself.

I named her Tweety, after the yellow bird in a cartoon of its namesake. I’d long told people that it was my favorite cartoon character, though I’m not sure I ever liked it that much. But once claimed, I held onto it stubbornly. So the baby sparrow became Tweety.

Tweety grew steadily as days went by. She began climbing out of her paper house and hopped around the table. As days turned to weeks, she expanded her range to our sofa and the armchairs, claiming the living room one launch at a time. Much to my mother’s horror, Tweety left droppings everywhere. So, I covered the sofa and armchairs with newspapers.

I watched her with pride and fascination as she grew stronger each day, unfolding into a grown bird.

By then, my father got tired of shuffling newspapers to find a spot on the sofa, rather than reading them in peace. He came back with a metal cage, the size of a large tissue box. I never knew where he got it from—clearly custom-made by hand, no doubt recently, with twisted wires.

He grabbed Tweety and tried to shove her through the opening at the top, and poor Tweety, I've never seen her in such a grave panic, flapping her wings frantically as if she were drowning. I leapt up, screaming, and put a stop to my father’s attempt. The cage was promptly taken away and was never to be seen again.

And so, Tweety continued her escapades around the living room unabated. I continued as a proud mama— fed her with my toothpick beak, filled the dish with water, and refreshed the newspapers daily.

One day, as I was sitting there half reading, half watching Tweety hop-fly around, I sensed a shift in her. She was standing on the coffee table, back straight and looking out of our sliding door into the verandah and beyond. I looked in that direction and saw another Eurasian sparrow perched on our verandah grill. My eyes darted back to Tweety, who, at that moment, chirped and zipped off with the sparrow, the air still humming with the beat of her wings.

And with that, Tweety was gone. Without a goodbye. Without a backward glance.

I sat there for a while, stunned at first, and grieved the next. For a foolish instant, I believed that Tweety would return after a short outing, but I knew there was no way she could find her way back.

Would she even remember me?

I then consoled myself that she had found her companion and would now live a happy and fulfilling birdy life. And that it was for the best. A living room is not a life for a bird.

But would she know how to survive in the wild? In my foolish young love, I had not thought to teach her the true bird ways. How would she find food? Would she even eat worms? How would she find shelter? I can only hope her newfound friend, or maybe even a community, would aid her.

Maybe this is how we all deal with love and loss. Maybe this is how we grieve.

We gave all when we could, nourishing and nurturing our love when they needed us, but also ensuring their freedom at all costs. And someday, when the time has passed, our loved one may move on or may have changed.

Grief may keep us clinging to the hope they’ll return to as they were, but at some point, acceptance arrives. That part of life has passed, and now a new one begins.

It helps to stay positive and trust that it’s for the better. And when doubts creep in about whether we did enough with the time we had, there’s comfort in knowing we gave our best.

In time, we move on to something new, something different. That's the natural course of things.

Many months later, I was once again sitting on the armchair, reading on a typical hot, humid day. The birds chirped in choruses, the wind rustled the leaves, and the sunlight trickled in through our half-opened sliding door, casting a kaleidoscope of shadows on the cool marble floor.

A sudden flutter broke the air, loud and purposeful. My heart skipped a beat as I looked up. Tweety perched on the verandah grill, almost at the exact spot where her companion was.

The moment stood still—the sounds dimmed, the light intensified, and the bars of the grill faded into the background.

She looked me in the eyes, as if to tell me something. But before I could respond, she fluttered away. Again.

I smiled and said in my heart, “You're welcome.”

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When I first learned to read, I was at a time in my life when I needed to escape from where I was. With a flip of a book cover, I could escape into the snowy Alps with Heidi, or explore the magical land above the magic faraway tree, or float along with James and his friends atop a giant peach.

I am not the only one who escaped into the world of books when I was young; they have long been a refuge for others. Many protagonists I’ve read do the same, and in those moments, I felt connected to them—like Matilda, in the book of the same name by Roald Dahl.

Although I didn’t teach myself to read or walk to the library in secret like Matilda, I did something similar. After learning to read in Kindergarten (bless the teachers), I pestered my mother to take me there, usually on weekends when she had a bit of time off from her full-time job.

It’s only a 5-minute drive—pass the Chinese cemetery, and then through stooping raintrees over quiet roads along glistening lakes—to the Lake Garden, where the library is located.

If I had not been scared so much about never walking out of the house alone—more scared of the living than the dead—I might have walked there daily, just like Matilda.

I recall my first time entering the library —a neoclassical colonial bungalow built in 1880.

The building stood tall as I approached, with columns supporting a high-ceilinged verandah featuring arched openings. The wide eaves and elevated structure allowed natural airflow, offering relief from the tropical heat.

Pushing through the large, heavy wooden door felt like entering a secret place. Inside, always cool and calm, with ceilings as high as the sky, and space as wide as the fields, it was a sanctuary.

The librarian greeted me from behind a formidable desk; she held the power to choose which magic I could take with me home. Initially, she ushered me to the young children's section, where the shelves were lower and a carpet invited us to sit and read.

But once I had exhausted the books from that area—particularly all the Enid Blyton books—I ventured out and traversed the rows and rows of books, giddy with the prospect of discovering a treasure.

As I roamed, I noticed a slim, green-covered book at the end of one of the endless bookshelves, its edges tattered and worn, the pages brown. It was The Lord of the Flies, and I don’t remember what compelled me to borrow it. Nobody questioned if I was old enough for it, and it haunted me long after I had read it.

It was undoubtedly a masterful work. Its words held power beyond my young understanding, and they altered who I was forever. Its effect still reverberates in my mind.

And that is the magic of words. The magic of literature. And that is why I write.

I write to make magic. To change minds. To communicate. To connect.

I write to connect with my innermost self, to allow the subconscious to speak and the conscious to listen. Some beliefs may no longer serve us—outdated views, assumed truths, inherited patterns. Writing lays bare the soul, reveals the mind’s workings, and rewrites the deep operating system of the self. A kind of mental defragmentation. A reconstruction of the beliefs that shape us.

I write because I must. My mind has filled with words, rising like mountains ever since I learned to read. If I don’t let them out, they’ll erupt like a volcano, laying destruction in their wake. Writing opens up space within the mountain, letting words flow like waterfalls, sometimes gushing, sometimes trickling, constantly flowing into a glistening lake, then onward through rivers of consciousness, into the ocean of the universe.

This is why I write

I write for the ancestors, long gone—a belated letter of sorts. Somehow, somewhere, they would receive it, in ways we cannot perceive. There is still so much we do not know about this world, this universe.

I write for my parents, dead and alive, even if they would not or could not read it. And even if they do, they might not understand, but I write for them anyway.

I write for my children, so they would know who their mother is, and where they ultimately come from and are shaped by.

I write for you so that something in my words might resonate with you. Although only we can truly know ourselves, I hope we feel a little less alone and a little more understood.

It’s an invitation. The writer is saying to the reader, “Come along with me while I tell you a few things and explore a few ideas.” The writer is saying, “Come a little closer and I’ll confide in you about a few things.”

The hope is those confidences will inspire the reader to unearth some of his own feelings or insights. - Meghan Daum, via The Marginalian

I also write to myself. To the girl I was, so she sees how far she’s come. To the woman I will become, so she remembers where she came from.

This is why I write.

Storytelling, as Ursula Le Guin reminds us, is how we find our place in the world.

Storytelling is a tool for knowing who we are and what we want, too. If we never find our experience described in poetry or stories, we assume that our experience is insignificant

And so we keep on writing, paying attention, observing, contemplating, and making sense of things, and communicating them to others.

This is how we tell stories of ourselves, create memories, and sometimes, make a difference in someone else's life.

We write to feel less lonely, more significant. We write to be present in the world, with others, and with ourselves. We write to live more consciously.

Thank you for reading Conscious Living, where we explore how to live intentionally in the present while connecting with our past, the people around us, and the world at large.

This essay took longer than expected—notwithstanding a family holiday in between—but also because I challenged myself with ’s fantastic writing intensive on The Power of Place. ’s post Hometowns also inspired me to dig deeper into where we came from, though I’ve only scratched the surface here.

And thus this little ode was born. I hope you’ll enjoy it.

Consciously yours,
Rachel

We knew no other place than this, where the blue and orange light of dawn peeks through the surrounding dark purple hills, piercing the thick fog left behind by the humid tropical night, where ancestors still search for their descendants, descendants who no longer remember them.

Cows moan, frogs croak, and insects hum through the night. The chorus ceases when the lorry rumbles to start its day of toil, and the rooster jumps onto the rusty wire fence and crows, and crows, and crows.

The midday heat ushers everyone indoors, into the safety of shade—the day hits the pause button for a brief intermission.

Every afternoon, rain pours from voluminous clouds crashing into the surrounding hills, like a velvet curtain falling after a show.

The rain stops as suddenly as it comes. Heat turns to steam. The scent of earth and asphalt rises. The raintown exhaled.

Our town was dug out of the tin ore rush in the 1850s, as droves of Chinese poured in, chasing promises of wealth and fortune—our grandfathers amongst them. The culmination of this frenzy was the infamous Ghee Hin and Hai San feud during the Larut wars. The British saw the opening, marched in under the guise of restoring peace, and planted their Union Jack on the tin mines instead.

They named it Taiping (太平)—Great Peace. Whether in irony or hope, we never knew.

A century later, once the ore had all been mined and traded, and the town had passed its peak prosperity, the miners moved south to Ipoh’s new mines or died of old age, leaving behind vast dugout pits. Nature reclaimed them with water, dissolving all traces of greed, transforming them into lakes.

Now, rain trees bow over as if clawing their way to the water. Lotus flowers bloom during the drier part of the year on ponds like a pink blanket. Lush trees flank the meandering paths.

White egrets, once only passing through, now settle in this paradise, occasionally fluttering their wings and startling the stillness with an occasional squawk.

The water is still and calm, so still that if you stand on one of its Chinese-inspired bridges, you’ll see red, white, and orange koi swimming in it, oversized from the generous feeding from visitors.

Peace reigns in this place, known to us as Lake Garden, quietly fulfilling the town’s name.

Walk down any of its roads and you will reach the heart of the town, where gridded rows of colonial shophouses blend Chinese and British architecture.

High shuttered windows adorn narrow double-storey shops, wedged so close they’ll collapse without one another. The rows of shops, with darkened masonry walls and crumbling tiled roofs, were sliced off at both ends like a block of bread.

The clock tower, whose bell never tolled, stands at the center—a sentry still keeping watch long after the hands that raised it had gone.

We are the forgotten town that helped build northern Peninsular Malaysia into the modern, thriving land it is today.

We had the first train station in the country, but hardly anyone disembarks here, not on their journey between the cities—Kuala Lumpur, Ipoh, and Penang. Having been mined to emptiness before its neighbors, the British left for good before it ever had the chance to be declared a city.

Still, we pay taxes on every sen earned to stand in the disappearing valley of a town that becomes the ghost of our success.

Our lawns are tiled for convenience, sometimes with a patch of grass we call a garden, but nothing ever grows, and nobody ever lingers.

Every house has a Proton or a Perodua, sometimes a Toyota or a Honda—one parked on the porch, another out on the curb by the gate. Beside it stands a metal contraption cradling an oversized plastic tong stuffed with garbage.

Once a week, the lori sampah clatters by and empties them with a sharp clang, leaving behind a sour decay that lingers for hours until the rain washes it away, and the children come out to play, between rows of slim, high-ceilinged houses. Hot air escapes through its open slatted vents above, like a thief in the night.

It’s a town where teenagers, having nowhere to go on Friday nights, ride their motorbikes to the memorial cemetery, a graveyard of stones for Allied soldiers from a war no one remembers, among strangers who no longer know them, and will never know them.

In this dark soulless place they idle, smoke some, and talk over one another in multiple dialects, blasting “Iris” or “Hoi Fut Tin Hung”, depending on their schools—the Chinese or the British1, until they look down one night and realize they’re thirty-something and have been plucked and planted in the megacity three hours south, still in a daze, wondering where the empty streets and unpeopled spaces have gone.

It’s where the older folks meet daily for kopi-o or cham-peng at the kopitiam with friends they’ve grown old with, each time quietly wondering who won’t be coming ever again, before sitting together in a row on red plastic chairs outside gold shops that never seem to sell a thing, along Jalan Taming Sari—the main road—to stare at the sky and bet on the exact moment the first drop of rain touches the ground.

It’s where those between the young and the old are not seen, because they are in the megacity earning money while their aging parents care for their carefree children.

And each morning, when the heavy fog finally settles, forgotten laundry hanging outside now wetter than it was the night before, the elderly amble to the morning market, while the school buses shuttle the children from home to schools dictated by the past.

And as the days pile into years, you’d cook and clean, the children would learn and play, until they, too, are gone, just as you were about to leave this world. Then your children would slowly return to sit in your empty rattan rocking chair, reveling in their childhood peace until their children send theirs back.

The cycle renews itself. That town.

And that town is ever there in the valley, a midwife and a keeper, ever receiving, ever raining.

It is where we came from. It is where we left. It is where we shall return.

I’d love to hear from you: what place holds your memories, your leaving, and possibly your return?

And if you enjoyed this kind of immersive personal essay that explores the intersection of memory and how it shapes our present, consider—

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Sakura always reminds me to pause—to be awed by the quiet beauty of life. And in that same breath, it clutches my heart, whispering the futility of holding on to any of it. - my Note

It embodies the beauty of life and the sense that it is all worth it—the slow, patient growth from seed to tree, the wait in dormancy all year, and the brief moment of glory before shedding all its petals like gossamer in the wind1.

The Sakura tree and its glorious yet fleeting bloom embody both lightness and heaviness.

This reminded me of Kundera's novel The Unbearable Lightness of Being. During one of our long conversations about the meaning of life, a friend in the Philippines implored me to read it. With the urgency of an impending assignment, I sought out the book immediately and consumed it.

The novel was my first foray into the world of philosophical fiction. I absorbed many ideas and terms—kitsch, the eternal return, vertigo—but the message that got me most was: Why live and strive for meaning when it is all so fleeting and never to return? Or should we live because of it?

Lightness, like the Sakura bloom, brings us beauty, sweetness, and all the pleasures in life.

Heaviness is the tree itself, ever connected to its roots, standing tall after so many years of slow growth and waiting patiently for its yearly bloom.

I value freedom. As Kundera explored in his novel, it represents lightness—freedom from society’s expectations, rules, laws, and systems. But it is also physical—a freedom not rooted to a place or attached to a person, transcending space and perhaps time without limits.

Then again, I also value love and connection, which represent heaviness.

Can one have a connection with oneself and others while maintaining one's freedom?

To an extent, possibly.

I am now bound by my obligations as a mother and wife, but the freedom to choose remains. Or not? Can I drop everything now and go for a one-month backpacking trip somewhere alone?

In theory, I can, but the consequences are significant. A mom’s guilt cannot be underestimated. So no, not really. I have tethered myself—consciously—by love.

As Kundera asked, “Muss es sein?” (Must it be?) In my freedom, I once felt light. But now, tethered by love, I answer, “Es muss sein” (It must be).

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When I traveled alone, I was truly happy with the freedom, the lightness of life, akin to Sabina in the novel, who embraced freedom as a rebellion—a refusal to be fixed in a place or defined by others' expectations. And like her, I, too, found liberation in anonymity, adventure, exploration, and brief but vivid connections with strangers.

I forged real connections with some travelers on the road. At the same time, I learned to bid them farewell and wish them a good life when it was time to part, shedding attachment but holding on to our shared memories as an everlasting imprint.

Even though all things in life are transitory in the cosmic view, some are lighter and some are heavier. Some are light, like a chance encounter on the road. Others are heavy, like a lifetime with biological family, lifelong friends, a partner, or children.

Light in time does not mean light in meaning. A deep connection formed by chance may leave a more lasting imprint than a fragile bond that spans a lifetime.

Those travelers I connected with changed me subtly, in ways I don't always realize, and I, too, may have changed them in ways I'll never know. I carry a part of them with me, no matter how small. And they, too, carry me now all over the world. And with time, by the virtue of compounding, the impact would not have been insignificant.

With our life partners and children, our impact on them is markedly more profound, and no doubt more apparent.

The voices of my ancestors echoed through the core beliefs I hold. As much as I try to sift through them, choosing what to pass on and what to leave behind, I know I will inevitably take part in shaping the core beliefs my children will come to carry.

And like those ancestral whispers, my mark will outlive me, perhaps altered, perhaps faint—carried on through generations by bloodlines and connections.

This is where heaviness comes in. Our lives can be heavy despite their lightness.

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Conscious living seems light at first glance. Being mindful of every moment seems light, as we all know how quickly the moment passes.

Being conscious is about living in the now. The past has gone, and the future has yet to come.

Our human nature of holding on to the past and looking to the future is our attempt to make our light, fragile life heavy.

But if we live only in the now, doesn't that make the now eternal? Instead of living in the past or the future, we are always in the now that will ever be.

And what is that if not heavy?

We can live consciously in lightness by appreciating every transitory beauty—a chance encounter, a Sakura in bloom, a journey without destination, a quiet rebellion against systems, dogmas, and social chains.

But we can also live consciously in heaviness by valuing genuine connections, practicing compassion, and spreading genuine love, knowing that all the impressions we leave behind may last long after we are gone.

Even the most ancient trees are transitory, yet they represent heaviness. Touching a few thousand-year-old cedar tree in Yakushima, Japan, as the four-day rain relentlessly poured on us, I communed with humanity’s distant ancestors from millennia ago.

For a brief moment of lightness, I became heavy.

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                                                                     1.

We think we know ourselves, but we don’t. Not really. The irony is—we’re the only ones who can. This is how lonely a human life can be.

So we must try to understand ourselves more deeply—because if we don’t, no one else stands a chance of truly knowing us.

“Go into yourself and see how deep the place is from which your life flows” - Rilke, Letters to a Young Poet.

Perhaps this is one of our life’s main tasks.

                                                                     2.

Why does my body freeze when I hear my children cry and scream?

I was reprimanded for crying as a child. It was seen as a weakness, as something that made others uncomfortable. So I became the strong one—the one who doesn’t cry, not even in grief.

These reactions aren’t just habits. They are echoes of our earliest lessons absorbed long before we had words for them. What began as a way to stay safe and be loved becomes something deeper: a core belief. In psychology, core beliefs are the unconscious truths we adopt about ourselves, others, and the world.

That’s why I struggle with what success means.

That’s why I feel the need to be right and to be heard.

That’s why I fiercely protect my agency and autonomy.

That is why I am eternally seeking that elusive freedom.

                                                                     3.

Life seems to move in a straight-line story plot like mine—from childhood to working adulthood, then I broke free to travel the world with my trusty backpack, met the love of my life, and now spend most of my time nurturing two young ones.

But it is more like an eternal loop from what we were to what we are now. Subconsciously, we are constantly pulled back to where we came from, regardless of how far we have grown or believe we have changed.

We are like branches, ever reaching for the sun and stretching far and beyond, yet ultimately, we are still connected to the trunk and the roots where we all started. And those earliest roots? They’re often the strongest.

                                                                     4.

Some scientists believe that our core beliefs are set and unchangeable once formed. This has since been debunked. Thanks to neuroscience and studies in neuroplasticity, we now know that the brain can change throughout life, including patterns, habits, and core beliefs.

Changing deeply rooted core beliefs is more challenging, but it is still possible with conscious effort.

I have seen myself transformed. When I was young, money was scarce and the source of many of our problems, causing the formation of a core belief—money is the answer to everything, the source of happiness. Spoiler alert: It is not.

Luckily, I learned this early on when I started earning more than I could spend during my career as an independent tech consultant. My bank account grew, but nothing else changed. I still lived simply, still found joy in small things.

Watching one of my core beliefs fall apart under the spotlight was unsettling.

But I won’t sugarcoat this: money is essential—to a point. Without it, the weight of survival overshadows everything else. I’m not speaking of abundance, but of the dignity that comes with self-sufficiency.

                                                                     5.

I’ve spent a good part of my life trying to understand myself.

A decade ago, during a season of soul-searching, I dove into philosophy, personality theories, and late-night journaling, asking the big question: Who am I, really?

That was when I discovered the MBTI and true to type, I became mildly obsessed. As an INTP—often called “The Thinker”—I analyzed myself and everyone around me. I tried other personality tests too, always curious to find new perspectives on who I am.

And yet, even after all these tests and going down countless rabbit holes, I still find parts of me that I’ve never noticed before.

In a recent leadership training, we began by looking inward—back to where it all began. Despite having exercised my self-reflection muscles, it was still hard.

Each time we trace a root, we see how deep it runs—and how it has shaped the trunk and the branches above.

It is when we recognize one of the core beliefs we’ve unknowingly carried all this time, we reclaim the power to choose how to use it.

                                                                     6.

One of my core beliefs is that I am strong and must protect my freedom at all costs.

When I was an infant, I was given to a nanny at just two months old. While I was still adjusting to a new caregiver, I was passed on again—this time to my Lai Ma, who thankfully took me under her wing until I was five. After that, I was once again removed from my primary caregiver and had to adapt to a new environment with my biological family.

These events shaped me into who I am—an independent person who fiercely protects her agency and freedom.

This belief buoyed me as I moved abroad, learned a new language, and created a new life here while navigating motherhood far away from my family and closest friends.

I pushed through not speaking the language at first, on multiple rejections and mounting bureaucracy, getting only a cold meal of bread and cheese after 20 hours of labor and endless nights with a crying baby.

“If you want to survive in this world, you gotta do it yourself,” said the little me, hugging her comfort pillow tight while curled up under the blanket.

This core belief, though, has many limiting qualities. I find it extremely difficult to ask for help, and I find it challenging to commit to things that would threaten my sovereignty and freedom.

Two years ago, after being sick for more than four weeks, having woken up from a fitful sleep on a Saturday did I crawl out to my husband asking him to get his sister to help. That took all of me to say I needed to rest and recuperate.

                                                                     7.

One exercise in the same training is to find the opposite of your core belief. When you write it or speak it out, it should make you squirm. And if you're lucky, you might stumble upon a Sehnsucht feeling—a longing for something that gives you angst, but you kind of wish you had it or even wanted it.

It is like a path in a beautiful, mysterious forest you never took but often dreamt about.

All my life, I’ve equated freedom with safety. But Sehnsucht showed me another kind—the longing to be lost, to belong without needing to fight to keep it.

I experienced all that during my traveling days, letting go of control and exploring the unknown, including not needing to achieve anything and just being. That said, I still clung to one thing—my freedom. I kept my passport close, tucked in a travel waist pack like it was the most valuable thing on earth.

                                                                     8.

I see now why motherhood is a contradiction to me.

Being a mother requires humility. It requires admitting that you cannot do it alone, not if you want to do it well without breaking.

Being a mother means losing a certain amount of freedom. You are tethered now. Life is no longer just your own.

Being a mother requires letting go of a certain amount of carefreeness. But it also requires relinquishing control.

“They (your children) come through you but not from you, And though they are with you yet they belong not to you” - Khalil Gibran, On Children.

                                                                     9.

We may not be able to pull out our roots—doing so might topple the tree.

But we can learn to live with them, recognize when they serve or limit us, and choose our reactions accordingly.

It is about leaving the well-trodden path when needed and forging a new one through the beautiful, mysterious forest. It won't be easy, but it will be worth it.

This is the lifelong work of becoming. This is the way of conscious living.

Ironically, Carl Jung, who inspired MBTI, a tool that neatly fits everyone into boxes, deeply believed in transcendence and transformation—the journey beyond labels and towards discovering one's whole self.

“The privilege of a lifetime is to become who you truly are.” - Carl Jung in Memories, Dreams, Reflections.

And hopefully, one day, we’ll see the tree flourish—still rooted, but branching into the whole self.

If you're interested in the methods on how to determine your core beliefs, reflect on how they have brought you to where you are and how they are now still serving or limiting you today, and how to walk the uncharted path through your own beautiful, mysterious forest, look out for next week’s Conscious Living Practice 🙂

What core belief have you embraced—and is it still serving you?

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This was my very first post when I started this newsletter with exactly two readers—my partner and my best friend, whom I added myself. Now that we have some new readers here (thank you for subscribing!), I’d love to share it again. I’m still in search of awe myself, and I invite you to join me.

When we were young, life was a constant wonder, and filled with awe through the discovery of many new things about the world in our immediate environment. As we grew older, the sense of wonder diminished, and so did our experience of awe.

In my early twenties, I didn't realize I had been missing the experience of awe for a long time. My focus was solely on completing my undergraduate studies and finding immediate employment, influenced by my Chinese-Malaysian upbringing.

While navigating the rat race, contemplating climbing the career ladder, deciding against it, and becoming an independent contractor, I lost touch with awe. I was also in an unhappy relationship that did not align with my true self then, and I myself had almost forgotten who I was.

Then, an opportunity presented itself - a three-month contract work in the Philippines - just what I needed. I was plucked out of my “bubble” and plunged into the unknown, which, in retrospect, was not much of the unknown. It was, in fact, my desired way of life. It was how I would have wanted to live.

During my short stint in the Philippines, I lived a life filled with awe. The kindness and openness of the Filipinos, the untouched beauty of the sea and islands, obtaining my first diving certification, snorkeling endlessly under the sun, and sitting at the front of a sailing boat witnessing the sunset—all contributed to my encounters with awe.

These encounters with the sublime have awakened me and made me question my own paradigm, reflecting on how I have been living and perceiving the world through a narrow lens. I have come to realize how little I truly know and how limited my experiences have been.

I remember I was barely there for a week when I learned that my colleagues were going to swim with the whale sharks in Donsol the following weekend. I was momentarily discouraged that I had missed the opportunity, but no, Thessa, my first friend and colleague, invited me; in fact, she persuaded me to join them.

It didn't matter that there wasn't enough room for all of us to sleep, even without me, nor how we managed to add another person to the logistics. In the end, we made it, and I found myself swimming next to a giant whale shark, so large I dare not describe the size lest I have inflated it in my memory. The experience was an awe so profound that I found it difficult to put into words.

From this experience, I learned from the Filipinos that by caring for one another, we can overcome any obstacle and collectively embrace moments of awe, leading to deep and meaningful connections.

So what is awe or the sublime?

Awe is the feeling of something vast that transcends our understanding of the world, and a need for accommodation (meaning to how we make sense of and adjust to what we experience) - Dacher Keltner and Jonathan Haidt.

When I experience awe, my consciousness will be summoned into the moment, and I will experience everything in its heightened sense, and my contemplation of it will go into an overdrive. Then, there will be an overwhelming feeling coming from the center of my body, the feeling that I am not alone in this world, that I am small and the universe is large, and that somehow, even then, I don’t feel alone because we are all connected.

It is one of the most profound experiences one can have. It is the moment when we can briefly commune with the universe and return to the beginning or glimpse at the end of life.

What about the sublime? When I think of the sublime, I think of those moments of awe when I am struck by the beauty of nature, the wonders of the world, or the immensity of time.

Like the first time, I sat on a peak in the desert, staring into the horizon surrounded by golden sands in every direction. Or the time when I was lying alone in my sleeping bag somewhere atop the Drakensberg, staring up into the starry sky with the Milky Way stretching across it like a rainbow. It was also the time when I placed my palm upon a few-thousand-years-old cedar tree in Yakushima, sensing the span of time beyond any human life, communicating with those who had come before me seeking solace with this very same tree.

“The feeling of the sublime is at once a feeling of displeasure, arising from the inadequacy of imagination in the aesthetic estimation of magnitude to attain to its estimation of reason, and a simultaneous awakened pleasure, arising from this very judgment of the inadequacy of sense of being in accord with ideas of reason, so far as the effort to attain to these is for us a law.” - Kant

In essence, the feeling of the sublime involves a tension between our senses' inadequacy and our reason's capacity to comprehend the infinite or the immense. This tension leads to the so-called need for accommodation - we must redefine our thinking or realign how we live to accommodate this awakening.

The word for awe in German, “Ehrfurcht,” combines the notions of reverence (Verehrung) and fear (Furcht), encapsulating this profound feeling beautifully. There is this reverence for the sublime combined with a sense of fear, acknowledging that it surpasses our limited understanding.

Why do we need awe?

Brief experiences of awe will redefine the self in terms of the collective and orient our actions towards the interest of others or something other than the self. One cannot stare into the Milky Way and not feel that there is more than oneself. 

These brief encounters with the sublime have the power to spark wonder and curiosity within us. They serve as a reminder to maintain an open mind, welcome new experiences, and nurture lifelong learning.

The need for accommodation following encounters with awe or the sublime will help to shape us into a better person. It compels us to shed prejudices, expand our minds, and perceive things beyond our initial assumptions. It calls us toquestion our prejudgments and societal conditioning. Through this ongoing process of reflection and reevaluation, we continue to redefine ourselves to become our best selves.

Most importantly, I find that it is one of the catalysts to conscious living. The experience of awe brings us back to the present moment, calling our conscious mind into active engagement. It makes us aware of the here and now. The need for accommodation will further strengthen our conscious mind as it contemplates its place in the universe. 

Travel for awe

Traveling provides a fertile ground for encountering awe-inspiring moments. It takes us out of our comfort zones and familiar territories, immersing us in different systems and people whose lives and cultures often seem foreign to us. Yet, during close encounters with these people along the way, I have not only discovered our similarities, I was also met with consistent acts of kindness.

These awe-inspiring experiences have repeatedly reshaped my perspectives, leading me to firmly believe that at the core of humanity lies goodness. They have left me with a profound sense of connection to humankind and the world at large, transcending borders and cultures, languages, religions, and whatever that divides us.

In our travels, we often seek out the renowned wonders of the world, such as the so-called tourist attractions, but we also explore the unknown and the untrodden paths. Whether it’s marveling at the iconic pyramids in Egypt or discovering an obscure temple near Kampong Cham in Cambodia, both have the power to evoke awe.

How to find awe in everyday life

But not all of us can travel all the time, and not everyone desires to do so, although I personally wish I could. Fortunately, we can still find awe in our everyday lives as well.

There are many ways we can find awe in everyday life; one that is recommended by Dr. Kletner himself is to take an awe walk. This practice involves being mindful, taking deep breaths, removing distractions such as phones, and consciously attuning yourself to your surroundings.

By adopting this approach, one can actively seek out things that inspire awe, be it in a natural or urban environment. The key is to cultivate awareness and openness to the awe-inspiring moments that can be found anywhere.

Here are some more ideas or ways to find awe in our everyday life:

Take advantage of collective awe. Attend a concert of your favorite artist and join the collective joy with fellow fans. Alternatively, go to a congregation that resonates with your values and commune with like-minded people.

Look for a dark park or any spot away from urban light pollution, and enjoy some stargazing. Bring along a comfortable picnic mat and invite your loved ones to join you in contemplating the vastness of the universe.

Search for opportunities to witness sunrises or sunsets. You can embark on a rewarding hike to a peak and savor the view, or simply enjoy them from the comfort of your own home, gazing out of a window or balcony. When did you last enjoy a well-earned sunrise or relax after a long day with a mesmerizing sunset?

Look up the oldest tree in your area. Find it, touch it, and contemplate the countless individuals who have come and gone before you, as well as those who will follow, all connecting with this same ancient tree.

Do share the last time you experienced awe or if any of the above brings you to it!

If you have not read this:

As I mentioned in my previous letter, I have been back in my hometown celebrating Chinese New Year for the past few weeks. Though we’ve returned for a while, I’m still trying to pick up where I left off while juggling all the new things life is throwing my way. I hope to get back to my regular posting here soon—thanks for sticking around!

As a child, the highlight of Chinese New Year1 was receiving hong bao—red packets filled with money. We accepted them with grace, bowing slightly, hands clasped in the traditional greeting as we said, ‘Gung Hei Faat Coi!’—wishing you prosperity. Keeping a straight face, we tucked the packets away, showing neither excitement nor curiosity. But the moment we got home, we dashed to our rooms, eager to count our bounties in secret.

Growing up as a minority Chinese in Malaysia, Chinese New Year was more than just a festival—it was a symbol of my heritage. Each year, as February approached, preparations began in earnest for the celebration. Somehow, it never felt like the year had truly begun until we ushered in the Chinese New Year.

And, as with every celebration in our community, food was always at the heart of it.

I won't forget the scent of mandarin oranges lingering on my fingers after peeling yet another piece to eat. I kept the best of the peels for Ah Ma, my paternal grandmother, to dry on a large rattan dulang for weeks after under the hot Malaysian tropical sun.

Nor the sweet aroma of Ah Ma’s adzuki bean soup, boiled for hours with her self-dried mandarin peels, greeting me on Chor Yat, the first day of the new year. This was always followed by her fragrant fried Mee Hoon, generously packed with large prawns she peeled with care.

Nor the waft of oily richness rising from the dark, murky duck soup simmering in a deep stainless steel pot at my maternal grandmother Po Po’s house during Chor Yat lunch. The clang of a metal spatula against the cast iron wok echoed as my Po Po whipped up the loh hon chai, serving it last on a table already brimming with prosperous dishes.

I won't forget the fragrant buttery cookies melting in my mouth as I pop in yet another irresistible one. Only to regret later when I was presented with feasts during mealtime and found myself not hungry.

Nor the smoky, oily barbecue meat slices, long yok, sticking to my tongue and hands all greasy and sticky.

I won't forget the assault of flavors as we were served a roulette of gigantic plates of food during the Chinese reunion feast, specially prepared for the occasion: prosperity platter, steamed whole fish, giant prawns, roasted suckling pig, vegetables yam basket, and roasted whole chicken.

But Chinese New Year was more than just about food. It was about traditions—the customs that held us together, passed down through generations, shaping the way we celebrated.

In Malaysia, most Chinese families trace their roots to the southern region, and some customs from those areas are still observed today. However, many traditions have faded in my family—partly because my grandparents didn’t actively pass them down and partly because my parents didn’t continue them.

I won't forget the new dress collar scratching my neck and the sides pinching my ribs. The tropical sun offered no relief as we shuffled from house to house in stiff new clothes for pai nin—the customary New Year’s visit to family and friends.

Nor the gleeful anticipation of receiving hong baos mixed with the anxiety of facing 30 relatives, some of whom I saw only once a year, as they gathered at my Ah Ma’s house next door. The pressure was even greater because I had to address each elder by their proper title, based on rank, paternal or maternal side, blood relation, or marriage.

I won't forget the customary pai nin at Lai Ma and Lai Pa’s house. Sometimes, my god-siblings’ visit coincided with ours, filling the airy large home with laughter and excited chatter. In later years, my Lai Ma ushered me to her home-cooked celebration food-laden table in the solace of missing those of my grandmothers.

Nor the visits to one house after another on Chor Sam, the third day, with my friends. During my teenage years, my friends and I gathered enough older friends to chauffeur us around, fitting up to seven of us in four-seater sedan cars to pai nin each of our houses. Our parents waited expectantly at home for us girls to arrive to eat snacks, gamble, chit-chat, and, of course, receive hong bao from them.

At the same time, no celebrations will go by without some indulgent yet fun communal activities. Adrenaline, laughter, and raucousness filled my memories, too.

I won't forget the evenings that stretched on forever, with Formica tables unfolding in living rooms, adults surrounding them, happily rowdy and gambling with playing cards. Soon, the kids formed a circle on the floor to mimic them. Once I was old enough to join, my daddy offered me money to play: “If you win, it's yours; if you lose, it's mine.” I sulked like mad when I lost, nevertheless.

Nor the sound and light of firecrackers filling the neighborhood with mesmerizing fire sparklers in my hands. My older cousins threw Pop Pop, crackers the size of peas that popped loudly on impact, at us, the younger ones. I also watched them light bigger firecrackers that flew across the road or burst into flames with a bang.

But like all things in life, change is inevitable. As years passed, the people who visited dwindled, and the celebration muted.

Once Ah Ma left this world, the magnet that held us together was gone. A few relatives still came over out of habit, but after a few years, it too stopped. Then, my Po Po joined her, marking the end of my maternal side coming together.

My generation was not spared from disappearing, but in different ways. Some no longer return because their families have moved to the big city. Some return only every other year as they alternate with their spouses' homes. And some, like me, have moved far away.

This year, I returned with my family to celebrate this significant occasion—the first time for my children. I would be lying if I said I was giving them the same experience I had when I was young, but at least a few things remain.

Hong baos were still given out. We still had a reunion dinner with the relatives from my father’s side, albeit smaller, but enduring, with many of his siblings. A few friends who were still in Taiping came to visit. We went to Lai Ma and Lai Pa to pai nin, my oldest loved ones. My children got to meet my godbrother’s children. We went to a friend’s house to pai nin, a far cry from the heydays, but a window to it. Only gambling was missing; who has time with young children?

The Malaysian Government legalized fireworks again. We purchased approved, taxed firecrackers from the many industrious stalls that popped up all over town. I revel in seeing my children enjoying something from my childhood.

We also visited the lake garden, a highlight of my hometown. It felt surreal as my children sat on an aged, dull, dinosaur-carved stone. I had an exact picture of me sitting there when I was my son’s age, the dinosaur then shining bright.

I suppose this is how time passes—traditions slowly change, shifting from generation to generation.

My parents must have had their own version of Chinese New Year, just as I had mine. Now, I try to pass what I can to my children, even as the experience takes a different shape, especially since we live far away from home.

My children quickly learned the magic words to receive a hong bao. The moment one appeared before them, they clasped one hand over the other in the traditional Chinese greeting, smiled, and proudly declared, ‘Gung Hei Faat Coi!’ I couldn’t have felt prouder as a Chinese mother.

I watched as my son secretly opened all the hong baos in the room, counting the money he received with glee, and saw my young self mirrored back at me. I guess some things don't change.

More Malaysia musings and personal essays:

I've told this to a few people that I secretly wanted to impress. But I said that as much for myself, wanting to associate with a star. I wanted to be part of the cosmos, and this is how I do it.

It's been a while since I did stargazing, one of the most awe-inspiring activities. Finding a place dark enough to view them is getting harder in our urbanized world.

I would travel far for it. I would scale a mountain for it.

I once carried my sleeping bag out into the freezing open atop Drakensberg Mountain. I curled inside, with sharp rocks poking my back through the down feathers, my dilated pupils staring without blinking at the Milky Way that spanned across my dark horizon like a rainbow.

At that time, I was one with the universe. The chill ate its way into the core of my bones; my heart expanded in equal measure outward with warmth.

The stars have always filled me with wonder. Learning that we are made of stardust deepens it, reminding me we are all connected—you, me, and the infinite universe.

This thought never fails to remind me how small my problems are, how insignificant my ego is, and yet how eternal we have always been.

As you read this, you find yourself in the current form you thought you only knew. But you have come from everywhere in countless forms, and after this, you will disperse as such.

Yet, in this one fleeting and improbable life of ours, we can live in alignment with our current unique self and ultimately become what we want to be—our deepest desire.

Desire derives from the Latin for “without a star.” This makes me think of something missing in us—we long for it, we search for it, and then we strive towards it—our North Star1.

It is by wanting that we orient ourselves in the world, by finding and following our private North Star that we walk the path of becoming. - Octavia Butler via The Marginalian.

We must determine our guiding star to walk the path of becoming. On becoming who we want to be. Who we can ultimately be.

However, finding our star is usually not a straightforward path.

Looking back, I had wandered in the dark for a long time. When I started earning my keep, the quest to gain a lot of money consumed my life, burning along the way many important things in my life.

Thanks to a series of life-changing events, I quit my job and started traveling extensively. By following my heart, I emerged from the darkness. Along that path, I discovered conscious living, which cemented who I am today.

Yet, as much as travel brought me freedom, serendipity, and spontaneity—a significant part of my life—I sometimes felt like a boat adrift in the sea, carried by the waves of fate and chances.

What anchors us in a life so fleeting? How do we find meaning in this one short existence—smaller than a speck of dust, a mere blip in time?

“What can life be worth if the first rehearsal for life is life itself?” - Milan Kundera, The Unbearable Lightness of Being.

Finally, it was the grounding to earth, the looking inward, finding my values, and the connection to the people around me that gave me weight. The boat rocked less, steadied against the push and pull of tides and waves.

Life may feel like being lost at sea or adrift even when grounded, but sailing towards our North Star transforms this rehearsal of life into something real and meaningful.

“What makes the desert beautiful…is that somewhere it hides a well.” - Antoine de Saint-Exupéry, The Little Prince.

Somewhere along our journey lies our deepest desire—our becoming—waiting to be uncovered. And that, perhaps, is what makes life so beautiful.

Share your thoughts

What is your North Star? How did you discover it, or are you still searching?

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We batted the shuttlecock across my gate, using it as a makeshift net and also because I was not allowed to leave my house compound. But that did not matter, we made it work and we had a lot of fun; it might even be the first time I played badminton.

Later that evening, my mother came to me with a reprimanding gaze. An elderly neighbor from across the road had told her that I was playing with the Indian girl. My mother said I wasn’t to play with her again.

I remember asking her why, finding it totally unjustified. But she didn’t relent nor give me a satisfactory answer. I didn’t know what it meant then, but I felt it deeply—the sharp sting of being told to build a divide where I hadn’t seen one before.

She was “the other,” my mother seemed to say. I wasn’t meant to question it—I was simply forbidden to bridge the divide.

Was it because she had a different skin color than me? Because she spoke another language, though we had managed well enough in Malay, the lingua franca of Malaysia? Was it because her family had a different culture or religion than mine, though I didn’t belong to any religion at that time?

Only many years later would I find out the possible reason. Listening in on the adults’ conversation, I heard that her father had been abusive to her mother. Perhaps my parents thought they were protecting me. But the damage was done, I have tasted the bitterness of othering.

Now, I see similar invisible gates rising in the world around me. As the world recently divided over a big event that shall not be named, I felt myself swept along in the rhetoric.

Why would anyone agree to that? How can anyone accept that? What are these people thinking? The disconnection between me and these seemingly “other people” caused a chasm so wide I couldn’t hear my echo even if I screamed.

And that is the problem. The communication became one-sided, with thoughts coming only from me and those on my side of the valley.

Like the bubble I grew up in, I was shielded from the reality that I, too, was “the other”—until something came along and burst it. A rude awakening it was, but also very much needed.

Sooner or later, we all must face the world to see its true colors—a kaleidoscope of people with cultures, languages, and beliefs as varied, if not more, than the spectrum of colors, blending in endless, beautiful ways. Yet we all come from the same essence—the light.

“If I can see the goodness, if I can see that light, if I can see whatever ways that it manifests, if I can feel my care, on some level I can imagine and expand that sense of the goodness and mirror back. Become a mirror of goodness whenever you can cause it force it out of people….trust in it, there is real power in it.” - Tara Brach in The Sacred Work of Bridging Divides.

Later in life, I backpacked my way across the chasms of divide, carrying my heart on my sleeve and striving to be a mirror of goodness myself. Along the way, I met many good people from all walks of life, returning my echo.

With every interaction, I was reminded of something that the little girl inside me had always known—we are all the same. We are made of the same light.

But returning to daily life, I couldn’t ignore how often the world insists otherwise. In this increasingly polarized age, we are reminded—over and over—how different “the others” are.

It happens when opinions clash, when perspectives diverge, and when ideologies seem irreconcilable. Sometimes, I paused while reading someone’s words, thinking, “That can’t be right. This person cannot be serious.”

But then, I remind myself to step back. I may not understand their perspective because I am not in their life or their circumstances. I have not lived their experiences, just as they have not lived mine.

We are all uniquely complex, which is why there are parts of us that do not intersect—but surely, there are parts that do. A moment of awe washes over me as I feel sonder acutely—that profound realization that everyone, all these strangers out there, has a life as intricate and vivid as my own, constantly unfolding beyond my awareness.

This is where we should allow ourselves to admit, as Socrates did around 2,400 years ago: “I know that I know nothing.” His timeless humility reminds us that certainty is not the same as wisdom.

What we are so certain of—our moral compass, our beliefs, our paradigm, and our school of thought—would actually thrive and grow if we strip them bare and subject them to self-examination from time to time.

“It is possible to have strong values and passionate commitments and still be open to self-doubt and self-examination. Art and literature used to thrive on confusion, awkwardness, bewilderment, and doubt—especially self-doubt.” - , The Tyranny of Certainty in Uncertain Times.

That childhood badminton game taught me something I didn't understand until much later. There may be a gate that divides us, but if we are willing, we can still play.

Each serve and return was a dialogue between two children divided not just by a gate but also by culture, language, way of life, and the invisible barriers humans had built around them.

Perhaps connection isn’t about removing the gate or the divide, but about continuing to play despite it.

It is the trust that, with each stroke, we are bridging the chasm and bringing us closer to seeing the light that binds us all.

Please let me know:

Have you ever felt like ‘the other’ or, conversely, seen someone else as ‘the other’?

Leave a comment

Related readings:

Unmapped Storylands with Elif Shafak

The Tyranny of Certainty in Uncertain Times

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a year ago · 529 likes · 66 comments · Elif Shafak

“It means intelligent and joyful,” I said. 

He smiled, “That’s exactly who you are!” 

My friend was, of course, very kind, as Filipinos often are, but I’d be lying if I said I didn’t beam with pride at his words.

Is it true our name makes us? 

How can I know since I no longer identify with my given name and now use one chosen by myself, at 10, from the gigantic English book of names, which my best friend plopped in front of me one day in class? Since so many of our friends have one, we needed one, too, to fit in. In Malaysia, it is common for the Chinese to give their children an English name, a remnant from our British colonial past, and something we no longer question the implications of but practice and take as a given. 

Yes, my real name is not Rachel. 

My paternal grandfather, Ah Gong, gave me my birth name, a privilege I did not give my parents, and it sounds like a boy's name—Heng1.

I was named while I was still in the womb, and everyone was certain I would be a boy. My mother hoped for a boy, too, since she already had my elder sister. The wise old ladies, convinced by the male-bearing shape of my mother’s belly, were sure of it as well. The 80s ultrasound couldn’t confirm my gender—“You lo, gwai sei (naughty), you always had your legs crossed. Don’t let us know!” my mother would claim whenever retelling the story.

In Chinese culture, changing a name once given is discouraged, so my Ah Gong kept my name but changed the character to one suitable for a girl. Many years later, while I was going through a pre-pubescent identity crisis, I asked my Ah Ma for the meaning of my name. It turned out that nobody knew for sure anymore; Ah Gong was the only one in our family who could read and write Chinese. Our names have gone to the grave with him. 

The sound of my given name is tough to like. I was often teased for having a boy’s name, and my middle name was not spared, having a homonym for ghost or turtle. Besides, growing up in a multicultural and multilingual Malaysia, my name was often mispronounced, causing me to cringe more times than I could count.

My name was like an ill-fitting shirt that they covered me with the moment I emerged from my mother’s womb with the “wrong” gender. 

The saving grace came in my teens when an older friend, well-versed in Chinese, helped me pick a character for my name—欣. Once he told me that it meant joyful, I knew in my heart immediately that that was my name. It’s like I could finally see and appreciate the patterns on my ill-fitting shirt.

In Malaysia, we have a practice where the birthday person gets to make a wish before blowing out the candles. And each year, since I could remember, I would close my eyes, with my clasped hands touching my chin, and utter this phrase silently as if it's a prayer—“I wish that my loved ones and I will always be happy.” Do not ask me where this wisdom came from for such a young child! 

Nevertheless, the newfound meaning of my name did not stop me from adopting my self-chosen name once I got the opportunity. When I discovered the internet, I used Rachel immediately as my persona, tailoring a new shirt for myself. When I joined the workforce later in my 20s, Rachel naturally became my public identity. 

One of the reasons I chose the name Rachel was its international appeal, and I assumed the days of explaining how my name should be called would be over. 

However, stepping outside Malaysia, I noticed raised eyebrows when an Asian introduced herself with an English name. These subtle reactions made me self-conscious and made me reflect on the complex relationship between names, history, and identity. 

For many of us Chinese-Malaysians, English names are a byproduct of our colonial past—a culture passed down from our parents who attended the British-run school. I grew up bilingual, speaking Cantonese and English at home, and using an English name felt natural as I converse mainly in English with the outside world. 

But every time someone questioned my choice, I was reminded of the invisible threads that tie our names to the past and how they shape the way others perceive us and, to some extent, how we perceive ourselves. 

In addition, I was not totally spared the burden of mispronunciation, which I found out as I moved to Germany. The guttural ‘ach’ sound in German made pronouncing Rachel particularly tricky, often resulting in something far worse than any mispronunciations I’ve ever experienced. Thankfully, due to the popularity of the TV Show Friends2 among my generation, I found some respite from mispronunciations with the people I usually interacted with.

A name is like a language; it is only as easy as it is on the tongue of the speaker. So, now, living as a migrant in a country with an entirely different native language, I have come full circle with my name. 

At times, I wrestled with myself, too, for covering part of my heritage with a name that carries the weight of a colonial past. Yet, I cannot deny that, by adopting a new name, I have taken destiny and fate into my own hands; I have defined my identity.

Our identity is often defined for us before we can define it ourselves.

Then, I discovered the ancient Chinese tradition called Zi (字), where one takes on a courtesy name upon reaching adulthood to reflect their new role or stage in life. This knowledge reconciled me with my heritage, freeing me from the shackles of self-doubt. After all, I had done something Chinese by adopting a new name to reflect my life stage; I had just carried out the Zi tradition.

I have a given name reserved only for family and my childhood friends. I have adopted a self-chosen name as I take on new roles and live through new stages of life. And just as naturally, I have embraced yet another name—Mama. 

When I first shifted from Heng to Rachel, it was a strange sensation, responding to a name I had never lived as. Each time I heard someone calling me Rachel, it was like a voice from a distant dream slipping away as I woke. 

But since then, the line between dream and reality has collided, and Rachel is like a name that has always been mine. I respond now to Rachel just as quickly and naturally as to Heng or Mama. 

One can have many names and identities. One can have a name used only by family and childhood friends, a name for public appearances, a name reserved for loved ones, and a name for insert-scenario-here. 

When someone asks, “Who are you?” Do you say your name? Or your citizenship? Or your occupation? Or daughter or son, mother or father, sister or brother?

Do I identify more with Rachel or Heng? Or Mama? 

Ultimately, a name is just a thread in the fabric of our identity, each adding depth to the tapestry of who we are. It is not the name that defines us, but the stories and lives we breathe into them.

I wear many names—one given, one chosen, one earned—but it is I, who give them meaning.

Here are two stories about names that have inspired this post:

Your name tells a story, here’s mine by

The trauma of immigration, and the story behind a name by

Share with me:

What do you think of your name?

Leave a comment

My body tensed as my son started crying. As he escalates, my brain activates a fight-or-flight response. It will take many sessions before I realize this trigger of mine. 

Why do we stop infants from crying? Why do we stop children and adults from crying? Isn’t crying healing? 

My son burst out crying so loud the moment the doctor pulled him out from my womb the whole hospital wing could hear him. From then on, it marked days and nights of ample crying from him. He is a sensitive soul. Our natural impulse is to soothe him, find out what could be wrong, and try to make it stop. 

This natural human impulse ensures the survival of our helpless infants and, thus, the survival of humankind. Our first means of communication is crying—signaling hunger, fear, discomfort, sleepiness, and more. Somewhere along the way, as we grew older and learned other ways to communicate, our crying decreased naturally. However, in many cultures, the reduction of crying was not only natural but also culturally accelerated or enforced.

As children of Chinese heritage, our elders reprimanded us for crying once we were out of the baby stage. Chinese culture has been steeped in Confucianism for more than 2500 years, which espouses restraint and composure. The goal is to balance emotional expression with self-control and maintain social harmony. 

As a result, I did not cry for 20 years, at least not in front of others and with restraint when alone.

Sometimes, one or two tears escaped and rolled down silently on my poker face. That would be when I wish with all my might that no one noticed it or for a hole to open up and swallow me whole. Most times, I will summon all my might to remain tearless, to show fortitude.

As I reflect on myself, I wonder, too, with the people around me. Have I seen them cry? I have never seen my father cry, not in any situation at all. The women in my life—my mother, my Lai Ma (nanny), my Poh Poh, and Ah Ma (grandmothers)—usually don't cry. We won't find them crying in daily lives, and only in a death event might we catch a glimpse of it, but even then, with much restraint.

It was in the face of a loved one’s death that I finally tore through the emotional walls and cried—the death of my Ah Ma.

Ah Ma lived next door to us, and I grew up with her. Her cooking, which defines comfort for me, makes regular appearances in my household. I still make the soups she used to boil—clear bone broth with herbs or vegetables—and stir-fry vegetables the way she did—cing caau (clear-fried), which means sautéed lightly with some oil, garlic, and salt. I also cook soy sauce pork with potatoes, my favorite dish of hers. 

When I heard Ah Ma had collapsed a second time from a stroke and was unconscious in Taiping Hospital, I immediately rushed back to her from KL, arriving late in the evening. After seeing her fragile state, I couldn’t leave, so I stayed overnight. My cousin stayed, too, and we reminisced late into the night about Ah Ma.

The next day, my parents and relatives visited in the morning. Seeing no change, my dad urged me to go home, but I refused. As they left for lunch, Ah Ma’s monitor started beeping like it had been possessed.

Beep! Beep! Beep! Beep!

I rushed to Ah Ma’s bedside while my cousin called her mother to ask them to come back. Everyone rushed back just in time to join us as the finality of a long, continuous tone took over.

Right then, amidst our quiet, restrained sobbing, I felt Ah Ma’s presence leave.

After her death, I circled Taiping’s lake garden alone while coming to terms with this unfamiliar rush of emotions. Ah Ma’s passing was my first brush with death so close to home. I told myself I should cry. I screamed, pounding the steering wheel, until finally, the floodgates broke open, and the tears rushed out. I parked the car and cried.

This burst of emotional crying is something I have not done since I was presumably a toddler. But it was also very much needed. It helped me to crystallize my feelings into something I can hold on to dearly instead. Ah Ma’s death not only shifted something inside me but became a catalyst for rethinking my life’s path.

Many, many years later, my next big crying episode was different. As I faced my father’s impending death and tried to say goodbye, the tears came crashing out as if a dam had broken. It overtook me right after my opening line, and I had to muster all my resilience to temporarily fortify the dam.

In researching types of crying for this article, I realized these were tears of despair—triggered by events or realizations that shake our core sense of security or hope. Unlike tears of sadness or frustration, despair carries the weight of finality, tied to the feeling that nothing can be changed or fixed.

I cried because I knew that I had almost exhausted all hope of keeping him alive, and here I was saying my goodbye, which ironically was interrupted by crying. 

But not all crying is of grief and despair.

On a lighter note, and perhaps just as important, we often hold back our much-needed tears outside of grief and despair. So why don’t I see the older generations cry? Is it because of our culture? Is it because nobody else does it? Is it because they don’t know how?

Swimming with these thoughts, I texted my Lai Ma right before I went to sleep, “Lai Ma, I have a deep question. Why have I never seen you cry before?”

I awoke to this reply, “Very funny. How are the plants?” And just like that, my Lai Ma has deflected this very important question about human display of emotions. Why have I not seen her cry before? I may have to probe her when I visit next time. 

Another crying that I discovered recently is the tears of vulnerability. During our friendship reunion retreat, my best friend and I co-hosted reflection sessions with our friends to reconnect and strengthen our bond. 

As we shared some of our deepest thoughts and emotions, the tears began to flow. It was refreshing. Despite being friends for over 20 years, I could count the times I’d seen them cry on one hand.

Not only that, but I realized that I no longer held back the tears that were flowing. I no longer wished for a place to hide while I cried. I just let the tears flow as I continued to share from my heart. 

These tears of vulnerability unblock something within us, aiding in healing and acceptance as we are heard and accepted by those we trust. It also strengthens both our connection and our bond.

Then there are tears of joy—more elusive for me. As someone who is generally positive, it takes a lot for me to get emotional over something joyful. But I vividly remember crying at the wedding of a dear Filipina friend. 

A few years prior, we went on a weekend trip to Bohol; she was still single then. One night, I convinced her to join me in search of awe through stargazing by the sea. Under the starlit sky, lying on a bed of soft sand, we shared our hopes and dreams. She longed to find someone worthy of sharing her life with.

As I witnessed her celebration of love, tears of joy flowed out in spite of myself. It was beautiful to cry for joy, especially for the happiness of someone you care about.

There are happy tears, and then there is also the absence of tears. 

It is also ok not to cry.

When my best friend asked me how I was feeling during my father’s remembrance day, I was not feeling anything acutely. I wasn’t crying. I had a wistful feeling as I savored the green tea ice cream. I felt soothed talking to my son about him, remembering him. 

There was no need for tears here. It does not mean I have grieved about. It also does not mean I am holding back any feelings. It is just what it is- not all emotions can be expressed by tears. 

My son cried in frustration when his Lego broke apart, but he didn’t cry when we spoke about his late grandfather.

Are all crying equal? One no less valid than another?

As I reflect on these acts of crying—whether from despair, vulnerability, or even joy—I realize how deeply ingrained our cultural and familial conditioning around crying truly is.

I want to break this generational trauma. I want to teach my son that it’s okay to express his emotions fully, without shame. But I have to admit, it’s still a work in progress.

Breaking these patterns won’t happen overnight. But with each tear I allow, and each moment I encourage my son to feel, I hope we are both learning something different—that crying is not a sign of weakness, but a sign that we are human, that we can be sad, or vulnerable, or in despair, or healing. But most importantly, we are embracing what it means to be human.

If you enjoyed this exploration of crying, do check out the rest of the anthology here:

The Caring About Crying Anthology. We All Cry. You’re Not Alone.

1. Sept 1 Launch article: Caring About Crying. We All Cry. You’re Not Alone By at Carer Mentor: Empathy and Inspiration

2. Sept 2 & 14 Crying: 'Did you know?' Resource: Tears the science and some art. By Victoria at Carer Mentor: Empathy and Inspiration

3. Sept 3 'Cry, Baby. Why Our Tears Matter' A Podcast Interview. Dan Harris and Dr Bianca Harris of Ten Percent Happier with Reverend Benjamin Perry. By Victoria at Carer Mentor: Empathy and Inspiration

4. Sept 4 ‘In Conversation with Rev. Benjamin Perry’. Victoria interviews the Author of 'Cry Baby: Why Our Tears Matter' By Victoria at Carer Mentor: Empathy and Inspiration

5. Sept 5 ‘My stoic mom's parting gift: Making peace with tears’ By at Sandwich Season

6. Sept 6 We Invite You to 'Care About Crying'. By Victoria on behalf of the team.

7. Sept 6 ‘ICU Special Edition: There's Crying in Baseball?’ By at HCT:Heal Cure Treat

8. Sept 7 Triggered. Caring About Crying Anthology By at After He Said Cancer and at The Future Widow  

9. Sept 8 'Can't Cry. Want to Cry??' A Caregiver's Paradox of Human-ing. By Victoria at Carer Mentor: Empathy and Inspiration

10. Sep 9 ‘AWC Town Bulletin - On Crying’ By and at Asian Writers Collective

11. Sep 10 The Healing Power of Tears By Louisa Wah at Lily Pond

12. Sept 11 My Tears are not a Grief Gauge by at Gen Xandwich

13. Sept 13 Sweet Relief After He Said Cancer | A Memoir by Kristina Adams Waldorf, MD at After He Said Cancer 

14. Sept 15 When was the last time you cried in public? Moving from private grief to community healing by at Heartbeats

15. Sept 16 Crying While Parenting: A Mindful Approach by at Dr. Amber Writes.

16. Sept 17 Cry, Baby, Cry By Louisa Wah at Lily Pond

The next one in this series will be !

Share your thoughts:

Did you stop crying?

Are you crying (again)?

How do you like best for others to respond when you are crying?

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The first three days were simply torture. 

“Learning by doing!” the monk assigned to oversee us, “foreigners,” roared with command at our start. Initially, I was perturbed by his harshness, but later, I appreciated his bluntness and matter-of-fact way of speaking. In hindsight, I surmise it could also be due to the language barrier.

So, I started to learn meditation by doing. We were told to alternate sitting and walking while concentrating on our breath with a 10-minute interval. I ended up spending every minute struggling not to fall asleep. Years later, my best friend would tell me that our mind shuts down by falling asleep to protect ourselves from what is uncomfortable. I was even falling asleep during the walking meditation. Yes, one can fall asleep while walking. 

Not only was my mind shutting down, but it was also in heated discourse with itself. 

“Why did I come here? What am I doing? How will I do this for ten days?”. 

“Quiet! It’s just starting, and you are giving up.” 

In this resistance, I saw a reflection of how we innately resist change in life. Gradually though, the sleepiness faded and I made peace with myself for taking up this seemingly meaningless and torturous endeavor. But my mind remained restless. 

Day three rolled along, or was it day 4? Time is flowing in a different direction. 

I sighed and silenced the 10-minute timer. Another failed attempt. I was in my favorite part of the temple grounds—a square fenced compound surrounded by trees, with the gate flanked by two giant Buddha statues—a place one has to evacuate once the sun sets and the swarm of mosquitoes descends upon it. I stared at the Buddha on the right. 

That was when the inspiration struck me. 

I took on the half-lotus position of that Buddha—my left foot pressed gently on my right knee while I stretched my spine upward, shoulders pulling back slightly, my face relaxing as the lips moved to half smile. It was a breakthrough. From then on, I always assumed this position, and a sense of peace would ground me as I began my meditation practice. 

A decade later, I would read from Thich Nahn That about the Buddha position:

“Sitting on the same spot as a Buddha gives rise to happiness and sitting in mindfulness means itself to have become a Buddha.” 1

How this position came to me will remain unknown. Was the universe speaking to me, or did I unearth an ancient wisdom because I was trying and looking hard enough? 

After the breakthrough, I looked forward to every session, increasing the length of my meditation and battling my thoughts step by step. Towards the latter part of the retreat, I clocked in 10 hours of meditation each day, and in one of our daily check-ins with one of the monks, I proudly announced it. To which he responded matter-of-factly, “You need to sleep less.”

In one of these sessions, I also told him how I noticed my thoughts flit from memory to memory, like electricity passing through a gigantic grid of networks, flowing from one line to another with the thinnest of connecting threads. 

He said, “There are two types of people—one who thinks about the past, another the future.” I do not usually dwell in the past or let any what-ifs or regrets bog me down, but it seems my carefreeness about the future was so strong that even my wild mind wouldn't care to venture there.

Besides discussions, the monk also taught me the following steps to advance my meditation practice each time:

Center on the breath—breathe in, breathe out. 

On the next pair of breaths - imagine/acknowledge where you are—the garden, the temple, the world. 

Repeat. 

As the days passed, instead of imagining where we were, we began to “touch” different points in the body with the mind—first the left shoulder, then the right, and onwards to the hips and knees.

Soon, a strange yet mesmerizing pulse appears at each spot that I “touch,” as if my heart were beating through these areas, following me from spot to spot, deepening my awareness of my body. 

This meditation dance with myself was so calming that I was reluctant to have it end when the last day rolled in. One lady from our group will continue for 20 days—this is her second time—and I was tempted to follow. But in the end, I decided to stick with the plan. Besides, my family and friends would wonder where I am if I didn’t get in touch since our disconnection at the start.

For our Vipassana retreat, we had to surrender all our possessions. They cut us off from connecting with the outer world by taking away our devices. They cut some of us off from connecting with our thoughts by taking our paper and pen. They also cut us off from worldly attachments by taking our clothes and other manners of beautifying ourselves and not providing a mirror in our bathrooms. 

We were given white robes to wear. We have a 2-inch mattress on a wooden bed and a bathroom with cold water running from a pipe. That was all we needed. 

Each morning, the bell rings to signal wake time and meal times—5 a.m., 6 a.m., and 1 p.m. After that, we fast until the next day. I have never felt more energized in my life with this restricted eating. Granted, there was no stress or need to attend to daily life. Our only task was to wash our dishes after the meal and the voluntary sweeping of fallen leaves. There was also no need—in fact, it was forbidden—for social interactions.

All that mattered was the meditation—doing nothing, thinking nothing, and needing nothing.

With routine, my meditation practices melted into each other. My grip on my mind grew stronger, keeping it in the present longer and longer. Soon, deeper contemplations emerged, and I asked the monks questions like, “Is there reincarnation?” In other words, what happens when we die?

“Look at this flame,” the monk said, holding up a lit candle. He then lit another candle with it and, gesturing to the new flame, asked, “Is it still the same fire?”

I bit my lip and ventured a guess. “It was for the first second, and then it isn’t anymore.” He just smiled. 

I returned to my meditations, sitting erect in the lotus position. 

Breathe in. Breathe out. Touch. Breathe in. Breathe out. Touch. 

As I sat in stillness, I thought of the flame, symbolizing life itself—ever-shifting, ever-moving. Each moment lit the next, seemingly without separation. Slowly, the boundaries of time unraveled before me. There was no past or future, only this moment—my breath, the hard ground beneath me, the stillness in my body. 

Then, as if waking from a dream, it hit me—there is no time. There is only now.

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I stood alone at the peak of the Ponte de Luis bridge in Porto, my broken wrist throbbing in dull pain as it rested in my makeshift sling. Below, the soft hum of a Portuguese late dinner serenade rose to mix with the cold wind enveloping me. The waxing moon peeked through the dark clouds. A five-cent coin clutched in my left hand—the functioning one.

A month ago, life gave me two challenges in the form of a broken wrist through a car accident in South Africa while traveling solo and a broken heart. I did not know which hurt more. 

I flew to the UK to recover at my Godsister’s house. There were meals I didn’t have to make and a home I didn’t have to leave. It wasn’t just the way she cleaned my wounds, though that might have been enough; it was something quieter—a kind of unspoken permission to simply be, to be cared for without the need to ask or offer anything in return.

During this time, we went to Porto for a short holiday, coinciding with my 30th birthday. Turning the Big 3-0 felt like a turning point where soul searching shifted from a quest to a quiet resignation—an acceptance that the map of self is no longer expanding but requires closer introspection.

In that state, I reached out to some of the significant people in my life for their gift of words. I asked them to tell me who I was to them in hopes of finding the words that had been temporarily shrouded in clouds of self-doubt.

I didn’t know then that what I was doing was similar to what talked about in the podcast with Maya Shankar, though mine was less about unlocking potential and more about reminding me of the best version of myself.

The heartfelt replies arrived—from friends from diaper days to teenage years, mentors, and unlikely friends from myriad life phases. Somewhere in those words, the clouds parted, and a pattern emerged, though I couldn’t say what it was at the time. They showed a path toward something resembling clarity—if not of purpose, then of my deepest desires. 

There were three futures I could see for myself: a family, financial freedom, and a book. It was clear early on that I could only have one. A family would unravel the plans for financial independence, and writing—well, writing was rarely a path to anything but itself. So, I set out to try to achieve at least one. 

A decade later, I sat by a canal in Freiburg, the gentle trickle of water mingling with the soft hum of the city. Across from me, the love of my life—my husband—smiled as the rich aroma of freshly brewed coffee rose to meet us. We were having an impromptu birthday breakfast in our neighborhood cafe while our children were in daycare. 

Never in a million years would the broken-wrist-broken-hearted me on the Porto bridge imagine the mother-wife-aspiring-writer me in the Freiburg cafe.

There’s a saying that the days are short, but the years are long. If our daily actions are like steering a ship, then our yearly plans are the course we set, and our long-term vision—whether for the next decade or for life itself—is the compass guiding us forward.

And those precious words I received became the wind in my sail. I have traveled far and wide in the past decade and am grateful. How can I give it back to the universe? How can I pass on this beautiful positive energy?

While listening to the said podcast, one thing Adam Grant said inspired me—he inverted the exercise above and wrote unsolicited letters to his friends telling them when they are at their best. 

I was like, “That’s it!” I want to write back to all those friends and loved ones who took the time to give me their words. I want to reciprocate by extending my hands to lift them even higher than where they are now. 

In my letters, I tell them who they were at their best, how they made me feel, and how much I appreciated them. My aim is not only to celebrate our friendship but also to celebrate them—their person, their being—for being who they are and for being in this world, and to my incredible fortune, to be at the same time and some point also at the same place with me. 

Isn't life in the end about the people in our lives? Isn’t it about the connections we have made, kept or not? Every connection creates a ripple in the sea of life. Every ripple crosses the very fabric of time and space. 

Looking back to the day I stood on the Porto bridge alone, summoning the last of my positivity in life, my heart goes out to this past me. If only she had known what lay ahead, she would have found solace in it. 

But we will never know, do we? We will never know how our lives will unfold or where the path of life will take us. One thing I know for sure is that anything is possible. We just need to calibrate our compass, start steering, and be ready to sail when the waves of opportunity arrive. 

I threw the 5-cent coin down into the Duoro River, sealing the pact with myself and sending it as a wish to the universe. A year later, the universe answered, and I rode the wave at full speed—with two functioning hands.

I had failed my driving exam. Twenty years later, this self will once again fail another driving exam in a foreign country, but by virtue of time, she has gathered enough wisdom to acknowledge the external circumstances underlining it rather than hinging her self-worth on it. The day I failed my first driving exam marked the loss of my conviction—that I would succeed in anything if I put my mind to it. Up till then, I managed to delude the devil of failure in things I wanted to achieve, giving me the illusion of high self-worth. 

My self-worth at that time was tied to success, and failure was the opposite of success. Success means never failing at anything. One of the main successes for me then was getting good grades—an utmost priority for the Chinese, and more so in the immigrant culture. The perpetual focus is on succeeding in studies to ensure a good job—preferably as a doctor, lawyer, or architect, in that order. In essence, true success is measured by the number of zeros in your bank account. 

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I was by no means spared from this view during my youth. I chased the mirage of happiness, which is money. Coming from a family that struggled with the lack of it, money became naturally the answer to everything. The answer to happiness. Spoiler: it isn't; conscious living is.  

Success, in my case, means wealth. For others, success is also measured by other external achievements such as fame, higher job titles, social status, and social media influence. For some, success means fulfilling what others expect of them.

Success was painted for me by others, and subconsciously, that painting was still in my gallery. - 1

Only after I managed to carve my way out of the rat race as an independent consultant, charging obscene money to companies to hire me externally for projects, did I begin to see the zeroes multiplying in my bank account while my happiness reduced.

A series of (un)fortunate events—breaking off from a relationship of 5 years, the death of my Ah Ma (paternal grandmother), and my father’s second heart operation—led me to take a sabbatical. I backpacked for one hundred days, constantly engaging with my first mind and experiencing awe and the sublime.

This led me to question the very fabric of reality and the yardstick by which I measured success. I returned, changed, or rather became my true self again, and vowed to pursue a life more aligned with my core values. 

The Chinese values of self-sufficiency had not left me then, so my first conviction was to achieve financial freedom before I could finally live the way I wanted to. Anyone reading this will smile at the futile attempt to once again define success.

Needless to say, I spent a decade on this pursuit, which shadowed all the other meaningful events that happened since - meeting my soulmate, moving to a foreign country, learning a new language, marrying my said soulmate, and then making two new humans. 

As someone who has walked on multiple paths (and still do in all with a part-time capacity; ask me next time about my juggling skills)—working for a company, working for myself, and working as a mother—I can say that none of them is particularly promising for the elusive success.

But I would say having the privilege of choice to live the different seasons of my life in harmony or to respond to unplanned circumstances as needed has been one of the blessings of my life. 

Success is a dress you put on the mannequin of self-worth. Stripped of its adornment, it lays bare to what it really is. Isn’t the reason for success to feel worthy? Despite having decided that the corporate world is not for me, do I still not feel disappointed when I was overlooked for promotion? Do I not question whether I am less worthy than the others? 

So when is one worthy of oneself? When is one finally successful? Joan Didion explored how true self-respect stems from personal integrity and internal validation rather than external achievements2. Only with self-respect can we truly acknowledge our worthiness. 

To have that sense of one’s intrinsic worth, which constitutes self-respect, is potentially to have everything: the ability to discriminate, to love and to remain indifferent - Joan Didion, On Self-Respect.

The intrinsic sense of worth is the essence of self-respect. It is about understanding and appreciating oneself at a core level, empowering us to act harmoniously, equipping us with the armor against adversity, and nurturing self-compassion as a foundation on which loving others is built.

To stay in touch with our self-worth, we must live consciously, staying anchored to the present moment and mindful of our every action and its purpose. 

Undoubtedly, my version of success and what constitutes self-worth will keep evolving. As I embrace conscious living, I discover that self-worth is not a destination to be reached but a continuous journey with oneself. Through meditation and self-compassion, I return again and again to the path of self-worthiness, redefining success each time I stray.

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I can’t help but wonder—will life always be like this? The eternal longing for the sweetness and the continuous grieving for the sadness of the past? Will the feeling of nostalgia, melancholy, and bittersweetness always take us in whenever we pause enough to think about life? Every different stage of life is tinged with its unique sense of longing. 

Just like now, I miss our spontaneous lives before the kids, when we could decide on a whim what we wanted to do. And just like in those times, I missed the unplanned backpacking and traveling days filled only with exploration and adventures. And just like in those times, I missed my single days, spending all my time with friends and indulging in whatever my heart desired without the need to accommodate anyone. Just like in those times, I missed my carefree university days, spending our non-exam days filled with leisure. And just like in those times, I missed my unburdened childhood days, when my curiosity was filled with discovering and reading books and dreaming about all the possibilities of life. Just like in those times, I missed my secure and happy days, playing endlessly with my god-siblings at my Lai Ma and Lai Pa - my nanny and her husband. And those were the times I missed the most and had missed the longest in my life ever since I had the capacity to miss anything.

I can’t help but wonder, too—besides longing for the past, do we not also spend a lot of time anticipating the future? Like in my childhood, I used to wonder when I would grow up and finally decide what to do myself. When would I get to earn my own money? When would I achieve financial freedom? When would I meet the love of my life? When would we have kids? When would the kids become independent and leave? When would I retire for real? And, of course, most importantly, when will I die? This final question punctuates all thoughts of the future and is the only one we know the answer to for sure.

How can one then live in the now with all these longings for the past and anticipations of the future? It can be challenging to enjoy the ephemeral moments, immerse in the fleeting joy, and be content with the current phase of life, which changes swiftly and suddenly. Would we even have memories of anything with this constant battle of our minds?

When we embrace conscious living, we can learn to bring ourselves back to the present again and again to appreciate the now. One way to anchor ourselves in the moment and to ensure our lives are filled with memories is to use the power of rituals. 

Conscious Living

Why conscious living is the key to happiness

I awoke just before dawn, something that rarely happened to me, a serial night owl. As I drew back the curtains across my studio’s entire wall of floor-to-ceiling windows, I was greeted by the sun rising over Kuala Lumpur’s skyline, its famous twin towers standing proudly in the distance…

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2 years ago · 10 likes · 5 comments · Rachel Ooi

As I go through those memories, I realize how precious and few they are. It dawned on me how rituals could help create memories. We need to do something repeatedly and often enough that it will become one memory in the future. I have many of these “one memory” representing a collection of memories, essentially doing the same thing or for the same reason. Some may be significant events, and some may be from the simple routine of life.

Like the memory of rolling tong yuen with Ah Ma and my cousins and placing my malformed ones onto the dulang - a large tray. And like the memory of helping Ah Ma fold paper money for days and watching her burn them all afterwards. Like the memory of waking up on the first day of Chinese New Year to dress in stifling new clothes and rushing over next door to Ah Ma to receive Ang Pows - red packets stuffed with money. Like the memory of cycling around my housing area endlessly and washing my parent’s car to earn 20 ringgit on weekends. Like the memory of swallowing a smelly, barely cooked egg in the morning with my nose pinched before heading to school.

“With ritual, we can both keep time and keep up with time.” - Brad Shore1

But what is ritual? Psychological anthropologist Brad Shore says, “We can think of rituals as routines with a significant symbolic load.”

Of course, we also have memories of things that are sudden, strange or have significant meaning and impact. Those are few but no less important, but they are mostly not something we can plan or something that only happens once in our lives, like birth, travel, marriage, or death.

For rituals, on the other hand, we can decide on it and carry it out religiously, whether daily, yearly, or even once a decade. These rituals will form the backbone of the story we use to narrate our lives. Who are we but the stories we tell of ourselves? Take away our story, you take away, well, us. You take away our existence.

I grieve sometimes, especially after a day of making meaningful memories, knowing that my young children will never remember these moments. They will not have memories of their early childhood. Not really. But there will be some remnants, at least for me there are, and they are, I bet, a repetition of the same thing that I constructed as one—a memory of a ritual.

So, what rituals would I like to have and keep in my life? What rituals do I want to give my children? What memories do I want to have to tell my life stories and for my children to tell theirs? 

We are already continuing traditions from our ancestors to celebrate Chinese New Year and Christmas, ensuring significant rituals are performed along with them. Interestingly, I see parallel similarities to both of these two celebrations. 

For the Chinese New Year in Malaysia, the most important celebration is the one on the eve known as Nin Saa Maan. Similarly, in Germany, the most important celebration of Christmas is also on its eve, Heiligabend - the holy evening. In both celebrations, families gather together to enjoy a big, lovingly prepared meal and to catch up on the year. While the Chinese gather to usher in a prosperous new year, the German celebrates the birth of Jesus Christ. After that, the most anticipated rituals for all children will occur- the Christmas gift-giving and the Ang Pow-giving.

Though not all rituals have to be for a specific celebration or reason, some rituals can be personal only for the family or individual. My personal favorite ritual is making a pot of tea every evening after tucking the children in bed and enjoying the warmth of the tea to unwind and settle in for the night. One other ritual we have for the family is pancakes for Sunday breakfast! Though we don’t do that as consistently as every Sunday, it is often enough to make itself into something the children jump with joy. Depending on who is with the first child that woke, they start making pancakes together until the rest of the family rises. It’s a wonderful, slow ritual to start Sunday together with the house filled with the smell of pancakes.

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As I sway to the music in my husband’s embrace, I smile at the thought of all the big and little rituals we perform at home with our children. I hope these rituals will create a tapestry of warm memories for them to remember their childhood by. And maybe, after they have grown up, they will continue with some of our rituals and perhaps create some of their own to carry forward the warmth and love we’ve shared. For now, I will cherish our multicultural celebrations and simple personal rituals, knowing that these memories will carry on long after the music has faded.

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What rituals do you have that will form memories to tell the stories of your life?

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