I was exhausted, and I wanted to take that damn armour off. But I didn’t feel safe enough to do it.

Something had to give. So, I decided to stop thinking about it and just do it, as Nike preached.

Choosing the destination was easy. I knew I wanted somewhere safe for a solo female traveller and a place I could trek around easily. So, it was settled — I picked Tokyo.

Aside from the reasons I stated above, I had grown up with Japanese anime, video games and culture. I had also travelled to Japan twice for work before making this decision and knew how the transport system worked. Plus, I spoke a smattering of Japanese, which allowed me to survive.

After I booked my flights, it was time to decide on accommodation. After much deliberation, I decided to book a homestay instead of a hotel. I reasoned that it made sense to have a host to rely on for guidance and emergencies.

I scoured the internet and found a lovely Japanese lady who had opened her home to guests for many years. I liked that she provided meals for her guests, and that she spoke English. I decided to go with her even though she lived in the more suburban part of Tokyo, which meant I would need to take public transport regularly to explore the central area.

All that was left was to pack and go.

I arrived at Haneda Airport on a sweltering summer morning after a redeye flight — exhausted, scared and yet excited. After a three-hour bus ride, Tomoko, my host, picked me up from the bus stop and showed me my room. It was a simple bedroom with a single futon bed, a wooden table and one wardrobe. Drained, I wolfed down the egg sandwich she served me for breakfast, washed the aeroplane off me and crashed for a nap.

Feline Intervention

I’ll never forget how I felt after waking up from that nap at one in the afternoon. It was probably the best rest I’d had in the longest time since I was a child. As I sat up and looked out the window, all the feelings crashed in on me. I had no itinerary and no one to meet. I was all on my own, with five days of empty space and time ahead of me.

Suddenly overwhelm set in, and I started to panic. All the feelings I had stuffed in a box after years of workaholism started to rush through my body. I wasn’t aware of it then, but I think I was on the cusp of some sort of panic attack, thinking of all the “boredom” and “emptiness” ahead.

And then I heard it: the sound of something scratching against my door. Curious, I opened it, and my host’s adorable Bengal cat, Jasmine, surged right into my room, meowing loudly. She rushed straight to my luggage, looked me in the eye and sat down on top of my clothes.

That did it. I burst out laughing instead, noting the absurdity of the situation. Here I was, in a foreign country by my own sheer force of will, and my first instinct was to give up already. I knelt and patted Jasmine’s head, grateful for the feline intervention.

Out in the Sun

I figured the first step was to get dressed and head downstairs. As I came down, Tomoko greeted me and asked if I had plans. When I said no, she smiled warmly at me and said,

“How about visiting Showa Kinen Park, about 45 minutes’ walk from here? They have free entry today, a once-a-year event.”

I stared out the window at the heat, and if I was honest, I wasn’t feeling up to it. But I had travelled thousands of miles to be here, and cooping myself up in my room felt like a stupid idea. My face must have shown the conflict I was feeling, because Tomoko gently pulled out a piece of paper and a pen and beckoned me to sit down.

“If you take the train five minutes from my house, you don’t have to walk the whole way. Here, I can draw you a map showing how to go. I’ll also give you an umbrella and a handheld fan if you need them,” she said, sketching out some arrows and directions on the paper before folding it and passing it to me. “If you get lost, just use Google Maps — it works well here.”

Her kindness snapped me out of my funk, and I decided to just go. In addition to the umbrella and fan Tomoko lent me, I packed a book, my water bottle, my rented portable WiFi brick and my phone, plus some snacks I had picked up at the airport before boarding the limousine bus to Tomoko’s city. I dressed simply, in a summer dress and walking shoes, and pushed out the door.

It was all I needed. Once I was out there in the sun, I just took one step forward, and then the next. The fear, of course, started to creep in as I took in the foreignness of my situation — the kanji signs all around me, the boxy cars passing by and the unfamiliar sound of people speaking around me.

Reader, don’t get me wrong: this was not my first time overseas. I was a lifestyle journalist then, and I travelled extensively for work. I’ve travelled many, many times on my own. But the difference was that I always had someone to count on wherever I went, be it a host from a media trip organiser or my own colleague. And I always had a full agenda. This time, I had none.

Time and Space to Be Me

After one train ride, I finally arrived at Showa Kinen Park at three in the afternoon. Showa Kinen Park is one of the largest and most beautifully maintained parks in Japan. Spanning over 440 acres, it offers a refreshing blend of nature, recreation and culture. Originally opened in 1983 to celebrate the 50th anniversary of Emperor Showa’s reign, the park has since become a beloved green space for locals and tourists alike.

Upon entering, I was floored by the beauty of it. The first thing that caught my eye was the riot of colours: green everywhere from the sprawling lawns and trees, kites dancing in the sky, boats floating lazily on the blue lake, and bright seasonal flowers on display — tulips, hydrangeas and more.

There was a hive of activity everywhere. Half-naked children ran around the children’s area, giggling and laughing as they dashed through the water sprinklers to cool down. People lounged on the green lawns, painting or sketching the view, or simply enjoying a picnic in each other’s company. Coincidentally, there was a music festival happening too — I could hear a J-rock musician doing his thing in the distance, along with the roaring cheers of the crowd.

Given the size of the park, people had to use bikes to get around. I watched as a young couple breezed past me on a tandem bike, wide smiles on their faces. No one seemed to mind the noise and heat.

It was there, amidst this mayhem, that I felt the noise leave my head and found some peace and quiet. I walked down the trail, exploring the forested path and taking in the sights and sounds, letting my mind wander free.

Time passed, maybe an hour or so, but I wasn’t tired. I kept walking, feeling deeply relaxed. I found the Japanese garden and admired the bonsai on display in a curated museum. I played with some puppies that came into my path and smiled at their owners. I sat in the pavilions and listened to the music festival, next to a woman slathering on sunblock so thick that I could still smell SPF on myself thirty minutes after I left her side.

When I got thirsty, I stopped at one of the many vending machines on the trail and decided I was ready for a break. I found a shady spot beneath a willow tree by the Waterfowl Lake, whipped out my book and read, feeling the breeze on my skin. I had packed Haruki Murakami’s Norwegian Wood, one of my favourite books of all time, and I re-read it while listening to music and enjoying the moment.

I hadn’t known what it felt like, having grown up an anxious, high-achieving youth. Up until that point, I was always a maximiser — I made sure I was always using my leisure time to be productive.

But that day, I allowed myself to experience leisure for its own sake. That semblance of settling into my own skin allowed the armour to fall off, and I will never forget the feeling.

I did not know it then, but that trip was the start of everything for me.

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This is the second article of a series of my memoir I am writing to grieve my mother’s passing. I will hyperlink the other articles at the end of the article as I write them over time)

Do you stop being a child when you lose a parent?

This thought, this idea, has often been explored in movies or books. We all know the one – a person who loses a parent, or both parents, automatically comes of age earlier than their peers. They have a hole in their lives that can never be filled.

Harry Potter comes to mind. Inspired by author J.K. Rowling’s own loss of her mother, the character longs for his deceased parents constantly, and this is shown in the Mirror of Erised scene, which supposedly reflects your deepest desires.

For him, it felt like a longing for completion, for wholeness – to fill that hole left behind in his life, always there.

But what if you are in your 30s, like me? Does this mean I am now no longer a child?

A Musical Spark

This came to mind recently. I had gone out to watch an orchestral performance in my city’s philharmonic centre, and they were playing a Studio Ghibli special, featuring a tribute to the incredible works of musical maestro Joe Hisaishi. This tribute concert is wildly popular, and I had booked the tickets a year in advance. To say I was excited was an understatement.

As expected, it was a magical night. The classic tunes from Kiki’s Delivery Service and Howl’s Moving Castle were there – taking me back to my childhood memories. It was amazing how music can take you away on a journey.

But it was the segment on My Neighbour Totoro that moved me fully, heart and soul. A narrator was brought onstage during the orchestral performance to tell the film’s story. In childlike energy, the narrator tells the tale of how two little girls discovered the presence of adorable and magical spirits in their new rural neighbourhood.

But when she narrated the two girls’ longing for their sick mother in the hospital, tears fell freely from my eyes. The music just enhanced the feelings I had – how much I longed for my own mother, who is no longer in this world.

The black hole of grief was starting to make its presence known.

A Perennial Black Hole

I’ve always thought about how grief can be a black hole. From the outside it looks calm and dormant. In fact, from a great distance, a black hole doesn’t emit or reflect light – making it invisible.

But inside that black hole? Chaos and turmoil. The region just outside its event horizon is anything but peaceful. These environments are characterised by extreme forces, superheated gas, and profound distortions of time and space.

That’s what it feels like for me. Maybe I am exaggerating. Who knows? Currently, it has not consumed or engulfed me. I am holding on. But it is always there, deep and buried, yet never gone.

Growing Up

Right after the Totoro segment, the one that touched my heart was Spirited Away. The film explored the topic of coming of age with allegorical metaphors that remain iconic to this day.

In her ordeal of searching for her parents in a magical world, Chihiro matures quickly from a child into a young woman. Losing her parents – even briefly – allowed her to grow up.

So, I started asking myself – am I now truly an adult because I’ve lost my mother?

I don’t know the answer. I have always been mature for my age – people tell me that all the time. The price of being a parentified eldest daughter is steep. But deep inside, I’ve always been childlike.

Yet after my mother’s passing, I have felt like I have changed. Before this, I was cosplaying as an adult.

But now – I feel like one. One half of the representation of my childhood was gone.

My inner child is still there, of course. I check in on her sometimes and try to take care of her. And while I am still figuring out what it means to be my own parent to my inner child, I know it will never be the same again without Mum.

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So, I bit the bullet and took the plunge. I decided to be very intentional about setting myself up for success. Inspired by the principle on building systems in James Clear’s Atomic Habits, I started building a framework so I could automate and habit-stack.

I picked a gym in the apartment building I was living in, so I’d have no excuse not to go no matter how tired I got — the commute was only 15 minutes door-to-door.

I decided to hire a personal trainer/coach because I’m such a people-pleaser that having someone to be accountable to would set me up for success. Shoutout to my first PT, Sara, who soon made the workout experience so enjoyable that I looked forward to my sessions instead of dreading them. (Borahae, my friend!)

And I made a promise to myself: this was for me. Not for anyone else. No one else was watching, so I had the mandate to keep the promise to myself. This was an investment I was going to make in myself — a way of showing myself self-love.

Fast forward six years, and I’m still here — showing up at the gym twice a week. I trained when I was stressed. I trained when I was angry. I trained when I was depressed. Through years of intention and commitment, and fully supported by an amazing community of coaches, I was able to keep this promise to myself.

Conquering Goals

When I look back to when I first started, I’m always amazed at how far I’ve come. I deadlifted empty bars for two months before I got the movement right and was using the correct muscle groups. My leg mobility was so restricted that we had to work consistently on my foot grip so I could get the squat movement right before I could even lift a 20kg barbell. I couldn’t even bench press 3kg when I started.

Strength training soon became my way of tuning out the world and connecting with my body. There’s no room for error when you’re bench pressing 12.5kg above your head — concentration is paramount. For an hour, I shut out the world and just concentrated on my breath and moved with intention (and safety!).

And my body repaid my love for it in kind. I realised I had incredibly strong legs and marvelled at how rapidly I was building momentum in my squat weights and range. This obviously translates into my daily life too. I can walk longer and climb stairs better with my strong legs. I can plank longer now because I have greater upper body strength.

I started out wanting to just see how far I’d go, and now I know my threshold expands every single day. That is so motivational.

Deliberate Discipline

So, remember the systems I set up so I’d succeed? I’m glad I did. My sessions used to be at 8am, but every gym-goer knows your day starts way earlier. You get up, eat some protein, and then work out. That meant I always had to be up by 6.30am, make some eggs, wolf them down, and trudge my way to the gym to warm up for a successful workout.

As expected, I would moan and groan every time the alarm rang. But I’d always tell myself — it’s a 15-minute, two-lift ride to the gym. That removal of friction kept me going. I did this consistently for three years.

When my PT moved to a new gym 30 minutes away by commute, I had built enough discipline and habit-stacking to automate my behaviour.

When I got married and moved into the suburbs, my commute became an hour. By then I was seasoned at just showing up for myself. I was confident enough to move my sessions to the afternoon, knowing I was going to show up anyway, no excuses.

Do I sometimes skip my sessions? Yes, of course — I’m human too. My current coach (hello, Sarven!) and I have built enough trust with each other that I can tell him when my body isn’t in the right condition, and he knows how to push me enough when I need to reach new milestones. I still make it a priority to show up first; the working out happens immediately after.

Showing Myself Compassion and Grace

Strength training ultimately, slowly healed one thing I had always struggled with — my relationship with my body.

I’ll caveat, though — I’m miles away from my body aesthetic goals. But I’ve learnt to show myself enough grace and compassion. The goal is to be strong enough and mobile enough to overcome limitations. If I made micro-progress, I was better than I was yesterday — and that was sweet, sweet victory enough.

I’ve had people make disparaging comments about my body — how I’m still “chunky” even after years of strength training. They say, “I’m telling you from a place of care, because don’t you want to be skinny?” I’ve shut out those comments nowadays and roll my eyes internally. I have other health struggles that impede my aesthetic body composition, but I didn’t think it was necessary to explain myself. People formed their opinion of me anyway, so why bother? It’s their own body image projecting onto me.

I’ve learnt to love my body through the process. The legs that carried me through the many squats. The upper back that helps me stay upright. The shoulders, biceps, and triceps that help me carry burdens in my day-to-day. I’ve never sprained my ankle or had cramps in the middle of the night ever since I started strength training.

Mind-Body Connection

The biggest leap for me has been my ability to finally connect my mind and my body. Once upon a time, I hated massages, or any experience that involved being touched or probed.

But over time, after starting strength training, I grew comfortable sitting with the discomfort in my body. Physio and somatic treatment soon became the norm for me as I slowly expanded my body’s tolerance for physical touch — and over time, I grew accustomed to pain. I grew appreciative of the body I lived in and learnt how to really feel my emotions through my body. Strength training was the key that unlocked that body awareness.

I turn 40 next year, and I’m determined to participate in my first Hyrox to celebrate the milestone. This goal pushes me forward, and I’m grateful for the little community I’ve built along the way that’s now helping me achieve it: my coach, my physio, and more. To think — this wouldn’t even exist if I hadn’t invested in myself six years ago!

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A few days ago, I had a breakthrough moment. I was on an energy high after watching a concert. Looking back, I was behaving as I would when I was a child, chattering away to my loved ones during a car ride.

Midway through the ride, one of my loved ones turned to me and said in an irritated tone, with a hand up, “Please stop. You are talking too much right now.”

Too much.

I waited for the defence mechanism to kick in so I could be ready to initiate self-regulation before I regretted my next actions. Moments like these often escalate into a full-blown conflict.

But to my surprise, nothing came.

No immediate desire to seethe through the ride in passive-aggressive “I’m fine” silence.

No snapback came to my tongue like “What a mood killer you are!”

No people-pleasing apology and then fawning afterwards.

All that came out of me was, “Okay, sure.” I turned up the radio and continued humming to the music. Occasionally I had to mentally scan my body to check if I was really this okay, searching for the fear of rejection that often came after a conflict.

Huh. I was fine. It wasn’t a big, dramatic moment – but I realised what a breakthrough this was.

Now, before I go on, I’d like to caveat something – this person who told me this had worked an 18-hour shift that day and was exhausted in every way. He apologised afterwards for his words and admitted he just wanted some silence for a while. I completely understood where he was coming from – he was communicating a boundary I had crossed. And I had respected that.

But knowing these truths wouldn’t have stopped me from getting triggered in the past. Empathy can never fully erase our own pain.

How much is too much?

It all boils down to two words: too much.

As a woman growing up in Asia, you hear the words “too much” a lot. You are labelled too angry, or too ambitious, or too bossy. Too hyper. Or, in some cases, you are too kind or too generous – too gullible for scams. There are so many words that can come after “too” that people use disparagingly to make you feel like you are an alien, an outsider to them.

I had always been a chatterbox as a child; paediatricians used to joke that they knew I was coming because I was outside yapping away. And yes, for this, the adults who raised me told me I was too much. “Look at all the other kids – so well-behaved in comparison to you. You are too much.”

Translation: “You are too much for me to handle.”

I was a sensitive child and a parentified eldest daughter. You can imagine how that ended up for me – I believed I was the problem for being called “too much”. This belief soon warped into believing I was unworthy if I was too much for people. So masking started for me – to be accepted, to be deemed worthy, to be loved.

To stop people from calling me too much, I’d people-please by default. I soon flipped 180 degrees – I believed I was not enough. It had been wired and conditioned into my system. No wonder I snapped in 2019 – my boundary line between “too much” and “normal” was so blurred after years of acrobatic acts of people-pleasing.

Changing the script to “I am enough”

After I discovered BTS and learnt to embrace and love myself, I went to therapy. It took a lot of work (and tears) to condition my body and mind to work in tandem. Over time, I identified that my real fear was rooted in the fear of rejection for being too much for others, or, in some cases, not enough.

With such a vague definition as “too much” or “not enough”, I had very poor boundaries, as you can imagine. I put in a lot of work to understand myself behind the persona I had created to survive in this world, without the mask and the veneer. Over time, I got better at seeing the situations I was in without letting my fight-or-flight response take over immediately.

Compared to years ago, I am confident in myself now – I know I am enough, because I now love and accept myself, flaws and all. That fundamentally will not change, regardless of what people think of me. Others’ opinions of me, even those of my loved ones, are nice to have and not compulsory.

After my mother’s passing, the veil between what is superficial and what is real was lifted, and I think that was the true awakening for me.

So, back to the breakthrough moment I mentioned earlier: I had a realisation as we rode through the silence. Yes, I was told I was too noisy, but that was only because I’d crossed this person’s boundary – which I acknowledged, respected, and backed off from. My self-worth wasn’t changed in any way by that. The old me wouldn’t have been able to tell the difference, and would have overreacted in defensiveness.

It was a small moment, but a very important one for me, given how deep the childhood wound of being called “too much” was. And I am recording it as a precious memory.

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This is the first of a series of my memoir I am writing to grieve my mother’s passing. I will hyperlink the other articles at the end of the article as I write them over time)

On December 9^th, 2025, the woman who brought me to this world left me in it forever.

I was in the room with her while she took her last breath. It was just after midnight when suddenly I heard that sound I’ve been told to look out for – the shuddering gasps for air. I leaped out of the makeshift bed in the sofa I’ve been sleeping for a month and rushed to my mother’s bedside, almost tripping over my feet in the process.

She looked the same as she always did in the past three days, like she was asleep. But I knew what had happened. She was lying there, but she was also not there. I laid my head on her chest – no heartbeat. She was gone.

I rushed out of the room and called the nurse, surprised at how detached and calm I was. “My mother has passed,” I remembered saying to the nurse at the counter, whose eyes turned sympathetic in a flash when she saw my white and tired face.

She nodded at me and said she would call the medical officer to verify the death. I said thank you mechanically and walked back to be by her side, one last time.

Making the Calls

There were calls to be made. First was to my husband – my rock throughout this whole ordeal. “She’s gone,” I whispered stoically. I started shivering then, I recalled. My teeth were chattering; my knees knocked against each other from the trembling all over my body. I allowed it to happen, recognising my body needed to process this loss.

“I’m coming,” my husband replied, and then hung up. There were no other words needed. He knew me better than I knew myself. He knew I needed him and his strength.

The next person I called was my father. My mother’s soul mate, with whom she had just celebrated her 40^th wedding anniversary just two months ago. The same soul mate who devoted himself to her as a fulltime caregiver after her triple negative breast cancer diagnosis in 2023. He took the news stoically and said he would come. He hung up quickly too, but I could hear that shuddering breath that indicated he was going to have a full breakdown before he came.

My phone call with my brother was easier to make. He picked up, voice husky with sleep, “She’s gone, hasn’t she?”

I was not surprised that he knew; he was my comrade-in-arms. We took turns by her bedside for a whole month. I replied in the affirmative and he said he would call my father so they could come together.

My body had stopped shaking by then, but I was surprised I was standing. I sank back in my chair, watching my mother’s body in a numb haze. A nurse then came in, wheeling in a machine to track her heartbeat. I checked the clock on the wall – only five minutes had passed since I was jolted awake by Mum’s final moments. The nurses hooked the machine to her body and pressed a button.

Flatline. Of course.

Only the sound of the machine filled the room as it spat out a report of the flatline on a paper. The nurse ripped off a piece and hurried from the room. I stared at the machine where half of the flatline paper stuck out – almost like a final, glaring proof of my mother’s departure from this earth.

Wordlessly, I ripped a piece out before folding the flatline report and putting it in my pocket. Memento mori, I told myself quietly. It was crazy, but I knew I wanted to keep a tangible memory of this night.

Back to making phone calls as I waited – I dreaded this one. I phoned her only sister, whose grief was so loud in the silence through the phone. If my father was my mother’s soulmate, my aunt was my mum’s twin flame. They were extremely close-knit – they shared every bit of their lives with each other. The most painful thing in my mum’s illness was having to watch my aunt process her grief, aside from my own pain.

Time of Death

By the time the nurse came back with a doctor, 20 minutes had passed. He was younger than I expected and dressed in scrubs and a mask. He looked like he had hurried over after a surgery. Just as he started to check her pulse, my father and brother arrived – looking like they had raced lights to get here. The doctor announced the time of death and quietly left the room.

We all stared at each other, taking a moment to process this. My father’s face was a heavy mask, eyes red from crying. My brother had the same expression as mine – blank. There was work to be done.

I looked at my father in the eye and said, “I will be calling the funeral services – please review the options I sent you and decide so we can tell them when they get here.”

It all got blurry from there – there were many documents to sign and obtain, as well as big decisions to be made. We knew this day was coming, so we had prepared every option available, from her burial clothes to the food catering choice selections. Yet when the time came to execute, my father, crushed by the weight of the loss, wanted more time to think things through. Knowing that this was important to him, we let him lead in deciding the customs and format.

Angels came in many forms during times like these. There was a morgue worker who meticulously pored over our documents and spoke up for us when the hospital administrations missed out a detail or two. He summoned a nurse and insisted she finish everything precisely. When I thanked him, he told me, “You just lost your mother. The last thing you need is some red tape nonsense that prevents you from burying her in dignity.”

Another angel came in the form of our funeral service director, who saw our grief and took charge. He only came to us with decisions for us to make and took care of everything else.

Our hospice nurses, who were heaven sent throughout my mother’s final moments in her comfort and care, offered words of comfort and advice.

Family and friends who came with food and just sat with us throughout the wake.

Grief Comes In A Rush

Through it all, I could only shed a few tears or two in the first two days after her passing. I was a zombie, but I recalled functioning well enough. As an eldest daughter, I had a lot of responsibilities.

But on the day we cremated her, the flood gates opened. I sobbed when the Thai Buddhist monks conducted the final rites. I sobbed when the funeral director guided me to say my final last words to her, and when they hammered the nail of her casket. I sobbed when we had to pick out the final items for her to be interred with – my letter to her, her spectacles, her favourite bracelet.

And when her casket was pushed for cremation, I cried so hard when I got home, my whole body doubled over from it. It was a pain I had never felt like before.

We knew this was going to happen, but the pain was not any less acute.

The Pain & Privilege of Being ‘Chosen’

By the time I write this, six months would have passed since her passing. My grief comes and goes, but I will never forget that last day. Our hospice/palliative care experts have told us that a person who passes always chooses how they wish to leave this world. If they were private people, they would choose to take their final breath when their loved ones are away from the room.

Andrew McCarthy spoke about this in an interview, and the realities of watching a person pass away. Laid bare and you sit and watch. It’s an arduous privilege.

Yet, my mother chose to leave this world with me in the room with her. It reflected our bond at that time – forged through the flames. Like every mother and daughter, our bond was complex and tempestuous, but it was also loving and devoted. By the time she left this world, my mother had become more than my parent – she was a true friend and confidant, we were brought closer by her last three years fighting the cancer in her body.

There’s no greater gift that she has given me – than to choose to spend her final moments with me in the room.

That piece of paper in my pocket? I pinned it up in my home office, next to the dress she wore at my wedding in a small memorial corner I made for her, to remind me that even in death, some relationships will live forever.

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Yes, that K-pop boyband currently touring the world. Bangtan Sonyeondan. That’s the BTS I am talking about.

If you knew me before 2019, you’d also know that I was rarely passionate about anything publicly. I was careful about what I revealed to the world, curating and creating a facade. I felt the importance of keeping my personal life private, given I was working in a very public role. I struggled very hard between the real me and the persona I’d built. I don’t know how it happened, but eventually, I couldn’t distinguish what was real or not anymore.

It all came to a head in 2019 – BTS came into my life without heed or warning. There’s a saying amongst ARMYs (FYI this is what we call ourselves as BTS fans; it stands for Adorable Representative MCs for Youths) that BTS always finds you when you need them the most. And they did.

It all started after I accompanied my brother to a Twice concert, a K-pop girl group. I was a huge Big Bang fan before – though admittedly it was nothing like I am with BTS now – and suddenly missed my young self who enjoyed music.

I asked my brother, “Ok, let me get back into K-pop again. What K-pop group should I listen to nowadays?”

My brother, in his typical blasé manner, said, “How about BTS?”

You would have been living under a rock to not know BTS in 2019 – they had taken over the world by storm. But I was too deep in my own darkness to be sucked in at the time.

I went home after the Twice concert and pulled out some BTS videos on YouTube. Boy With Luv was the trending song then, and I watched the colourful, cheerful pop video with a strange detachment.

Nah, this is not it, I thought to myself. But I mindlessly clicked through the proposed videos in my algorithm, one after another, and watched, unsure what I would find but finding no reason to stop.

Then this video came up, and my life was changed forever:

Reader, something in me was touched and moved deeply by the speaker’s words. If you don’t know who the speaker is, his name is Kim Namjoon, and he is the leader of the septet. It was this speech that changed my mindset forever:

“I began to worry about what other people thought of me and started seeing myself through their eyes. I stopped looking up at the stars at night. I stopped daydreaming. I tried to jam myself into moulds that other people made. Soon, I began to shut out my own voice and started to listen to the voices of others. No one called out my name, and neither did I. My heart stopped and my eyes closed shut. So, like this, I, we, all lost our names. We became like ghosts.”

That was me, I thought.

And then these words below opened the floodgates of my tears:

“Maybe I made a mistake yesterday, but yesterday’s me is still me. I am who I am today, with all my faults. Tomorrow I might be a tiny bit wiser, and that’s me, too. These faults and mistakes are what I am, making up the brightest stars in the constellation of my life. I have come to love myself for who I was, who I am, and who I hope to become.”

Reader, I realised then how much I hated myself. My self-hatred was so strong, I could not imagine what it means to love myself. Namjoon’s words, spoken sincerely, made me instinctively know that this was a lived experience that he also went through. Like me, he once hated and rejected himself. And over time, through the music he made – specifically the platinum Love Yourself trilogy albums – he learnt what it meant to love himself again.

And that was it. I fell in love. I went on a deep dive and never looked back. I promised myself I would learn to love myself. That was how my Love Yourself journey began.

My Road To Recovery

I started facing my shadows, my darkness.

I went to therapy and addressed my wounds.

I owned up to every single fault that dotted my life like stars in a constellation.

To ensure I had an outlet for my self-hatred, I picked up strength training and have been religiously working out since 2020.

Loving myself required pouring into myself the energy and honesty I’d deprived myself of for years and finding the versions of me I’d shut away.

I slowly emancipated myself from self-limiting inhibitions and embraced being true to myself – imperfect and all.

Reader, I broke free.

If I hadn’t discovered BTS that one night, I don’t know what version of me I would become. I paid a huge price to claim back a part of me I’d locked away – my childhood dream and a lot of my old identity. But I never regretted it. My feelings needed to be owned up to and felt – once the healing began, I no longer felt the self-hatred.

My inner voice became honest, loving and truthful after seven years. It was no longer critical and harsh, nor was it burying its head in the sand to avoid reality – qualities that yes, I inherited from my childhood. Brick by brick, I built what it means to love myself. And it was all thanks to seven Korean men who showed the world the rawness and realness of being human.

A Never-ending Odyssey

One more thing – Kim Namjoon’s stage name is RM. When the group debuted in 2013, he chose Rap Monster because it represented the person he wanted to become – the dream he worked so hard for. I found out later that he changed his stage name to RM because he wanted it to stand for multiple facets and versions of him as he changed and evolved.

One of the meanings he alluded RM can stand for was ‘Real Me’. Considering how I struggled with my real self, this felt like a full circle moment.

I’m sure you can tell by now who my favourite member is. He was more than a performer to me at this point – he was the turning point, the pivot for me. I owe him and the BTS boys so much in these past seven years, so yes – I will remain devoted to them forever.

I’m leaving you with some lyrics from their B-side song, Answer: Love Yourself. These lyrics remind us that loving ourselves can be difficult, painful and yet so rewarding. I am proud of the work I’ve done, and how I fought tooth and nail to be where I am today mentally.

Suga’s verse:

Loving myself might be harder
Than loving someone else, let’s admit it
The standards you made are more strict for yourself
The thick tree rings in your life
It’s part of you, it’s you
Now let’s forgive ourselves
Our lives are long,
trust yourself when in a maze
When winter passes,
spring always comes.

RM’s verse:

Maybe there’s no answer
Maybe this isn’t the answer either
It’s just that loving myself
Doesn’t require anyone else’s permission
I’m looking for myself again
But I don’t wanna die anymore
Me, who used to be sad
Me, who used to be hurt
It’ll make me more beautiful

I carry the lines I bolded above with me now – loving myself requires no one else’s permission, and I will continue to look for myself for the rest of my life. But that’s okay.

After years of searching outside for validation, this now clicks for me. So, thank you, BTS, for the launchpad I needed to truly live for myself.

And so, it is now my reality.

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Thank you for reading my article. I am doing this because I am learning how to fall in love with writing again. It would mean a lot to me if you’d subscribe or leave a comment on how my article resonates with you…I’d love to have a chat with you, human-to-human.

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I’ve always known I would be a writer

From the moment I discovered Enid Blyton in my school library, and discovered I too could bring my own fantasy to life on a lined notebook, limited vocabulary be damned – I made up my mind. This was my calling, my destiny. My raison d’être.

My parents were supportive. Well, my dad tried – I think he would have preferred I did something in the sciences. But my late mother had my back. In fact, she turned my dream into her dream – she went around telling people she was going to be the mother of the future JK Rowling. I inherited my love for books from her; she was an avid reader and communicator herself.

That said, Asian parents are always practical, so I was counselled to pursue a degree in media and communications instead of creative writing so I could get a ‘proper job’. Seeing the rationale in that, I agreed – relieved I wasn’t being forced to pursue a career as a doctor, engineer or lawyer, as most of my friends were compelled to do at the time.

With my love for the written word as a guiding light, I was fortunate to graduate with a job offer as a writer at a magazine. And not just any magazine – I was hired to work at a luxury, high-end society magazine. It was a dream come true – my day-to-day job consisted of interviewing successful people, attending lavish parties and travelling on press junkets. To say I was ecstatic was an understatement – I was in disbelief that I had landed this wonderful job, especially during the 2008–2009 financial crisis.

Facing My Shadow

But as anyone who has watched The Devil Wears Prada knows, there are always hidden shadows behind the glitter. I was a small-town girl, and this role exposed me to a world I had never seen before, one where money and status hold sway over everything. Fortunately, I had always seen my job for what it was – a job.

I knew that when I attended events or functions, people didn’t really see me for who I am – they saw the magazine I represented and the glamour that came with it. I learnt quickly that I needed to play a part, like an actor, but I did my best to also stay authentic whenever I could. While my makeover wasn’t as drastic as Andy Sachs’ in The Devil Wears Prada, I learnt how to dress and carry myself as though I were part of the elite, and soon developed a persona to blend in.

This persona I created was a small price to pay to write the stories for the magazine. I was willing to do it. I looked forward to transcribing my interviews and putting together people’s stories – it always felt like I was piecing together puzzles. I loved the conversations I’d have with people from all walks of life, on all topics.

Plus, the stories were often accompanied by photo shoots, and I enjoyed working with creative people for editorial spreads. I have a lot of respect for the many talented art directors, photographers and stylists I worked with throughout my magazine career.

In short, it was a job I loved, and I poured 110% of myself into it, heart and soul. But when you are always running on fuel without maintenance, you will eventually crash. And that was what happened. What used to power me through – my love for writing – became a blind spot. I hung on, telling myself this was what I had always wanted.

As technology disrupted the world of traditional media, I started to lose my anchor. Coupled with creeping burnout, exhaustion from masking and nasty politics, I began to lose myself. Even as I was promoted to features editor and the trajectory to editor-in-chief was clear, I asked myself – is this worth it?

The small voice in my head said no.

No Turning Back

So I did the one thing that surprised everyone who knew me. I quit my dream job. I walked away. I didn’t know what I was going to do, but I knew I couldn’t stay. That decision was difficult, but necessary. It was overwhelming to deal with the emotional separation of who I was and who I wanted to be, but thanks to K-pop sensation BTS – which is an essay I’ll save for another time – I found the courage to leave.

Did I regret leaving? No. I would eventually land another job that healed my spirit.

But I won’t deny that something in me died the day I left my job as a writer. Without realising it, I also subconsciously made a choice to reject my identity as a writer. I locked my childhood dream away and developed a creative writing block that remains with me today.

But today, I decided to do something about it. Today, I decided I would write my truth and break away from the block that has formed. And thus this Substack was born.

Welcome to my space on the vast ocean that is the Internet, and I hope you will enjoy my reflections and ruminations as I heal.

I hope, slowly but surely, to break through my writing block.