Category: Aha moments

Closure, Crushes, and Quiet Victories

What notable things happened today?

I said my final goodbye to work today. Handed in my laptop. Walked out the door with my head held high. It felt surreal at first—how calm everything was, how steady I felt inside. I got a thoughtful leaving card from the technical department, even though I’d only been there a few months. That simple act reminded me that I mattered. That people saw me.

My old department didn’t do or say anything. Most acted like they hadn’t seen my leaving email, and a few people looked surprised when they realised I was leaving. But honestly? That didn’t faze me. Because I’ve made peace with knowing I gave my all. I left on my terms. And when someone mentioned that my next move was a big deal, that it would open new doors and carry weight, it reminded me of the truth I’ve held close through everything:

I won.

After everything—the gaslighting, the emotional labour, the silent battles I fought just to survive in that workplace—I left not just intact, but elevated. I left with my name clear, my spirit lifted, and my path lit.

One of my closest friends came in just to spend the day with me. We had lunch, caught up on her work stuff, then had a light dinner and drinks. She reminded me of how hard I fought. How far I’ve come. How much I deserve to pause and feel proud. She told me to take it one step at a time, and in that moment, I realised how important it is to have people who root for you when you forget to root for yourself.

We laughed about men too—and I gave her a little flirting refresher (as one does). It was fun and freeing to know I’ll have someone with me when I step back into the dating world. I don’t have to do this chapter alone.

But later, I came home and found myself unsettled again—because my mum was talking about her boyfriend. She mentioned how clean and particular he is, said he’s “next level” clean, and casually slipped in how she used to be like that too. I don’t know why it bothered me so much.

Actually, I do.

It always feels like I’m in some kind of silent competition when she talks like that. Like everyone else is always a little better, a little neater, a little more desirable. It touches that part of me that’s still healing from the years I spent trying to earn her approval. Trying to be number one in her eyes. I internalised it—this belief that if I’m not the best, I won’t be chosen. Won’t be loved.

I know it’s not entirely about her. It’s about me. The little girl inside me who never felt good enough. The woman I am now, still unlearning that love isn’t conditional or comparative.

And then there’s the subtle jabs—like when she said she attracts educated, well-paid men even at her age, and then said, “Let’s see what kind of guy you end up with next.” I told her I don’t care about status like that. I care about quality. About character. Because I’ve dated the shiny surface. It didn’t fulfill me. It didn’t hold me with care. It didn’t see me.

Still, sometimes I wonder if part of her is glad my relationship didn’t work out—because it opens the door for someone with “more” to walk in. But more isn’t always better. I’ve lived that truth already.

And speaking of someone new… there’s this guy from work.

We’d never worked together before, but I always noticed him—easy on the eye, a calming voice, that quiet energy I like. We ended up on a consultation together before I left, and I found myself genuinely enjoying just listening to him speak. He’s younger than me, has a bit of a baby face, not very tall, slim build—normally not the type I’d even think about twice. But there was something there. Something soft.

I saw him again today, dressed up in my heels and a fitted dress, and we finally spoke properly. He was warm, respectful, and we agreed to connect on LinkedIn. Part of me wished he’d asked for my number… but maybe he assumed I was taken because I have a child.

Still, he’s the first man in a long time who gave me butterflies. And that alone?

That feels like progress.

I don’t know what the next season holds.

I don’t know when the ache of it all will fully leave my body.

But today I closed a chapter.

And I did it with grace.

With softness.

With strength.

And maybe, just maybe, with a little bit of spark left in my smile.

The Day I Chose Me

Today, something felt different. Not perfect. Not magical. Just… different.

I woke up, tired — but not defeated. And for the first time in a long time, I didn’t drag myself through the day with a heaviness I couldn’t name. I didn’t need to collapse back into bed or silence the voice in my head that says, “You can’t do this.”

Today, I just did.

I worked. I focused. I stayed present. No panic. No spiral. No emotional hangover.

I felt like me. Just me.

Not a version performing for approval.

Not a mother trying to prove she’s enough.

Not a daughter swallowing her rage.

Not a woman trying to outrun shame.

Just… me. Showing up. Living. Healing.

In therapy, I talked about the things I used to love. I smiled — genuinely smiled — at the memory of joy. It felt distant, but not unreachable. I remembered her… the girl I used to be before the world told me to shrink. The girl who danced in the kitchen. The girl who dreamed loud and gave generously. She’s still here. I felt her today.

And when my mum complained — when she threw her storm toward me — I didn’t fold. I didn’t over-function. I didn’t become a sponge for her stress.

I said no.

I said enough.

I said, “I don’t want this energy. I’m done with this cycle.”

And the most shocking part? I didn’t replay it in my head. I didn’t shrink in guilt. I didn’t apologise for protecting my peace.

I just… let it go.

I think I’m finally understanding that healing isn’t about becoming someone else. It’s about remembering who I was before the world told me I wasn’t enough.

Today, I chose me.

And maybe tomorrow I’ll be tired again, or doubt might creep back in. But today? Today I saw the woman I’m becoming — and I loved her.

I’m proud of me.

Coming Home to Myself

I found my purpose not in saving others, but in finally choosing myself

I used to wake up every day and pour myself out for everyone else. My purpose was stitched together with the needs of my family — their dreams, their survival, their peace. First it was my parents and siblings. Then, when I began to suffocate under the weight of that, I started telling myself I was doing it for my future children. That somehow made the pain more noble. Gave it a pretty frame. But inside, I was hollow. My wins weren’t mine. My labor, my sacrifices — never mine to enjoy. The fruits were handed over, and I was expected to smile through the starvation of my spirit.

Then I had my daughter.

And for the first time in years, I felt life breathe back into me. She gave me something to fight for. Something to anchor me. But still… there was a hole. I couldn’t name it. Couldn’t describe it. It would quietly creep in at night or in the quiet moments. I had love around me — kind of — and yet this emptiness kept knocking. Loud. Unrelenting.

I thought I was loving myself. I had confidence. I could make people laugh, put myself together, show up. But now I know — confidence isn’t the same as self-love. Self-love is not just smiling in the mirror. It’s not just buying yourself flowers. It’s standing tall and saying: I am worthy. I deserve good things. I don’t need to perform to be loved. And anyone who thinks otherwise can get the hell out of my way.

This year, something shifted.

I looked around and realized I’d skipped the most important lesson — me. I’d skipped learning how to be my own home, my own source of joy. I thought love had to come from giving. That I had to earn it. Prove it. Bleed for it. But now I know — I already am it. I am love. I am enough. Every single version of me, even the messy ones, especially the messy ones.

I used to believe what I was told growing up: that I was too much and not enough at the same time. That no one would ever love me unless they were passing through. That I could win a hundred medals and still be losing. That dreams were dangerous because disappointment was guaranteed.

But no more.

I’m done shrinking. Done swallowing my worth. Done bending backwards for people who only know how to take. I am not a sacrifice. I am not an extension of someone else’s life. I am my own.

I am effin loveable. Anyone who gets to be loved by me is lucky. I’m the prize. The damn treasure. A queen, a goddess, dripping in gold, wrapped in grace, and rising with fire. The little girl who used to stay up all night studying, desperate for approval — she was always more than enough. She is extraordinary. And I see her now. I hold her close.

I can’t rewrite my past. But I’m rewriting my future. Today. With every breath. Every boundary. Every time I choose me.

I don’t just want love anymore. I am love.

And when love comes knocking again — real love, warm love, love that sees me — I’ll be ready. Because it’s just coming home to where it already lives.

Motherhood: my body is a wonderland as well as a freak show

Firstly, let me clear the air and begin by saying that I am forever grateful for the strength that my body has shown me it has. From growing an entire human being, to withstanding a major surgery, and being able to bring my little angel into this world. For that, I am forever in awe as well as grateful for the wonderland that is my body.

Growing an entire human being is no easy work. Not only is it tiring, but it is also emotionally draining. The body changing rapidly comes without warning, there is no time to prepare for what becomes a secondhand version of what you used to be. I have to keep reminding myself to look at the bigger picture, that this tiny human needs me to be strong and let certain things be, so they are well and healthy when the time comes.

No one warns you how much of a toll all the changes have on your mental health. Postpartum and I feel unsexy, unattractive, and just plain old ugly. My breast has gone up 4 sizes and they look saggy and super long, my stomach now has a pooch and stretch marks that are unending, and don’t get me started on how fat my thighs are or how weird my butt shape has turned out (although my mum says I got a little butt out of the whole process :D). I hardly recognise myself in the mirror, all I do now is mourn my old body each time I see a reflection of the new body I inhabit.

I’ve hit a new low in my physical image journey. In the past, I struggled to love myself and that meant not even looking at myself in the mirror. My self-image is at rock bottom as I look in the mirror and realise that the person I see has an unattractive body with a pretty face. I’ve never been blessed with a big butt or perfectly perky Double D breasts, but my old body looked good, I had a tiny waist, big breasts, and beautifully carved calves. Right now I hardly recognise any of that when I look in the mirror.

To make matters worse, my mind has begun to wonder, wonder if my partner sees me the way I see myself. Wonder if he wants to touch me the way he used to, love me in a way that used to make me feel like the sexiest woman in the room? I know it’s a journey I’m going through, but I can’t help but feel like he sees all the unattractive parts of me. Each time he bathes me, I can’t even look him in the eye because I don’t want to know the truth, I’m not ready to know what he thinks or feels about the new me. It’s one thing to say the words to make me feel better and another to see through your eyes and know the truth.

I now shudder when you rave about other women because I wonder if you find them more attractive than me. If you want to love them the way you used to love them? My heart bleeds for the day I don’t have to feel this way. I’ve never been the type to worry about other women, my mum taught me to trust the words of a man until he shows me otherwise. Innocent until proven guilty and so far it’s worked to keep my trust issues at bay.

A new sun has risen and with it, all the monsters that once hid in the shadows have come out to dance in the light, and I’m scared of who or what I might become in the process. My new companion is prayer, I take her with me through this journey and hope and pray that I come out on the other side stronger and better than I ever was. I’m terrified but I’m also hopeful that just like any other journey I’ve walked I’ll walk this one, learn my lessons, and reach the top renewed and feeling like a winner, a conqueror.