So for our 10th edition of our women-only community zine The Pigeon Post, we wanted to ask: what does it mean to have a best friend now?

What arrived in our inbox was a beautiful reminder that there is no single way to love or be loved by our friends. These stories hold friendships that have stretched across years and distance, friendships that have changed us, and reflections on what it means to choose, cherish and keep showing up for the women in our lives.

And it feels especially fitting that friendship is at the heart of our 10th edition.

The Pigeon Post began as a way to give the stories within our community somewhere to live beyond our gatherings. 10 editions later, women across Singapore have trusted us with pieces of their inner worlds, and other women have taken the time to read them, recognise themselves in them and feel a little less alone because somebody else chose to share.

Here’s to friendship in all the forms it takes, and to 10 editions of Pigeon stories 🕊️🤍

Welcome to Volume 10: Best Friends?

✍️ Community Submissions

This newsletter is filled with entries from women in the community – their stories, reflections, creative pieces, and inner shifts. Below are excerpts from some of the pieces shared in Volume 10.

#1: Entry by a Pigeon: Dely
25, Singapore, IG: @dillydelly
Title: Friendships are Fickle

Intentions: My intention was initially just to talk about my friendship breakup, but then it became too much of a vent. I think I ended it with the message that friendships suck sometimes, but you'll find your place given the right time and place (:

You may call me an unreliable narrator—my memory of the years I spent in heartbreak feels hazy, like a dream you had as a kid you barely remember.

I went to an all girls’ school for the first eighteen years of my life. Girlhood is all I’ve ever really known—and, in that sense, I suppose I’ve experienced the good, the bad, the ugly, and the utter beauty of it all.

I moved to Singapore almost ten years ago. In doing so, I lost all of my closest friends, girls whom I’ve known since kindergarten, in the bitter transition of trying to adapt offline friendships into online ones. Weekly calls became monthly. We’d start making excuses for why we can’t talk. Then, one day, everything just went radio silent, and I never thought to message them again. It stings to see them all still together on Instagram; group photos that used to include me have been replaced with unfamiliar faces.

If I think about it, I find most friendships are fickle.

A friend had told me, “I don’t know what to say while you’re depressed”. I wonder if it was on me for even bringing it up. I hope her worries have eased in the years I’ve been away.

Another friend suddenly blocked me on all platforms out of the blue. My last message to her featured me begging for an answer, and reminding her that I truly loved her and that I’d always be in her corner. I never heard back, but I wish we’d argued and ended bitterly instead.

And yet, I’m a little older now. I can say I’m not blameless—I know that I wasn’t a good friend to many people back then. I may not even be remembered as fondly as I do them, and that’s okay.

I’ve since outgrown those friendships; I am beyond grateful for the people who found me and stuck with me through the lows, and now get to experience the highs. I listen earnestly to stories about the most mundane things, because it is a privilege to have them tell me these things at all.

My best friend today lives 10,000 kilometers from me. We’ve only met twice in the span of seven years. This coming December marks the third—yet, I don’t feel the need to force it. I don’t look for excuses why we can’t call, I just tell them I’m too tired, and that’s enough. I don’t have any reason to text them everyday, I just do, and they reply.

Perhaps, the point of this article was that I find myself still yearning for connection, and that yearning was what brought me to the people in my life today. To have friends can mean those friendships are fickle, and the fickleness of it all is what has pushed me to search harder for the deeper bonds I have today. If everything happens for a reason, then I’m right where I’m meant to be, with the people who want me in their lives, and vice versa.

#2: Entry by a Pigeon: Ocean
25, Singapore, IG: @ocean_inthemoon
Title: The Heart Wants A Best Friend Despite Its Hurt

My intention for writing this: Though initially a form of self expression, I’ve realised that sharing my story can serve as a mirror for others reading it to reflect on their own relationship with friendships. To the Pigeons who resonated with what I've said, I want to tell you that you are equally deserving of the same compassion or empathy you may have felt for me. Forming friendships is already hard in itself. Yet not all friendships work out. And it's normal to struggle with trust and hope when you've been hurt. None of it makes you broken, or means that something is wrong with you.

‘Cause when the red starts to go, will you love what’s on the other side? -Adéla

I don’t think I’ve ever had a best friend. Even amongst the longest friendships from my secondary school years, I always felt an invisible gulf between myself and others. For a long time, I had always been aware of my low ranking in the friend group hierarchy, and that left me feeling like I was never that deeply connected to anyone.

After all, one of the core ideas I have of good friendship is mutuality. And if you preferred someone else’s presence over mine, I would be delusional to think of us as having such a special bond anyway.

Honestly, I don’t know what a best friend is even supposed to be.

Is it being each other’s favourite person? Knowing and understanding everything about each other deeply? Or maybe having a shared sense of unity, like us against the world?

Regardless, I’ve yet to feel it for real.

I’ve ever wondered if it was my own fault. Was I not funny, interesting, or warm enough? Was I too quiet or weird for anyone to wanna be around?

Or did my secret fear of sharing the ugly, messy, difficult sides of myself and getting rejected for it, destroy any chance of ever getting close enough to another person to call them my best friend?

It happened before. Even the people you thought would stay, eventually see something they can’t accept, and they go. When you realise that no friendship is guaranteed to last forever, it feels too risky and painful for the heart to ever commit to the idea of getting close again.

But as they like to say, human beings are wired for connection.

And unfortunately, I am one. (I wish I was a cloud or a rock instead)

And so the heart wants what it wants despite the pain and suffering attached to it.

Recently, I’ve been thinking that maybe I’m not seeking a best friend in a person, but rather a feeling. Of being seen, held, and chosen no matter who or what I am at that moment. Whether I’m positively sparkling or bleeding out feeling like less than human.

Maybe it’s a mutual sense of love and belonging. That they care just as much as I do.

Of feeling assured that if I give my heart to treat you like a special person to me, you won’t repay me with humiliation and regret.

Of not having to perform unproblematic, never inconveniencing perfection for you.

Still, I want to hope in spite of the heartbreaks. That surely, my bestie really does exist. And we’re just a few seasons of growth away. And it’s not a mistake or a curse that I have the longing for that kind of friendship. For as long as hope lives, I will believe in my vision of a happy future spent alongside genuine, unconditional love.

And that’s it!

Thanks for reading.(⁠◡⁠ ⁠ω⁠ ⁠◡⁠)

- Ocean

#2: Entry by a Pigeon: tiffanywolf
23, Singapore, IG: @she_isawolf
Title: The Weight I Place On Friends

My intention for writing this: I hope pigeons take away that friendships don't have to be all or nothing. We don't need to search for one perfect best friend who fulfils every emotional need. Different friends can bring out different parts of us, and every friendship can serve a different purpose. I also hope this piece encourages people to stay open to meeting new people. Sometimes, when we become too attached to the idea of finding deep connections and so focus on finding "the right friend", we unintentionally close ourselves off from the friendships that are slowly growing around us.

Opening up has never come naturally to me; I think I’ve always been a more guarded person. For a long time, I held onto the belief that surface-level friendships were fake, and if the vibe felt even slightly off with someone new, I’d immediately pull away. Looking back, I realize that this mindset placed an unfair weight on the very few people I actually let into my inner world.

In my first year of university, I met a friend who felt like the exception to my guarded nature. We traveled together, sang karaoke, and hung out after class. Because I felt comfortable sharing my insecurities, my aspirations, and my content ideas with her, I assumed we had a deep bond.

We were always sharing funny TikTok videos with each other. One day, I found her secondary TikTok account. I followed it but when I came across her account again sometime later, I noticed I was no longer following her. She had removed me from her list. As I scrolled through her profile, I saw her posting content of us hanging out together.
I was spiraling with questions:Why remove me? Why copy my video ideas? Why are her views higher than mine? Why is there this hidden competition, and why is she hiding from me?

Every time we hung out, I’d talk endlessly about the Tiktok videos I wanted to make, while she stayed completely quiet about her own plans. I was jealous of her higher views and shares. But what hurt far more was the realization that while I was pouring my heart out, she was deliberately keeping an entire side of her life hidden from me.

I started to question everything. Had I mistaken my own comfort for mutual depth? Was I the only one carrying the weight of this closeness?

I felt foolish for oversharing, mistaking my open heart for mutual intimacy. I was laying out my inner world while knowing next to nothing of hers. We were wonderful at making memories, but perhaps we were never meant to carry each other’s emotional depth.

I never brought any of this up to her, so she had no idea about the storm inside me or how close I came to walking away.

Sitting with those feelings brought a clearer realization: I was dumping all my emotional expectations onto one person. Having few friends made me subconsciously place an overwhelming weight on someone I didn’t truly know beneath the surface. Maybe she kept quiet simply because she wanted to, or perhaps she is a guarded person, too.

Looking back, she was never meant to be my ride-or-die—she was someone I could enjoy life with. And that’s completely okay. She is a good person, and I’m genuinely grateful for the two years of friendship we shared in university.

Deep, soulful friendships are rare and precious, but one person was never meant to be everything. Unlike romance, friendship allows us to have many people in our lives, each revealing a different piece of who we are. I’m learning to release the belief that surface-level friendships are fake or that every bond requires deep vulnerability. Lighthearted connections can be healthy too. Now, I’m learning to accept people for who they are, appreciate the specific space they hold in my life, and keep the door open for whoever comes next.

#4: Entry by a Pigeon: Sabrina / Sabby
25, Singapore, IG: @whatsabbyreads
Title: I don’t have a best friend, and I like it better that way

“Kindred spirits are not so scarce as I used to think. It’s splendid to find out there are so many of them in the world.” - Anne of Green Gables

Growing up in the era of Princess Diaries, Wild Child and Angus, Thongs and Perfect Snogging, combined with being an avid reader, and soon after, chronically online, I learned that there is one thing a self-respecting woman must have, more so than a Prince Charming or a Happily Ever After: a best friend.

And like any other aspiring self-respecting woman, I endeavoured as a young girl to achieve.

But how does a child define the term best? How would that premature definition hold as the child changes -- first as a girl, then as a teenager, dancing, teetering back and forth between what came before and what waits beyond the threshold of adulthood, in the liminal space between being young and being an adult -- before expanding, finally, into a woman?

I will not bore you with the stories of friendship breakups, girls growing up and growing apart, nor will I flaunt the ‘success’ stories of having friends who have stood the ‘test’ of time, seen me through all my different eras, celebrating arbitrary milestones of X number of years of friendship.

In all the good and bad, and all the years I’ve experienced both, the biggest lesson I’ve learned as a woman is that they were wrong. (Not about friendship, of course. If anything, as a woman, I’ve now come to believe in the importance and sacredness of community and love amongst other women more sincerely and intentionally than I ever did as a girl.)

They were wrong about the best of it all.

The best friend: the one above the rest, the ride or die, the other half, the pride and worth measured by how many years it survived, how many versions of each other we managed to endure, how many ways we changed for better or for worse.

I don’t think love works like that.

I don’t believe that we are only given one soulmate, or one twin flame, one soul to love in a way no other can or should experience. I think there are kindred spirits everywhere: in the people we find, and in the people who find us; in the relationships we nurture and the love we choose to perform every day.

There are people who I once told everything to, who now know very little about my life; beautiful people and friendships I have loved deeply and lost -- that did not survive the distance between who we were and who we became. I do not think its current absence makes what came before less real. While it lasted, it was the best.

There are friendships that stretch and fold, growing, morphing around change, adjusting to fit themselves around the new shapes our connection formed. In the myriad of experiences and feelings we get from our relationships with others, very few can best the joy of being able to change and transform together with another.

I am a museum of everyone I have ever loved. I am the hobbies I have learned, the jokes I have stolen, the phrases I have made my own -- first heard and spoken by someone I’ve known.

I am made up of every friend I have ever held dear, and every hand I have had to let go.

Some people arrive exactly at the moment in which we need them, and they leave just as soon as we don’t. Some friends know me as a girl; some met me as I became a woman. Some of my bestest friends will meet me in the future, knowing a version of me that does not even exist yet.

To take all these different loves -- the great loves of my life, the best friends in my life, and all the different ways I have been known, seen, heard and loved -- and to place one above the rest, to me, is a disservice to the richness of having known them at all.

To all the friends I’ve ever known, from before, now, and in the future:

i carry your heart with me (i carry it in my heart)

#5: Entry by a Pigeon: Asha
28, Singapore, IG: @asha.thepigeon
Title: The Little Pieces We Leave Behind

I think sometimes as adults, we can become very outcome-oriented about friendship.

We want to make friends. We want to find our people. We wonder whether the women we meet will become close friends, whether we’ll see each other again, whether the connection will turn into something.

I totally understand that desire. Screaming Pigeons exists, in part, because I believe deeply in the importance of meaningful female friendship! But perhaps not every connection needs to become a friendship to have been truly meaningful.

I’ve seen emotional shifts happen within the span of a 2-hour Pigeon gathering often enough now that I don’t think I can dismiss them as small. There is something incredibly powerful about being briefly witnessed by another person.

So much of becoming a person happens in relationship with other people. Sometimes another woman shows you a possibility for your life simply by living hers in front of you.

Maybe she gives you courage. Maybe she challenges something you believed. Maybe she makes you feel normal at exactly the moment you were wondering if you were the only person in the world feeling what you were feeling. Maybe nothing enormous happens at all, you simply leave feeling warmer than when you arrived.

And she doesn’t have to become your best friend for that to matter. She might not even become your friend. She might be the woman you sat beside at a Pigeon Circle once. The person you walked with for twenty minutes during Trail Chats. Someone across the table at dinner. You might never see each other again.

And still, something happened because you met. Something magical, and intangible, and real.

We are constantly leaving little pieces of ourselves with one another. Little pieces that might become courage, perspective, comfort, permission, or simply a memory of being seen.

And I think that’s a stunning, stunning thing to know and acknowledge.

💌 A Note to Close

And with that, we’ve somehow reached the end of our 10th edition of The Pigeon Post 🥹

Thank you to every Pigeon who has read one edition, all 10, or found us somewhere in between. Thank you for opening these emails, sitting with the words of women you may never have met, sending pieces to friends, replying with your own reflections, and giving these stories somewhere to land.

And, of course, thank you to every woman who has trusted us with something she created. Across ten editions, you’ve shared friendship and heartbreak, mothers and daughters, travel and identity, ambition, grief, joy, art, photographs, poems, messy thoughts and pieces of yourselves that were still being figured out.

The Pigeon Post only exists because women are willing to share their inner worlds, and because there are other women willing to be curious enough to listen.

On 30 August, we got to celebrate that in real life for the first time, bringing stories from The Pigeon Post off the page for our 10th Edition Anniversary with our Pigeon Storytellers at the Casual Poet’s Library. It was incredibly special to watch words that once arrived quietly in our inbox be spoken aloud in a room full of women who had intentionally come to listen. We’ll be sharing a little video from the afternoon very soon, so keep an eye out. 🐦📖

💌 Open Call: Volume 11, “Being a Woman in a Body

September is Sexual Health Month, and it got us thinking about something much bigger than sex alone: what it actually feels like to live in a woman’s body.

This month, we’d love to explore the complicated, intimate, sometimes frustrating, sometimes joyful relationship we have with our bodies. What has your body taught you? What has it carried? What has it made difficult? What has it made possible?

Maybe it’s a story about periods, sex, fertility, PCOS, endometriosis, pregnancy, choosing not to have children, painful sex, contraception, pleasure, ageing, weight, hair, boobs, disability, exercise, body image, or learning to understand your own anatomy.

Maybe it’s about feeling dismissed by a doctor. Feeling disconnected from your body. Feeling betrayed by it. Learning to trust it again. Realising you actually like the way you look. Feeling strong for the first time. Feeling sexy. Feeling ashamed. Feeling completely neutral. Or perhaps your relationship with your body is still changing, and you don’t quite know how you feel about it yet.

As always, we’re looking for stories that are personal, honest, messy, joyful, unresolved, and still unfolding.

What can I submit?

💌 A letter to your body
✍️ Personal essays, diary entries, or reflections
📝 Poetry, book or film reviews
📸 Photography and photo essays
🎨 Illustrations, comics, or visual art
🌿 Anything else that feels like you

Women-only submissions. Anonymous or pseudonymous submissions are always welcome. 500-word limit. Open to all ages.

📩 Submit your work to hello@screamingpigeons.co
Deadline: 20 September 2026

We can’t wait to read the stories of the bodies you’ve lived in, loved, struggled with, changed, protected, questioned, celebrated, and slowly learnt to call your own.

Here’s to the next ten. 🕊️🤍

With love,
Asha
Founder & Editor, The Pigeon Post

Tonight, we’re building on everything you learnt at the taster and going deeper into scene work, storytelling and short-form improv games. We’ll play around with creating stronger scenes, raising the stakes, making interesting choices and figuring out what actually makes an improvisation memorable.

(CLICK HERE FOR DETAILS)

Basically: more time to play, experiment, perform, trust your instincts and hehe haha with the girls.

So if your evening is currently looking suspiciously empty and you qualify for Intermediate… this is your sign hehe.

🎭 Intermediate Improv with Pigeons
📅 Tonight, 31 August 2026, 7:30PM, Maxwell MRT
🎟️ 3 spots remaining (CLICK HERE TO RSVP)
🐦 Prerequisite: At least one Screaming Pigeons Improv Taster within the past year OR improv / drama background that makes you familiar with scene work.

And so, our women-only digital community zine The Pigeon Post became our little corner of the internet dedicated to female friendship, womanhood and intentional connection, written by the women in our community. Tomorrow, we publish our 10th Edition! 🥹

Over those 10 editions, more than 30 stories from women across Singapore have found a home here.

We’ve written about wild joy and the goals we’re scared to say out loud. We’ve explored our relationships with our mothers and our bodies. We’ve shared trips that changed us, celebrated Pride, written love letters to friendship, and made space for the things we wanted to say before another year ended.

Introducing: Pigeon Storytellers 📖🕊️

Tomorrow afternoon, we’ll gather at Casual Poets Library to celebrate 10 editions of The Pigeon Post, by hearing some of the stories that have shaped it, read aloud by the women who wrote them.

Check out the fellow pigeons from our community who had something they wanted to say, wrote it down, trusted us with it, and are now brave enough to give those words their own voice as Pigeon Storytellers.

Whether your piece is being read tomorrow or has simply lived quietly on these digital pages, you've helped build this publication with us. Every submission has been an act of trust, a tiny window into somebody else's friendship, family, fear, joy, identity, body, ambition or becoming!

DETAILS HERE IF YOU’RE KEEN TO COME DOWN!

And before we gather tomorrow… Issue 10 is coming 💌

Our 10th edition of The Pigeon Post, Best Friends?, will be published tomorrow before Pigeon Storytellers. If you submitted a piece for this edition: your words will officially be out in the world tomorrow 🤍

It feels particularly fitting that the edition bringing us to number 10 is about best friends because so much of Screaming Pigeons began with one question: what happens when we take female friendship as seriously as we take every other relationship in our lives?

And then, a few hours later, we’ll sit together in a room and listen.

Ten editions. More than 30 stories. One very special afternoon.

The Pigeon Post is coming to life 🕊️

Here’s what’s happening in the Pigeon universe over the next couple of weeks!

🎭 Monday, 31 August: Women-Only Intermediate Improv Night, 7:30–10:00 pm (15 pax)

For the Pigeons who came to an improv taster and thought: wait... I want MORE.

Our Intermediate Improv Night is for women who have attended at least one Screaming Pigeons improv taster within the past year and want to build on what they learnt.

We’ll spend less time covering the fundamentals and much more time actually playing — short-form games, scenes, storytelling, experimenting, performing and learning to trust your instincts without having twelve internal meetings before opening your mouth.

Expect laughter. Expect chaos. Expect to occasionally have absolutely no idea what you’re doing and discover that you can keep going anyway.

Come if: you’ve attended a previous Pigeon improv taster and want more opportunities to play, perform and get comfortable thinking on your feet.

🎟 Click here for event details

💻 Sunday, 6 September: Pigeon PowerPoint Party, 2:00–5:00 pm (25 pax)

Possibly one of our most unserious ways of getting to know someone surprisingly well.

The premise is simple: 5-minute presentations on literally anything.

Come to present, come to cheer everyone else on, or simply come because spending a Sunday afternoon listening to women passionately defend completely unnecessary opinions sounds like your idea of fun. It’s low-pressure, high-energy and designed to give everyone permission to be a little ridiculous.

Come if: you want to laugh, meet new Pigeons, practise speaking in front of people without it feeling like public speaking, or finally give that presentation nobody asked for.

🎟 Click here for event details

🍑 Sunday, 13 September: The No Filter Guide to Female Pleasure, 2:00–5:00pm | Sexual Health Month Special (15-20 pax)

So many women grow up learning about pregnancy and periods while learning surprisingly little about the bodies we actually live in — our anatomy, pleasure, what feels good, what differs from person to person, and how to communicate what we want.

Together with Noorindah Iskandar, founder of Shy & Curious and sexual wellness advocate, we’re creating a structured workshop that combines practical sexual-health education with the warmth of honest, big-sister-style girl talk.

We’ll explore female anatomy and pleasure points, the basics of male anatomy, sexual wellness toys and tools, boundaries and preferences, and how we can communicate our desires without feeling embarrassed or demanding.

There’s no expectation to disclose anything about your own sex life, and you can arrive knowing absolutely nothing. The goal is simply to make learning about our own bodies feel normal, useful and considerably less taboo.

Come if: there are things about female pleasure you’ve secretly Googled, wondered about or realised nobody ever properly taught you.

🎟 Click here for event details

🍝 Every Friday: Dinner with Pigeons

Sometimes you don’t need an activity. You just need five other women who care about making new female friendships too. Dinner with Pigeons is our completely self-led, unstructured offering: a table of 6 women who want to be intentional about female friendship, matched because they chose the same Friday evening.

Tomorrow, 28 August
20s–30s: 1 spot left (Click here to RSVP)
30s–40s: 1 spot left (Click here to RSVP)

Friday, 4 September
20s–30s: FULL
30s–40s: 5 spots left (Click here to RSVP)

Come if: you’ve been saying you want to meet more women in Singapore but would rather do it over dinner than at a traditional social or networking event.

Friendship doesn’t only deepen when we sit across from one another and talk about our lives. It happens when we do things together, when we play, get curious, learn something, embarrass ourselves slightly, discover shared interests and see different sides of one another.

Come alone. Come curious. You don’t need to already know anyone in the room.

We’ll take it from there 🕊️

🕊️ Who we are

Screaming Pigeons curates intentional gatherings for women in their 20s and 30s in Singapore who believe there’s something magical about female friendship.

We believe the best friendships don’t just make life more fun; they shape who we become. So we create spaces for women to meet beyond work and networking, try new things together, introspect, play, learn and hopefully find a few people they want to see again.

Stay tuned here for monthly things to do in Singapore, for intentional women.

Every month, we gather for a slow 2–3 km walk through one of Singapore’s beautiful green spaces. Along the way, we pair up, swap conversation partners, and use thoughtful prompts to spark conversations that go beyond, “So... what do you do?”

There’s something walking side by side with women who love intentional conversation that makes opening up feel easier.

Whether you’re new to Singapore, looking to meet like-minded women, or simply craving a slower weekend, Trail Chats is a chance to step away from the noise and reconnect, with nature, with yourself, and with others.

🌿 Upcoming Trail Chats

Friday, 20 August 2026 (Friday), 9am-11am

📍 Chestnut Nature Park
🎟 RSVP here

Saturday, 21 August 2026 (Saturday), 9 am-11am

📍 Pasir Ris Park
🎟 RSVP here

Hosted by Asha, Founder of Screaming Pigeons, who firmly believes that some of the most meaningful friendships begin with saying hello to a stranger. If you’ve been curious about the community or simply want to spend your Saturday morning with thoughtful women, she’d love to meet you.

No hiking experience is needed, just comfortable shoes, a bottle of water, and an openness to conversation.

Most women come alone. Many leave knowing at least a few new names.

We’d love for one of them to be yours 🐦

Here are some of our takeaways from the Trails.

We are more alike than we think.

One conversation kept resurfacing throughout the morning. Despite our different jobs, backgrounds, personalities and life experiences, the pigeons realised that underneath it all, we carried many of the same fears.

Sometimes it’s easy to believe everyone else has it figured out because we only ever see the polished version of people’s lives. Then you spend a few hours walking beside strangers, and suddenly you realise:

“Oh... we’re actually asking ourselves many of the same questions.”

There was something incredibly comforting about that!

The women who made us brave

One of my favourite prompts of the morning was:

“Who is a woman in your life that made you brave?”

Some spoke about mothers who quietly modelled resilience. There were best friends who believed in them before they believed in themselves. Sisters. Mentors. Mother figures.

It was one of those moments where you realise bravery isn’t always loud. Sometimes it looks like someone lending you courage until you can find your own.

The accidental 2-hour extension!

Confession. This Trail Chats somehow ran... almost two hours over??

Nobody noticed. Not Asha. Not the group. It wasn’t until we were making our way back that someone checked the time and we all collectively went, “Wait... what?!”

Honestly, we think that’s one of the nicest compliments an experience can receive. We’d simply fallen into such a comfortable rhythm of walking, talking, listening and wandering that nobody was in a rush to leave.

A little reminder

People sometimes ask why Trail Chats is a ticketed event. The experience isn’t accidental because the route is walked beforehand, every conversation prompt is thoughtfully designed, every session is facilitated with care, keeping conversations flowing, making sure quieter voices have space, reading the group’s energy, and creating a place where strangers can genuinely connect.

Intentional community takes intention. So thank you for valuing that work, for trusting us with your Sunday mornings, and for continuing to show up for one another. It means more than you know!

🌿 Join us on the next Trail Chats with the pigeons

Trail Chats: After Hours

📍 Sunday, 10 August | 6:30–8:30pm
A slower evening walk around Marina Bay hosted by Sudhi. City lights, meaningful conversations, and a chance to wind down before the new week.

Trail Chats: Chestnut Nature Park

📍 Friday, 21 August | 9:00–11:00am
Hosted by Asha. Our weekday edition for anyone who prefers quieter trails and a slower morning in nature.

We’d love to walk with you.

📸 Photos by @boadolean 🫶🏼

When we chose “Pride” as this month’s theme, we hoped to create a space that would shine a light on the LGBTQ+ voices within our community. At the same time, we wanted to leave room for a broader conversation about identity, belonging, culture, courage, and the many ways we come to know ourselves.

What arrived in our inbox reminded us that pride is rarely one thing.

Sometimes it’s loud and joyful. Sometimes it’s quiet and deeply personal. It can be found in coming out, but also in choosing not to. In finding your people. In embracing your culture. In allowing yourself to become someone you once thought you couldn’t be. We were genuinely moved by every piece in this issue.

More than anything, we hope these stories help you feel a little less alone.

Whether you see yourself reflected in these pages or find yourself learning about an experience different from your own, we hope you’ll read with curiosity, compassion, and an open heart.

Welcome to Volume 9.

✍️ Community Submissions

This newsletter is filled with entries from women in the community – their stories, reflections, creative pieces, and inner shifts. Below are excerpts from some of the pieces shared in Volume 6.

#1: Entry by a Pigeon: Anonymous Pigeon (J)
Singapore
Title: Love Language

I believe my love language shall always be cowardice. Because what am I without hiding, shamed and guilt?

I should have known the consequences I will come face to face with once I accepted the fact that I have indeed fell for someone of the same gender. It was heavy not because I felt that it was a sin because how can loving purely be a sin but it was because I knew the impending doom I’ll go through. But I did not expect it to hurt so badly that the once fluttering and exciting feeling will turned into unease and panic.

She’s undeniably cool and beautiful, something about her seems very homely. Perhaps it was my delusion but I always find her beautiful when her hair fall into place like dominos. I find peace in knowing is impossible to have her. But of course, my presence and endearing will always be greeted by disgust.

Till this day, I don’t know what happened but I’ll take this writing as the loudest I’ll ever be. Sometimes I wish she knew how I felt when somebody says her name around me, the longing despite everything. But I want to thank her nonetheless, for being the first person I truly admire. For her comfort and peace, I’ll go through every pain possible.

If there’s a God or a creator, I hope the pain and suffering I went through, the panic attacks and dread is enough for you to take away my longing of wanting someone. It has truly been a painful one despite being something I should take pride on but I can no longer hold it in for something that clearly doesn’t belongs to me.

To the person reading this, I hope you know that at the end of the day, love is beautiful. Painfully beautiful. And may you get the love you’re always meant to receive.

To her, with shaking hands, I say thank you and I will always keep you in my prayers. May you reach everything you want.

To me, I hope you know that the pain is tougher than you thought. And may we never go through it again. May the next time if we ever love someone again, it’ll be nothing but ease.

But for now, I shall stay a coward.

#2: Entry by a Pigeon: Anonymous Pigeon (ZZ)
Singapore
Title: Pride but in who or what?

“You might be alone in this moment...but no one is born in this world to be alone.” Jaguar D Saul, One Piece

And so I find myself estranged from my family. For such a textbook family estrangement reason it’s almost a laughable cliché if it didn’t feel like someone roundhouse-kicked me right in my stomach. I know this is a Pride submission so just to clarify, I’m cis, straight and abandoned! (OK only partially abandoned but we don’t need the specifics of which family member has or hasn’t reached out and whether those messages were intended to guilt-trip or not).

To top it off, I’ve had a few big friendship breakups a while back. And friendship breakups are the worst because, damn, I’m not even good enough for bi-monthly brunches? It’s not fully a bummer girl summer though I swear I have big things going on in my life.

Now the inevitable question from you, dear reader, is, “If everyone left ya, maybe you’re the problem?” At this point I remind myself of the boundless warmth given to me from the pigeons I’ve met that I’m left to wonder if that question was just a projection from the most judgemental corners of my mind.

But rest assured, I have gone to therapy sessions to enquire about the above. I checked a little under 20 times whether I’m a “covert narcissist” who expects everyone to bend to my whims, and my therapist EMDR-ed me into grappling with the fact that many of those around me never really loved me in the way I thought they did. It’s quite a brain bender in that I say, “Okay I’m done being sad how do I move on” and she goes, “No no sadness is important,” so I basically flunked Inside Out 101 and we can all add that to my list of failures.

Outside the therapist’s door though I grapple with the conflict of interest that comes with paying someone to validate my feelings. But I figure she’s the professional and I believe in listening to experts about vaccines and climate change and for them to all get that bag so I relent to her infinite wisdom and hot tea and cookies.

All this to say that pride is a difficult thing to feel when the number of people who love and accept you has an inverse relationship to your age. It is a specific kind of embarrassment to indicate to others that you’re not wanted in people’s lives. Between tiktok comments that proclaim, “I don’t trust a girl with no friends” and boomers preaching that the youth expect too much from parents, I sometimes feel like a loser through and through. I often wonder if I give off the energy of that one guy on a first date talking about “my crazy exes”.

And despite all this, the depths of my being insist on my own pride in myself. Call it arrogance, having a good therapist, or being a Sagittarius but goddammit I refuse to be forever ashamed for not yet finding the right people. Maybe I don’t have the sitcom friendship group, or the perfectly unique ragtag found family, but maybe I just haven’t found them yet. And to be ashamed of the rising action phase of my life is to denounce the fundamentals of all storytelling. If I didn’t enter this world a fully realised human being then perhaps some grace should be given to the realising part of it all.

To ensure I’m not insulting the wonderful people around me who love me and rebuilt my scaffolding as it was wasting away, I would like to clarify I’m not completely devoid of any love in my life.

It’s just if I’m being honest my vents about loss of relationships to them are reaching anime flashback levels of repetition and I would like to spare them further torture.

So, while I’m not sure what the moral of the story is yet, my hope for anyone reading is to feel a boundless and unbridled pride in yourself, to be proud of whatever you’ve achieved or sacrificed, and to acknowledge all losses no matter how big or trivial they may seem.

Rejoice in the potential of your life, of the foods you have yet to try, of the places you will visit, of the people you are going to love and most of all of the person you will choose to be.

#3: Entry by a Pigeon: Sudhi
24 | Singapore | @sudhi_side_up
Title: Dabba Diaries: Packed with pride

A dabba is a lunchbox by definition. For many Indian families, it’s a small container carrying homemade food, a part of their culture and love. It was a tradition my immigrant mother brought with her when she moved to Singapore.She would fill the lunchboxes of my brother and I with vegetarian food, lovingly made at 6am right before we took the 6:30am bus to primary school.

Yet, the lunchbox made us outcasts. While everyone would buy hot bowls and plates of food at the canteen stalls that often lacked vegetarian options, we would pull out our dabbas, just to be mocked. The moment we opened the lids, some would complain about the smell of the contents inside, while others thought we couldn’t afford to buy meals like the rest.

I, on the other hand, would secretly look forward to the ‘surprise’ meal inside everyday, sort of like a culinary mystery box of my own. It also helped that I didn’t have to spend my pocket money on lunch and could instead treat myself to an ice cream, a small treat or save up for something better. When I had a bad day, the taste of home cooked delicacies comforted me. I would even sneak away and eat at other parts of the school because I didn’t want to be judged for bringing a lunchbox.

Despite this, it didn’t help that the simple act of packing my own lunch, set me apart from the rest and made it harder to feel like I belonged. As I made the shift to secondary school, it meant a new start in many ways. I started bringing a variety of dishes to school. My dabba began to evolve alongside me. One day it held fried rice, another day tacos, and on rainy afternoons, Maggi noodles or cheesy vegetable pasta. Alongside traditional Indian meals, my lunchbox reflected my nature as a foodie.

By the time I entered Junior College, the dabba was a flex. My friends would look forward to what I had brought and even ask to taste the food I brought. It was so convenient, if I didn’t have the time or interest to queue up at stalls, I could eat right away to soothe my hunger pangs and use the rest of Recess to chill.

In university, even though I stayed on campus, when I returned home for the weekend, I would have some boxes packed and ready to go into my fridge for the first day or two of the week ahead. I didn’t have to think about where to buy a meal after classes sometimes, and if I had to study last minute for a test, the dabba was my saviour.

My lunchbox is now no longer something I hide. It’s a subtle reminder that the parts of ourselves we once tried to shrink are often the ones worth celebrating. It’s time to own it rather than mask it. Today, as a working woman, I still carry a lunchbox to work. What once made me feel different has become something I cherish. It has a piece of my culture in it, so I pack it with pride.

💌 A Note to Close

Thank you to every pigeon who shared their words, art, humour, and inner world with us for Volume 9. This little collection exists because of you; the women who continue to show up, create, connect, and make this space what it is.

💌 Open Call: Volume 10 - “Best Friend?”

August begins with National Girlfriends Day, and it got us thinking about one of the most significant relationships many of us will ever have: our best friend.

This month, we’d love to explore what the idea of a best friend means in your life

.

Who is she? The person who has seen every version of you? The one you text first when life falls apart? The friend you’ve grown up alongside or perhaps grown apart from?

As children, many of us believed we’d have one best friend forever. But adulthood often tells a more complicated story. Some friendships deepen with time. Others quietly end. Sometimes your best friend is your sister. Your partner. Your mum. Someone you met only a year ago. Sometimes, you’re still searching for her.

Maybe it’s a love letter to someone who’s changed you. A reflection on losing a friendship you thought would last forever. The joy of finding your people in your 20s or 30s. The quiet ways your best friend has made you braver, softer, kinder, or more yourself. Or perhaps it’s the grief of questioning the very idea of having one “best” friend at all.

As always, we’re looking for stories that are personal, honest, messy, joyful, unresolved, and still unfolding.

What can I submit?

💌 A letter to your best friend (that you may or may not send)
✍️ Personal essays, diary entries, or reflections
📝 Poetry, book or film reviews
📸 Photography and photo essays
🎨 Illustrations, comics, or visual art
🌿 Anything else that feels like you.

Women-only submissions. Anonymous or pseudonymous submissions are always welcome. 500-word limit. Open to all ages.

📩 Submit your work to hello@screamingpigeons.co
Deadline: 20th August 2026

We can’t wait to meet the women who have shaped your story, and perhaps discover what it really means to call someone your best friend.

We’re still looking for writers for our July issue of our women-only newsletter, The Pigeon Post, and we’d really love to hear from you 💌

This month’s theme is PRIDE. And if you’ve been thinking, “I don’t know if I have a Pride story to tell, you might have more to write about than you think.

Your piece could be about:

P: People who inspire you
Someone who helped you become more yourself. A friend, chosen family, partner, stranger, or community.

R: Roots
Your relationship with your culture, family, background or where you come from — especially when different parts of your identity don’t fit neatly together.

I: Individuality
Learning to take up space as yourself. The parts of you you’ve hidden, embraced, questioned, reclaimed, or are still figuring out.

D: Defining moments
A first crush. Coming out—or choosing not to. Finding your people. Realising something about yourself. A friendship or moment that quietly changed everything.

E: Experiences you’re proud of
Big or small. Something you’ve survived, chosen, unlearned, celebrated, or finally allowed yourself to be.

🌈 We especially want to amplify LGBTQ+ voices within our community, but your story does not need to be a coming-out story, a perfectly resolved reflection, or an essay about your identity.

It can be joyful. Complicated. Ordinary. Funny. Unfinished!

And you absolutely do not need to be “a writer.” We’re looking for honest human stories, not perfect prose.

If sharing publicly feels vulnerable, anonymous or pseudonymous submissions are welcome too. We want you to be able to share in whatever way feels comfortable for you.

💌 Submit your story to our email: hello@screamingpigeons.co by 25th July 2026
🌳 Maximum 500 characters, women-only submissions (no age limit)

If something came to mind while reading this email, maybe that’s the story. We’d really love to read it.

Warmly,
Asha & The Screaming Pigeons Team 🕊️

Thought Prompt: How can you show up a little better for the friendships already in your life?

This month’s conversation invited nine women to slow down and honestly reflect on what female friendships look like in this season of their lives.

Through guided journalling, thoughtful prompts, and small group conversations, we explored the friendships that have shaped us, the ones we’ve outgrown, and the kinds of women we’d like to become for the friends already in our lives. As always, we walked away with far more questions than answers.

Here are a few reflections that have stayed with us.

If you had to describe friendship in one word...

Around the circle came words like:

Alignment. Nostalgia. Understanding. Community. Unity. Girlhood.

And then, quietly:

Grief. Difficult.

We loved that there wasn’t a “correct” answer. For some women, friendship was still deeply joyful. For others, it was something they were still making sense of. The room held both realities at once, without anyone trying to convince the other they were wrong. Perhaps that’s what adulthood looks like.

Lifelong friendships are rarer than we think

We often grow up believing we’ll have the same group of girlfriends forever. In reality, careers shift, relationships change, people move countries, priorities evolve, and sometimes we simply become different versions of ourselves.

It made us realise that lifelong female friendships are actually incredibly precious!

Thought Prompt: Do you have one or two women who have witnessed multiple versions of you and still choose to stay?

What drains a friendship... and what keeps it alive?

Another prompt invited everyone to reflect on what currently drains them in friendship, and what makes them feel energised.

Women spoke about friendships feeling draining when there were poor boundaries, passive aggression, emotional imbalance, dishonesty, or simply not showing up consistently for one another.

What nourished them, however, looked much simpler.

Checking in without needing a reason.

Keeping a sense of play alive.

Being open-minded.

Having the honesty to admit when you’re lost.

Someone even shared that she still has sleepovers with her closest girlfriends!

A question we’d love to leave with you

Towards the end of the afternoon, our conversation shifted away from finding better friends and towards being one. It’s easy to ask what we’re looking for in friendship. It’s much harder to ask what we’re offering.

So we’ll leave you with the same reflection we left the room with:

Thought Prompt: How can you show up a little better for the friendships already in your life?

Perhaps the next meaningful friendship you’re hoping for isn’t a new one. Perhaps it’s already sitting in your phone, waiting for a message.

This month’s recap is shared by Sudhi, our wonderful Pigeon Host, who led this edition of Trail Chats.

🌿 Join Us for the Next Trail Chats
📍Sunday, 2 August 2026 | 9.00am–11.00am
Trail Chats: Pulau Ubin Island (Hosted by Asha). We’ll be slowing down once again, this time exploring the quiet trails of Pulau Ubin together through nature, conversation, and intentional connection. More details here

Fun fact about this particular Trail Chats: Unlike some of our previous hikes where many participants already knew one another, this walk was almost entirely made up of first-time Pigeons! Aside from one returning guest, every woman had arrived on her own, unsure of who she’d meet or what the morning might hold. We find there’s always something quite special about that.

🌈 We began with a series of reflection prompts inspired by Pride Month. Rather than focusing solely on identity, we explored pride in its many forms: the things we’re proud of, the parts of ourselves we’ve had to fight for, the journeys that have shaped us, and the courage it takes to live authentically.

As the pigeons walked, the conversations naturally found their own rhythm.

One thing that always amazes us is how quickly people move beyond surface-level introductions when they’re given permission to do so. People shared relationship breakups, friendship heartbreaks, questions about belonging, and the uncertainty of navigating adulthood. Some spoke about moving overseas and wondered whether they’d eventually come home. Others had already returned after years abroad and reflected on what it meant to build a life again in Singapore.

By the end of the trail, there were conversations about weekend plans. New friendships beginning to form.

One small moment in particular stayed with our host, Sudhi: As everyone walked towards the bus stop together, one participant needed help carrying her bags. Without anyone asking, the group naturally stepped in to help.

It was such a simple interaction, but it quietly captured what we’re trying to build at Screaming Pigeons, where kindness feels instinctive.

Thank you to every woman who joined us for trusting a group of strangers enough to spend a Saturday morning together!

We hope you left feeling refreshed, a little more hopeful, and reminded that meaningful friendships are still possible, sometimes they simply begin with saying yes to a walk.

We’ll see you on the next trail 🌿

Trail Chats is Screaming Pigeons’ monthly female-focused hike designed to help you escape the hustle, connect with like-minded women, and recharge in nature. Whether you’re looking to meet new people, reflect, or simply enjoy a mindful walk, this hike offers a space to slow down and be present.

​What to Expect

• ​A 2-3 km hike

• ​Facilitated conversations that flow naturally with a different theme every month, about everything from personal goals to shared experiences

• ​A chance to connect with women in their 20s and 30s who are also seeking a mindful, intentional space

• ​Time to be still, enjoy nature, and reflect

At Screaming Pigeons, we often say that friendship deserves intention. Reading Aristotle’s work reminded us that it also deserves patience.

Over 2,300 years ago, Aristotle argued that not all friendships are meant to look the same. In fact, he believed there are three kinds of friendships, each serving a different purpose.

1. Friendships of Utility
These exist because you help each other in some way.

Think colleagues you grab lunch with, your gym buddy, study partners, or people in your industry. They’re meaningful, but often tied to a particular season or circumstance.

2. Friendships of Pleasure
These exist because you simply enjoy being together.

Your brunch friends, hiking group, travel buddies, or people you always have fun with. They bring joy into your life, even if they aren’t the first person you’d call during a crisis.

3. Friendships of Virtue
These are the rare ones!

The friends who know your whole story. Who celebrate your successes without envy, challenge you to become a better person, and stay through life’s different seasons. They’re not with you because of convenience or shared hobbies, they’re with you because they genuinely value you.

So many of our disappointments come from expecting one type of friendship to become another. We expect a work friend to become a lifelong friend, or a hobby friend to know how to hold us through grief.

Sometimes nothing has gone wrong. Maybe it’s that the friendship is simply serving a different purpose. Deep friendships rarely happen overnight. They grow through repeated encounters, shared experiences, aligned values, and choosing to keep showing up for one another.

Aristotle believed friendships of virtue are the rarest and most valuable relationships we’ll experience in our lives. They’re the friendships that shape us, stay with us through different chapters, and ultimately make us better humans.

We couldn’t agree more.

What type of friendship has had the biggest impact on your life?

Next month: We’ll take Aristotle’s ideas one step further and explore how to do a friendship audit, how to recognise which friendships are built on utility, pleasure, or virtue, how to manage our expectations, and why letting some friendships remain beautifully seasonal can be one of the healthiest things we do.

Have a topic you’d love us to explore? We’d love to hear from you. After all, the best conversations rarely end with the article.

Further Reading

Aristotle. Nicomachean Ethics, translated by W.D. Ross. Books VIII-IX. MIT Internet Classics Archive.

This is a reflection from one of our regular women-only community gatherings in Singapore. At Screaming Pigeons, we create intentional spaces for women in their 20s, 30s & 40s to build meaningful friendships through shared experiences, from dance classes and hiking to journalling circles, dinners, and creative workshops. We host events throughout the month, and we’d love to welcome you into pigeon universe. You can browse our upcoming events here.

Many of us grow up believing our femininity, sensuality, and confidence are things to keep small, private, or reserved for certain moments. We become so aware of how we’re perceived that moving can feel strangely uncomfortable.

One of our favourite moments from Screaming Pigeons’ dance classes is challenging this - and slowly watching women stop apologising for taking up space.

Last night, we catwalked across the room!

We popped our booties!

We danced to Ye Que Fue, trying our best to keep up with the beat while laughing whenever we inevitably lost it!

We twirled and jumped and free-styled!

We laughed awkwardly at our strained hamstrings!

We hyped each other up and somehow managed to turn a room full of strangers into sixteen women cheering as loudly for someone else’s catwalk as they did for their own.

Nobody cared if you forgot the choreography halfway through.

Instead, every woman who stepped forward was met with applause.

In a world where women are so often taught to compare themselves to one another, there’s something incredibly freeing about celebrating another woman for taking up space.

We can’t stop thinking about how beautiful that was <3

A huge thank you to our wonderful Pigeon Host and instructor, Kanika Kaur, for creating a room where that felt possible. She has an awesome way of making everyone feel safe enough to let go, whether they've been dancing for years or walked in convinced they had "two left feet."

To every woman who trusted us enough to dance with a room full of strangers, thank you. We hope you left feeling a little more at home in your body than when you arrived.

Because by the end of the evening, we don’t think any of us left as better dancers. We left as women who were just a little less afraid of being seen, a little less worried about getting it wrong, and a little more willing to take up space in the world.

If 120 minutes of dancing can do that, then I think it’s worth making room for every single month.

Our dance sessions are becoming a monthly part of the pigeon universe, and we hope you’ll come dance with us sometime. We’d love to have you!

🐦 A Little Note

This piece is part of our ongoing event journal, where we document the stories, reflections, and little moments that unfold across our pigeon universe.

Screaming Pigeons is a women-led community in Singapore creating intentional spaces for women seeking meaningful friendships, authentic connection, and a sense of belonging. Alongside our regular community events, we publish The Pigeon Post —our editorial publication featuring essays, photography, poetry, artwork, and reflections from women in our community.

If this resonated with you, we’d love to welcome you into pigeon universe.

✨ Browse upcoming women-only events
✍️ Submit to The Pigeon Post (Current theme for July: Pride 🏳️‍🌈)
📸 Follow us on Instagram

Found a pigeon? Pass it on. 🐦

Over the next few weeks, we’ll be dancing, hiking, journalling, laughing through improv, sharing stories, and (hopefully) helping a few more women find their people along the way.

Whether you’ve been to ten Pigeon events or are still thinking about coming to your very first one, we wanted to share a little of what’s happening this week.

💃 Tonight: Girls Style – Party Mix Class (For the Girls)

This one is truly for the girls who want to get out of their heads and into their bodies without judgement. No experience needed, as with most pigeon events.

We’ll be learning a fun beginner-friendly routine with Kanika, moving our hips a little more than last time, and ending with our signature freestyle circle. Wear whatever makes you feel the most confident, comfortable, and like yourself.

If you’re joining us tonight, we’ve already sent you everything you need to know by email. We can’t wait to dance with you.

🌿 Saturday, 11 July: Trail Chats, Bedok Reservoir

Hosted by our wonderful pigeon, Sudhi, Trail Chats is one of our gentlest recurring events. We’ll spend the morning walking together through Bedok Reservoir, chatting in pairs and small groups, and letting conversations unfold naturally as we enjoy being outdoors.

No hiking experience is needed, just comfortable shoes, curiosity, and an openness to meeting new people.

🌷 Sunday, 12 July: Female Friendships: The Good, The Bad & The Ugly

This weekend also marks the very first session in July of Pigeon Chats, a format that feels incredibly close to the heart of what Screaming Pigeons is all about.

We’ll spend the afternoon reflecting on female friendship through guided journalling, thoughtful prompts, and small group conversations. We’ll talk about friendships we’ve outgrown, the women who’ve changed us, friendship heartbreaks, chosen family, and the kinds of relationships we’re hoping to build in this next season of our lives.

If Screaming Pigeons has a thesis theme, this is probably it.

How to Stay Connected

There are lots of ways to be part of pigeon universe, whether you’re joining us in person or from afar.

🗓️ Join one of our upcoming events on Luma. Slots fill fast, so do subscribe to stay updated.

📸 Follow us on Instagram for community moments, behind-the-scenes updates, and new event announcements.

✍️ Write for The Pigeon Post. Every month, we publish thought pieces, poetry, photography, artwork, and reflections from women in our community. Our current open call is Pride 🏳️‍🌈, and we’d love to hear your story.

💬 Join our Telegram community to stay connected with fellow pigeons between events.

When people ask who Screaming Pigeons is for, the answer is simple.

This community was built for women who are hungry for something a little deeper.

Women who value authenticity and kindness, who are curious about other people’s lives and stories, and who believe that meaningful friendships are worth investing in. Women who are open to meeting people who may not look like them, think like them, or come from the same backgrounds as them, because they know that diversity and inclusion make communities richer!

Whether you’re a brand new pigeon or someone who’s been with us for months, thank you for helping make this little corner of Singapore what it is.

With warmth,

The Screaming Pigeons Team 🐦

There’s something deeply freeing about knowing there isn’t a script. That someone else’s idea doesn’t have to compete with yours. That instead of trying to be clever, you simply respond with, “Yes, and...”

As Screaming Pigeons has grown, we’ve found myself asking a simple question whenever we plan our calendar: How can we make joy a regular part of women’s lives, instead of something they stumble upon once or twice a year?

Friendship isn’t only built through deep conversations. Sometimes it’s built through shared laughter, inside jokes, and remembering that you’re allowed to be playful, even as an adult. That’s why improv is no longer a one-off event. It’s become part of pigeon universe!

🎭 Two Sessions This July

This month, we’re introducing two different improv sessions for the first time.

🌱 15 July: Women-only Improv Night (Taster)

Perfect if you’ve never tried improv before.

We’ll cover the foundations of improvised theatre through beginner-friendly games, playful exercises and supportive group activities. You don’t need to be funny, outgoing, or “good on the spot.” In fact, most women who come tell us they were nervous beforehand.

This session is simply about trying something new, laughing with strangers who won’t stay strangers for long, and giving yourself permission to play.

🎬 22 July: Women-only Improv Night (Intermediate)

This one’s for our returning pigeons.

If you’ve attended one of our taster sessions before, understand the basics of “Yes, And,” and feel reasonably comfortable creating scenes, we’d love to welcome you back.

We’ll spend less time learning the fundamentals and much more time playing.

Together, we’ll explore stronger storytelling, creating stakes within scenes, and plenty of short-form improv games designed to stretch your creativity while keeping the atmosphere just as welcoming and supportive.

Think of it less as “advanced improv” and more as more opportunities to play.

Whether you’re joining us for the first time or coming back for another round, I hope these evenings remind you of something we often forget as adults: You don’t need to earn fun. Sometimes, it’s enough to simply say yes!

Catch you soon girlie xx

Found a pigeon? Pass it on 🐦

If this story reminded you of someone, we'd love it if you shared it with them.

This is the Pigeon Post, the editorial home of Screaming Pigeons. Alongside our monthly themed publication, we share event recaps, reflections, open calls, and stories about friendship, womanhood, identity, and intentional community, written by women, for women. Beyond these pages, Screaming Pigeons hosts regular gatherings across Singapore for women looking to build meaningful friendships through shared experiences.

Whether you’re joining us for your first event, writing your first essay, or simply reading along from afar, we’re so glad you’re here.

✨ Browse our upcoming intimate events this month here

📬 Submit to the next issue of The Pigeon Post here

📸 Follow & stay connected with us on Instagram here

That’s why it felt important for us to dedicate a volume of The Pigeon Post to Pride, not just as a celebration, but as an invitation to listen to women in our community.

We’re hoping to amplify LGBTQ+ voices within our community and create space for the stories that often don’t make it into everyday conversation.

While Pride is often spoken about through headlines and celebrations, we’re interested in the quieter, more personal experiences of identity, belonging, friendship, love, and being seen.

What kinds of stories are we looking for?

Your piece could explore:

• What Pride means to you today

• Your journey of understanding or embracing your identity

• Finding your chosen family or a community where you finally felt you belonged

• A friendship that made you feel accepted, understood, or safe

• Navigating identity alongside family, friendship, culture, race, or tradition

• A relationship, first crush, or moment that changed how you saw yourself

• The hidden parts of yourself you’ve learned to embrace (or are still learning to)

• The joy, complexity, or everyday realities of being LGBTQ+

These are simply prompts, not requirements. Your story doesn’t need to fit neatly into one category, and it doesn’t need to be dramatic or fully resolved. We’re simply looking for honest reflections that help us better understand one another.

While this issue centres LGBTQ+ stories, we also welcome thoughtful submissions from allies reflecting on what Pride, belonging, and acceptance have meant in their own lives and communities.

What can you submit?

✍️ Thought pieces, diary entries, personal reflections, book or movie reviews
📝 Any form of poetry
📸 Photography and photo essays (NEW!)
🎨 Drawings, illustrations, comics, and visual art
💌 Anything else that feels like you

Women-only submissions, open to all ages.

📩 Submit your work to hello@screamingpigeons.co. All pieces should be 500 words at most

📅 Deadline: 20th July 2026

We can’t wait to read your stories.

Warmly,
The Screaming Pigeons team

Every month, we gather for a slow 2–3 km walk through one of Singapore’s beautiful green spaces. Along the way, we pair up, swap conversation partners, and use thoughtful prompts to spark conversations that go beyond, “So... what do you do?”

There’s something walking side by side with women who love intentional conversation that makes opening up feel easier.

Whether you’re new to Singapore, looking to meet like-minded women, or simply craving a slower weekend, Trail Chats is a chance to step away from the noise and reconnect, with nature, with yourself, and with others.

🌿 Upcoming Trail Chats

Saturday, 11 July

📍 Bedok Reservoir

Hosted by Sudhi, one of our frequent flyer pigeons who loves building community through meaningful conversation. Outside of pigeon universe, she enjoys swimming, reading, and dancing, and believes some of life’s best moments begin with simply sharing stories with someone new.

Saturday, 18 July

📍 Chestnut Nature Park

Hosted by Asha, Founder of Screaming Pigeons, who firmly believes that some of the most meaningful friendships begin with saying hello to a stranger. If you’ve been curious about the community or simply want to spend your Saturday morning with thoughtful women, she’d love to meet you.

No hiking experience is needed, just comfortable shoes, a bottle of water, and an openness to conversation.

Most women come alone. Many leave knowing at least a few new names.

We’d love for one of them to be yours 🐦💛

Travel has always felt transformational to me. Not because every trip changes your life, but because stepping outside of your everyday routines can make space for something unexpected to happen. A new perspective. A difficult conversation. A moment of clarity. A version of yourself you hadn’t met before.

Of course, travel is also a privilege, and not everyone has the same access to movement, exploration, or time away. Yet what fascinates me is that even when two people visit the exact same place, they rarely have the same experience. We each notice different things, carry different histories, meet different people, and return home with different stories.

Whether your story feels life-changing, complete, or still unfolding, there’s room for it here.

✍️ Community Submissions

This newsletter is filled with entries from women in the community – their stories, reflections, creative pieces, and inner shifts. Below are excerpts from some of the pieces shared in Volume 6.

#1: Entry by a Pigeon: Sneha
24 | Singapore | @sneha_chandra
Title: Against All Logic and Possibility

The sky is littered with pink and purple cotton-candy fluff as the sun sets. Heathrow is congested. People fly by, announcements blare in the background, while flights take off into the horizon.

I breathe in the London essence. Petrichor in the air cuts through the waft of roasting coffee beans. Breathing in the very air that I (and others around me) had deemed myself unworthy of.

I made it…

I made it the moment I was on the flight from Singapore to London. When I landed in Heathrow and ran into Dhanya’s arms, my best friend and witness to this fever dream that I was living. I made it when we stood near the Tower Bridge while the sunset bathed us in golden shimmer. I made it before I even sat in the lecture hall in Oxford. I didn’t need to wait for the physical seat.

When I flashed my student ID at the Sheldonian, the student volunteer said, “Ah, so here is where you will graduate next year.”

As I sit here in Heathrow, I realise she said “This is where”, as if it were a guaranteed outcome. She didn’t say, “If you graduate.” It hadn’t sunk in until now.

It didn’t sink in when I stood in Christ Church staring at the stained glass windows that reflected rainbows on the floor. Nor did it sink in when I stood in the halls of the Bodleian Library, marvelling at years’ worth of history and art.

I didn’t think this was possible, no. Not for someone like me.

It’s all an amalgamation now of scents, voices and lights. But it happened. Against all logic and possibility, it happened.

So… who was I to dismiss the whispers of destiny or what had not happened yet (as impossible, improbable, crazy or illogical), when I had spent a month walking through a dream.

#2: Entry by a Pigeon: Devi Vijayan
37 | Singapore | @faithabundancelight @kriyaidsg
Title: My solo Nepal. December 2014

Nepal was yet another experience I cannot forget. It gave me such a refreshing experience that I returned home with a clearer mind of how I envisioned my future to be. I was ready to quit my full time job and start walking towards my dream. HAHA. Drastic it may seem. But yes, that is what I did in 2017.

After my first solo trip to Sri Lanka, life took a different turn for me. I was more focused on myself and how I wanted to rebuild myself. I had my slip-ups in between, but I picked up and moved on. So as usual, I randomly decided to choose a destination, and Nepal came to my mind. I’m such a random, play by ear, follow your guts kinda person that I didn’t really have a reason behind why I chose Nepal. It just happened.

With every trip I take, I try to bring a book to read or I buy at the store. I don’t know how many of you believe in this, but sometimes the universes shows you what you’re meant to do in life, and for me this trip did just that.

‘I am Malala’ is the book bought at the airport bookstore. Ive always heard about Malala but I was not reading about her much or what she had done. I mean I knew who she was. Thats all. So when I stumbled upon the book and got it. I sat at my boarding gate, and just before boarding my friends messaged me to have a good trip, stay safe and etc. And she asked me “So why Nepal lah?” I replied “I dont know really. I guess I’ll find out”. This is where my journey began.

Here are some places I visited in Nepal, Kathmandu:

The Pashupathinath Temple. This temple was beautiful. It is the place where they cremate the deceased. Openly. I had the chance to see the whole ritual. But of course, I turned away and walked off before the son set his father on fire. I could not see it as a tourist. it felt like I was trivalising/commercialising death. As I continued my walk around the temple, I was very bothered about the freely roaming monkeys. Before the trip, I read about the monkeys BUT it did not mention that there would be SO many of them. I swear I could have easily counted 50 of them just in one area. Imagine the whole temple (OMG). Amidst this stress, I managed to catch the picture of the Lingam. From the window of one Lingam, you can see the whole row of them, one after another. It was surreal. calming. beautiful. *Years later, Nepal would be my go-to travel destination every year. Pashupathinath Temple being the top of the itinerary.

Boudanath Stupa was the UNESCO site that Im so grateful I got to visit before the earthquake happened. The architecture is definitely something to look at.

Ever heard about how one should visit a museum of whichever country you visit?

I read it somewhere and it stuck with me ever since. I somehow have made trips to museums in most of my trips. Brisbane, Sri Lanka, and even in Nepal. The museum I visited in Nepal was actually a palace that the last royal family resided in, before they got assassinated. Narayanhiti Palace. The true crime lover in me was excited to visit this palace museum. It was rather disturbing walking around the rooms and the place of assassination where they show you the floor plan of where who got shot. It was interesting to know that the Nepalese still keep this as a remembrance of their last living royal family.

Finally the highlight of my trip: The Mountain Flight.

You see, I’m not the adventurous mountain climbing, hiking kinda girl. Especially if I’m alone. Hence, instead of going for the Mountain Base camp expeditions that most tourists go for, I decided to do the Mountain Flight. It was worth it really. The flight itself is about 1.5hrs

I woke up one morning at like 4am, to catch the mountain flight which was supposed to be at 6am. But given the bad weather conditions in December, I had a flight delay of 3 hrs. These waiting hours at the airport was excruciating. Firstly, because I couldn’t contain my excitement yet I’m sitting there for hours in the winter weather. Secondly, because I only had a book with me. Mind you this was in 2014 where there’s no Tiktok and Instagram to scroll on the phone. I was in the mercy of my very limited Starhub roaming data. Oh wells, after 3 hrs, we eventually get on board the plane. The pilot flies past the entire Himalayan Mountain Range. AHHH! Again being a Geographer, this was like OMG! Im seeing the fold mountains!! It was breath-taking. The stewardess of the flight walks around telling us the name of the mountain peak and etc. We are allowed to take photos and the pilot allowed us to take pictures from the cockpit too. We got an amazing frontal view of the Mount Everest. AMAZING!

The trip started with me reading the ‘I am Malala’. For those who read the book, you would know how much that poor girl suffered just to get an education and how she strived to be a voice that advocates education for girls especially. And as I asked myself “Why Nepal?” I found my answer while waiting for my mountain flight.

Throughout the trip, I saw many children going to school in crowded transportation, uneven dirty roads and schools with little facilities. It disturbed me. A lot. I kept thinking to myself how lucky I was as a student and how my students now take education for granted. While I spent 3 hours waiting for my mountain flight, I was glancing at the TV occasionally. One advertisement caught my eye. A group of monk children, struggling to study for school under dim lights in their homes. Of course, it was a light bulb advertisement about how the new light bulb will be long-lasting and bright for children, inspiring them towards a bright future.

Cliché? Yes. Such a small moment. But that changed my life.

I came back to SG and made a promise to myself that I will travel and teach the students around the world. I have a skill at hand, and I want to pass it on somewhere. Cliché? Yes, but this is my life now.

With this, I travelled to Bali for my first volunteer trip in 2016. Later in 2017, I founded Project Summit and organised my first volunteer trip to Chennai, India. After doing 3 projects, later in 2018, I co-founded KriyaiD. www.kriyaidsg.com is up and running till today. We organise yearly volunteer trips to India, Nepal, Malaysia, Cambodia.

And Nepal, will always be my No1.

Does travelling make a difference? Hell yes. It changed my life.

#3: Entry by a Pigeon: Charm P
37 | Singapore | @cpohsx
Title: Surrendering to the Road

Takeaway: I’d like people to know it’s ok to not have control, letting go of the reins and trusting in the process is completely ok and to let the journey surprise them!

Back in December, I received sudden news that I had lost my job. Perfect timing (not) really, as we were right in the middle of the festive season and looking forward to winding down for the year. As a fiercely independent planner who tries to script every detail of life, the sudden void was jarring. I needed to get away from the noise, the pressure, and the expectation to have the next step figured out. So, in January, I packed my bags for a two-week solo trip to Wakayama.

But this time, I threw out the playbook. I made vague plans, leaving huge pockets of time in my schedule to just decompress.

For most of those two weeks, I went off-grid whenever I could, checking in with family only to report my location. The silence was immediate and profound. I spent my days meandering through quiet, timeless alleys and immersing myself in the vastness of nature. I walked the ancient paths of pilgrims, tracing steps taken by the devout for centuries. I spent quiet, reflective mornings walking through a serene, moss-covered cemetery where I hardly saw a soul and only heard birds singing. Every evening became a ritual of release. I surrendered to the healing warmth of onsen soaks, letting the steam carry away the lingering stress and emotions of recent events.

Without a rigid itinerary, life became a series of beautiful, unscripted moments. I wandered into random, tiny restaurants, some where I couldn’t read a single item on the menu, and just pointed, trusting the process (and the food!). I found a local shelter one day and spent a magical afternoon stealing much-needed kitty hugs and kisses. It was the purrfect therapy and helped ease some of the homesickness from missing my own two cats.

Of course, complete surrender comes with its own adventures. At one point, Google Maps routed me via some truly bizarre backroads, and I ended up walking on the narrow shoulder of an expressway for more than an hour, questioning all my life choices and thankfully avoiding getting myself killed.

Yet, in a strange way, even that chaos fit the theme. This trip became a masterclass in letting go of what I cannot control and surrendering to the flow of life. For someone who used to push her way through life with sheer willpower, this newfound freedom felt incredibly empowering.

I stepped into the unknown expecting uncertainty, but I returned with a renewed sense of peace. The trip was the ultimate break from “real life.” It washed away the burnout (some), dulled a bit of my heartache, and gave me exactly what I needed to start the new year: the energy and optimism to embrace whatever new adventures come next.

#4: Entry by a Pigeon: Jocelyn Dang
20 | Singapore | @proj.joce
Title: A tourist in my Mother's Land

What I’d like people to take away from my piece: I hope to connect with readers who can relate to feeling disconnected from their culture, and I hope that this little story shows people that there’s truly endless things you can discover about our world, even if it feels familiar.

When my friends and I were picking a destination for our Graduation Trip, Ho Chi Minh City in Vietnam seemed like a no-brainer. Rich history, amazing food, trendy shopping streets, what more could one ask for? It also helped that we would have our very own Vietnamese person to assist us during the trip.

It’s me. I’m that Vietnamese person.

I was quite excited to show my friends around a city I felt so familiar with. After all, I’ve been visiting at least once a year for as long as I can remember. At the same time, I had also looked forward to experiencing Ho Chi Minh in a different way — as a tourist.

Sounds contradictory, right? How do you experience a country as a tourist, when you’re from the city itself? Here was my experience.

The most important distinction to note is that my family is from Ho Chi Minh City, but I am not. I grew up in Singapore, spent my entire life here absorbing Singapore culture. My family always tried to keep me close to my Vietnamese roots, but like many other immigrant children, I only came to appreciate it much later in life. So I can speak Vietnamese conversationally, I know a few facts about the country, but nowhere near enough to feel like a local. Because I’m not.

Some parts of the trip were tougher; it almost spiralled me into a crisis if I am being honest. I could speak enough to order us food at a restaurant, but when we had to visit a hospital when my friend got injured? I was useless, I had to call my mother to help me translate! I also struggled with concepts like getting “tourist trapped”. Because I should know better, right? But I don’t, because I’m still a tourist deep down.

But some parts of the trip were truly beautiful. I got to learn so much more about a culture I’m so desperate to be closer to. Vietnam’s history, hidden practices, local slang, etc. Maybe there was shame in being a “fake Vietnamese person”, not being reliable enough for my friends because I didn’t know my country as much as I thought I did. But when I put that all aside? I experienced a kind of trip that was both a fun vacation and one that made me feel like I was one step closer to a second home :)

💌 A Note to Close

Thank you to every pigeon who shared their words, art, humour, and inner world with us for Volume 8. This little collection exists because of you — the women who continue to show up, create, connect, and make this space what it is.

For Volume 9 (July), we’re exploring the theme Pride.

Since June had us thinking about journeys and transformation, it felt natural to continue the conversation with a theme centred around identity, belonging, and being seen.

When people hear “Pride,” they often think of coming out stories. Those stories are absolutely welcome, but we’re interested in much more than that. Maybe it’s a story about finding your people. A friendship that helped you feel accepted. A moment when you felt comfortable in your own skin. A difficult conversation. A first crush. A chosen family. A community that made you feel less alone.

While LGBTQ+ stories are at the heart of this theme and warmly welcomed, we’re also interested in the many ways women experience pride in a world that doesn’t always make room for difference. Maybe it’s about disability, race, culture, religion, body size, age, neurodivergence, migration, language, or any other part of your identity that has shaped how you move through the world.

As always, this space welcomes stories that are personal, honest, messy, joyful, unresolved, and still unfolding. Whatever pride means to you, we'd love to hear about it.

Whether you’re LGBTQ+, an ally, or simply reflecting on identity, belonging, and self-expression, we’d love to hear from you. Feel free to share this open call with friends, family, partners, and communities who might have a story to tell.

What can I submit?

✍️ Thought pieces, diary entries, or personal reflections
📝 Poetry, Movie or Book Reviews
📸 Photography and photo essays
🎨 Drawings, illustrations, comics, and visual art
💌 Anything else that feels like you.

Women-only submissions. Anonymity is possible. 500-word limit. Open to all ages.

📩 Submit your work to hello@screamingpigeons.co

We can’t wait to hear your stories.

Open call for thought pieces on “A Trip That Changed Me”

With summer around the corner, we’ve been thinking about the journeys that stay with us long after we’ve unpacked our bags.

Not necessarily the furthest destinations or the most glamorous holidays, but the trips that shifted something inside us.

Maybe it was a solo adventure that taught you to trust yourself. A holiday that went completely off script. A weekend away with friends marked the end of one chapter and the beginning of another. Perhaps it was a visit back home that changed how you saw your past, or a journey that helped you imagine a different future.

We’re interested in the moments that happen while we’re away from our everyday lives: the conversations, detours, mistakes, discoveries, and quiet realisations that linger long after the trip itself is over.

And we’re thinking about “trips” broadly, too.

Maybe your journey was across countries. Maybe it was across a city, a relationship, an identity, or a season of life. Whether the trip changed everything or simply nudged you in a new direction, we’d love to hear about it.

This space welcomes stories that are personal, honest, imperfect, and still unfolding.

What can you submit?

✍️ Thought pieces, diary entries, personal reflections, book or movie reviews
📝 Any form of poetry
📸 Photography and photo essays (NEW!)
🎨 Drawings, illustrations, comics, and visual art
💌 Anything else that feels like you

Women-only submissions, open to all ages.

If you’re travelling this summer, we’d especially love photographs from your journeys. And, naturally, any pigeons you happen to encounter along the way.

📩 Submit your work to hello@screamingpigeons.co. All pieces should be 500 words at maximum
📅 Deadline: 20th June 2026

We can’t wait to read your stories.

Warmly,

The Screaming Pigeons team

June Events Calender

Our first-ever Seaside Bachata Social sold out fast. Led by beloved Pigeon Host Kanika Kaur, it was born from a simple idea: what if friendship could begin through movement? What if we spent less time worrying about getting the steps right and more time laughing together by the sea?

We’re also returning to MacRitchie Nature Park for another edition of Trail Chats, hosted by frequent-flyer Pigeon Sudhi. Trail Chats has quietly become one of our most loved formats, a chance to slow down, leave the city behind for a few hours, and connect through shared stories while walking among the trees.

And because last year’s session brought us so much unexpected joy, Improv with Shirin is back. We love improv because it asks nothing of you except your willingness to show up. You don’t need to be funny. You don’t need to be confident. You don’t need any experience. Just a willingness to be a little silly and imperfect in a room full of supportive women.

Of course, no month would be complete without a little matcha. Our Matcha City Hops continue to bring women together over good drinks, neighbourhood exploration, and conversations that somehow always end up lasting longer than planned.

Looking at this month’s calendar, we’re reminded that Screaming Pigeons was never really about events. It’s about creating opportunities for women to encounter one another!

Dinner With Pigeons (20s/30s & 30s/40s)

Looking for the easiest Friday night plan? Dinner With Pigeons is our self-led dinner series designed to make meeting new women feel natural, low-pressure, and genuinely enjoyable.

Every dinner is self-led. We match six women together, create a group chat, and send over restaurant suggestions and conversation prompts. From there, the evening belongs to you. This month, we’re introducing two age-based groups:

✨ Dinner with Pigeons (20s–30s Edition)
Perfect for women navigating early careers, new cities, changing friendships, dating, creative exploration, or simply figuring things out as they go.

🎟 12th June 2026 (Friday): SOLD OUT

🎟 19 June 2026 (Friday): SOLD OUT’

🎟 26 June 2026 (Friday): 5 spots available

✨ Dinner with Pigeons (30s–40s Edition)
For women who may be further along in their careers, relationships, family life, or personal reinvention – and who often tell us they’re looking for deeper, more intentional connections.

🎟 12th June 2026 (Friday): 3 spots available

🎟 19 June 2026 (Friday): 6 spots available

🎟 26 June 2026 (Friday): 6 spots available

These aren’t strict rules. They’re simply a way of helping women meet others who may be in a similar season of life. If you feel you’d relate more to one group than the other, trust your instinct.

Community Newsletter (The Pigeon Post)
Submissions Open for Issue #8: ““A Trip That Changed Me”

Submissions are now open for Volume 8 of The Pigeon Post, our community newsletter. This month’s theme is: “A Trip That Changed Me”

We’re looking for stories, reflections, poetry, photography, and creative pieces about journeys that left a lasting impact on you. Not necessarily the biggest adventures, but the ones that shifted your perspective in some way. Open to women of all ages!

📸 We’d especially love photographs from your travels.
✍️ Written submissions should be no more than 500 characters.
📅 Email submissions to us by 20th June to be featured on our Substack & Instagram.

To Our Travelling Pigeons...

If you’re heading off somewhere this summer, we wish you safe travels, unexpected discoveries, and stories worth telling when you get back!

And wherever you are in the world, keep an eye out for pigeons. Send us your pigeon photos from your travels, we never get tired of seeing them.

See you around the table soon.

With love,

The Screaming Pigeons Team 🕊️

For some, the relationship with a mother is a source of deep love, admiration, and connection. For others, it carries distance, grief, tension, unmet needs, or questions that remain unresolved. Most of us exist somewhere in between.

We're also interested in the people who have mothered us beyond biology: grandmothers, aunts, mentors, older friends, and the women who stepped in when we needed guidance, care, or a sense of belonging. We're curious about what maternal love looks like today, what we're inheriting, what we're rejecting, and what we're redefining for ourselves.

There can be a quiet relief in speaking about these experiences openly, especially in a space where we know there is no single version of what a mother-daughter relationship should look like.

Whether your story feels clear or complicated, complete or still unfolding, there’s room for it here.

✍️ Community Submissions

This newsletter is filled with entries from women in the community – their stories, reflections, creative pieces, and inner shifts. Below are excerpts from some of the pieces shared in Volume 6.

#1: Entry by a Pigeon: Sudhi
26 | Singapore | @sudhi_side_up
Title: The Diamond Necklace

My current relationship with my mother is best expressed through a story she told me: The tale of the diamond necklace. I once lamented to my mum that I felt like the black sheep of the family, a feeling I carried with myself for several years silently because I didn’t think anyone would understand why I felt that way.

The rest of my family seemed to be a certain way: They were all interested in various facets of STEM subjects like coding, data science or engineering, and enjoyed doing math. I on the other hand would avoid math like it was the plague because I was terrible at it. I instead chose to pursue a career in Communications based on my deeprooted passion for the humanities.

It seemed to me that everyone else was more outwardly religious while I had different ideas. They all generally enjoyed the same cuisine during dinner while I, being a massive foodie, would want to eat a variety of dishes over the week and cook them for myself.

I told her I felt isolated from my family, as though I didn’t quite fit in . She listened to me go on an entire rant before telling me a story that changed my perspective entirely. “Have you ever seen one of those beautiful necklaces? The string is made of pearl beads and at the centre, is a radiant diamond pendant.”

“There is only one diamond pendant, but several pearls that look the same,” she continued. “Do you think the necklace would carry the same value if the diamond pendant did not exist?” she asked. “You are like that diamond pendant, you are unique and only one, different from the rest of us, but you complete this family,” she stated with absolute certainty.

“Who else would correct our English in emails, conversations and messages? We have enough people around to do math, we don’t need another one,” she joked. I was incredibly touched by the story and the newfound analogy. While I considered myself the black sheep, my mother viewed me as a diamond pendant that shined bright in a necklace.

Over the years, my mum has grown to accept me for who I am instead of trying to change me to be like the rest. She knows who I am and she sees value in that. I couldn’t have asked for anything else and I wouldn’t change a thing about her either. My mother taught me that love does not require conformity. Sometimes, being understood for who you are is the greatest gift a mother can give her daughter.

#2: Entry by a Pigeon: BB
61 | Singapore | @ajnanamaha
Title: To the One Who Birthed Me - Thank You

She was not born into love. She was born into duty, the kind that wore love’s clothing but carried none of its warmth. The woman who brought her into the world had hands that cooked and cleaned and scolded, but never once reached out simply to hold her. Not really. Not the way a mother’s hands are supposed to.

She learned this early, the way children learn all the hardest things quietly, in the corners of rooms, watching.

She was the eldest daughter, which in that house meant she was the most useful. She swept before sunrise. She washed dishes still warm from the night before. She carried, fetched, folded, and arranged. She was efficient and invisible in equal measure. A daughter by blood, a househelp by design. The distinction was never spoken aloud because it never needed to be. It lived in the silences ,in the way tasks were assigned without please and completed without thank you, in the way her brothers moved freely through the house while her feet always seemed to find a broom or a basin.

She noticed, too, the strange contradiction that lived inside her mother, a woman who had herself been a girl, who had herself perhaps been overlooked, and yet who could not find it within herself to extend what she had never received. Her mother did not like girls. This was not said, but it was known. It sat in the room whenever a female child was born nearby, in the slight tightening of the lips, the faint absence of celebration. It was the kind of bias that made no logical sense and yet rooted itself so deeply in a person that it became indistinguishable from character.

When the grandsons came, her mother’s face opened like a window in summer. She watched it happen and filed it away in the part of her that kept records, the part that would later whisper to her own children ,you are equal, you are wanted, you are mine and I am glad.

She said this to her children. She said it often.

Her own education had been interrupted. An illness ,her mother’s illness had become the reason, the wall, the locked door. She had stood on the other side of it for years, pressing her ear against the wood, listening to the future she could not yet enter. There was no true connection between a sick mother and a daughter’s schooling, and somewhere in her quietest places, she had always known this. But she had accepted it the way young girls accept many things as weather, as fact, as something that simply was.

Until she decided it wasn’t.

She went back. Older than most of the students around her, younger than she feared it was too late to be. She sat in those classrooms with something fierce and unnameable in her chest, and she learned, and she passed, and she stood on the other side of that door at last. She made sure her children never had to stand there waiting.

Education was not a gift she gave them conditionally. It was not tied to her moods or her health or her need to be needed. It was simply theirs.

As the years moved, her mother aged and with age came a new kind of pull. Victim. The word felt unkind and yet it was the only honest one. Her mother had collected grievances the way others collect photographs, each one preserved perfectly, each one brought out at the right moment for maximum effect. The illness became a weapon. The age became a weapon. The relationship itself ;mother and daughter became something wielded rather than shared.

She drove her mother to appointments. She sat beside hospital beds. She arranged and rearranged her own life to accommodate a woman who had never once rearranged hers. Nurse, maid, driver, the roles rotated but the title of daughter never quite settled. She felt this. Some days she felt it so acutely that it lodged somewhere just beneath her sternum and stayed there for weeks.

But she had built something her mother had not. She had built a life with warmth running through it like current through wire. Her home had laughter in it ;the real, unguarded kind. Her children were hugged. This sounds simple because simple things often sound that way, but she knew, better than most, that it was not. She hugged them when they left the house and when they returned. She held them when they cried and did not tell them to stop. She said I love you so many times that it lost all self-consciousness and became simply the air of their home.

She cut the cord ,not dramatically, not with anger, but with the tired precision of someone who has finally put down something too heavy to keep carrying. The arrows still came. Her mother had not changed, perhaps could not. But they no longer found purchase. She had, over time, quietly removed herself as a target.

She forgave. This was not a moment but a practice, something she returned to again and again like a daily prayer. She forgave because forgiveness was not for her mother, it was for her. She did not forget. She was honest enough with herself not to pretend otherwise. The forgetting was not coming. But the forgiveness was real, and it was enough.

Now, in the slower hours, she prays for the woman who birthed her. Not out of obligation. Out of something softer , a hope that in whatever time remains, something might open in her mother the way spring opens a seed that has been frozen all winter.

She has not waited for that opening to build her life.

Her life is already full. Tight hugs and open doors and children who know, without question, that they are wanted.

She became the mother she needed.

And for the one who showed her exactly what that meant , by showing her everything it was not, she offers, with both pain and peace, a thank you.

#3: Entry by a Pigeon: Jaslin Sulaiman
38 | Singapore | @vivabloomz
Title: Inheritors of Silence

When I first heard the term “eldest daughter role” from a coach, I was baffled.

I am the youngest between my sister and me, so naturally, my first thought was: Excuse me, how did I get promoted to eldest daughter without applying for the position?

I laughed it off, hoping it was one of those analogies that sounded profound in a coaching session but would collapse under basic family-tree evidence.

I was wrong. Annoyingly wrong.

In one session, my coach named something in me with uncomfortable accuracy. She reflected back the overgiving, over-functioning woman I had become over the past decade. The emotional sponge. The peace-builder. The one who kept things together quietly, even when no one had officially asked her to.

I froze as she spoke.

Because while it may have been easy for her to name it, I was the one being pulled back into memory. Back to the years when I chose to keep peace at home during seasons of chaos. Back to the moments I swallowed my own words because silence felt safer than being misunderstood. Back to the girl in her late teens and early adulthood who learned to make her worries small, her needs smaller, and her dreams almost invisible.

No one really knew that girl.

They saw someone sensible. Someone focused. Someone who studied, worked hard, kept going, and did not cause too much trouble. Very convenient, really. A girl who does not ask for much is often mistaken for a girl who does not need much. But I did need. I just did not know how to say it.

Somewhere along the way, silence became my language of love. Solitude became my safety. Approval became proof that I was doing life correctly.

I wanted to be needed, useful, impressive, good. I wanted to be the kind of daughter who made things easier, not heavier.

And in trying to become that version of myself, I slowly shredded my own hopes and dreams. One by one, I erased them from the walls of my mind. Not dramatically. Not in some grand cinematic scene with rain and one perfectly timed tear sliding down my cheek.

It was quieter than that. I simply stopped telling people what I wanted. I stopped sharing what hurt. I stopped trusting that anyone would know what to do with the real me if I showed her.

You may ask, “But what about friends?”

That, dear reader, is where the comedy becomes even more tragic. I barely had any left. Not because I hated people, but because I had forgotten how to trust them. I thought I was safest when I worked on myself, focused on my studies, stayed useful, and kept moving.

The plan was simple: achieve enough, need little, stay composed, and perhaps no one would notice the emotional furniture collapsing inside.

It is funny now, in the way painful things become funny when you are tired of crying about them.

I was not the eldest daughter by birth order. But I had become the eldest daughter by function. The backup adult. The quiet fixer. The emotional translator. The one who inherited silence instead of gold.

What a tragic little comedy.

To be called mature when you were actually tired. To be praised for coping when you were quietly disappearing. To become everyone’s safe place while having no idea where your own was. The eldest daughter role is not always about who was born first.Sometimes it is about who became responsible first. Who noticed the tension first. Who learned to read the room first. Who understood that peace in the home often depended on someone staying quiet, staying useful, staying easy.

And sometimes, that someone was a daughter.

Not necessarily the oldest daughter. Just the daughter who understood too much, too early. I think about that often now.

How daughters inherit things no one formally gives them. We inherit recipes, phrases, habits, skin tones, ways of folding laundry, ways of holding resentment, ways of staying silent at the wrong times.

We inherit what was spoken. But we also inherit what was never allowed to be said.

Maybe that is what I carried for years. Not just my own silence, but the silence of women before me. Women who were taught that endurance was dignity.

Women who were praised for being strong while nobody asked what that strength was costing them.

And this is where the story becomes harder to flatten into blame.

It would be easy to say our mothers should have known better. That they should have been softer, more present, more emotionally aware, more patient, more able to hold us without making us feel like a burden.

But many mothers were mothering without a village.

They were raising children inside homes where support was thin, community was inconsistent, and emotional language was almost non-existent. They were expected to soothe, discipline, cook, clean, protect, stretch money, honour family expectations, keep marriages together, and raise children who would not embarrass anyone in public.

No one handed them a manual.

Just children, pressure, and the occasional comment from someone older who believed crying too much would spoil a child. A stunning system, really. Very efficient at producing tired women.

So perhaps they did not always know how to mother gently because no one had mothered them gently either. Perhaps they did not know how to ask for help because help was rarely offered without judgement. Perhaps they called it strength because nobody had given them another word for survival.

That does not erase the ache. But it changes the shape of it.

Because maybe our mothers were not careless with us.

Maybe they were tired. Maybe they were lonely. Maybe they were doing the best they could with a nervous system that had never known rest, in a world that praised sacrifice but rarely showed up with soup, childcare, money, patience, or a safe place to cry. And maybe that is the part we do not talk about enough: mothers are not meant to raise children alone.

Not emotionally. Not mentally. Not spiritually.

Not while holding a baby, a boiling pot, a marriage, a budget, a family reputation, and everyone’s feelings at the same time.

When women mother without support, something has to give.

Sometimes it is her softness. Sometimes it is her joy. Sometimes it is her daughter.

This is not to excuse everything.

It is not to make daughters swallow their pain in the name of “understanding.” We have swallowed enough. Some of us could professionally digest disappointment by now.

It is simply to say that mothers and daughters are often meeting each other inside wounds neither of them fully chose.

A mother may pass down silence because silence was what kept her safe.

A daughter may resent that silence because it made her feel invisible.

Both can be true.

A mother may not know how to comfort her daughter because she herself was raised to function, not feel. A daughter may grow up longing for softness and then judge herself for needing it.

Both can be true.

A mother may have loved deeply and still not known how to show it in a way her daughter could receive. A daughter may know she was loved and still ache from what was missing.

Both can be true.

Maybe this is what I am unlearning now. That being a good daughter does not mean becoming easy to overlook. That silence is not always wisdom. That strength is not the same as being unsupported. That, understanding my mother, does not mean abandoning myself. That compassion for the women before me does not require me to repeat their pain. And that the little girl who became everyone’s backup adult still deserves to be seen, heard, and mothered too.

For a long time, I thought I was healing from my childhood.

Then I became a mother and realised childhood had followed me into the room.

It was there in my tone.

In my guilt. In the way I panicked when things felt out of control. In the way I expected myself to know everything, hold everything, fix everything.

And that was when I understood: the eldest daughter in me had not disappeared. She had simply become a mother.

#4: Entry by a Pigeon: Taiyeba
37 | Singapore / @t.write.s
Title: Circular

There was a fire.

I knew before I saw it — the way you know things in dreams, the knowing kind of arriving before the fact. Gray smoke covered the sky in front of me. My little brother was behind me. The fire was spreading in a circular manner — possibly due to the wind, but the harsh reality of it felt too distant — the way it feels only in dreams.

I knew she was probably where the fire broke.

I didn’t call her myself. I asked him to. Even now I can’t fully explain that — only that it felt right, that some instincts don’t arrive from logic. I heard him say it calmly, the way he has always been calm: “Bayre agun dekha jacche. Tumra kothae?”

“There’s a fire outside. Where are you?”

Her voice came back steady, but urgent.

“Onek taratari choracche. Tumra jaw. Dowr daw. Taratari chole jaw.”

“It’s spreading fast. Run. Run as fast as you can.”

He asked what we all wanted to ask. “Tumra?”

“What about you?”

“Amak niye vabte hobena. Tumar Abbuji ase shate. Taratari jaw tumra!”

“Don’t worry about me”, she said. “Your dad and I are together. Just go.”

And we ran. I was carrying a baby. Not one of my daughters — someone smaller, newer, a child I couldn’t place in the order of my life. I didn’t stop to question it. I just held on and ran.

That’s the thing nobody tells you about loving a child — it doesn’t wait for context. It doesn’t ask you to verify anything first. The love arrives before you’ve even understood what you’re holding.

But I was torn in a way I couldn’t name while it was all happening. My brother beside me, this baby against my chest, and somewhere behind us — somewhere I couldn’t point to, couldn’t remember — my girls! My husband?! The family I had built and then apparently misplaced in the middle of a burning city? I kept turning, looking, trying to locate the last place I had left them, the way you retrace steps for a lost phone except the loss was immense and the fire was closing in and I couldn’t stop moving long enough to find them.

We found shelter underground. The hotel manager said we would be safe. I stood there holding this baby that I already loved wholeheartedly and I thought about my mother on the other side of the fire, and I thought about my daughters on a side I couldn’t name, and I understood — in the way you understand things in dreams before you understand them in waking life — that I was always going to be the one standing in the middle, holding something, wondering if everyone else was okay.

My father taught us to cycle. My brother and I, one bicycle between us, taking turns on a parking lot at the edge of the city — the outskirts, where a girl in abaya could ride without it meaning something. He took me there deliberately. I understood that even then.

My mother stood there and watched and you could tell she was proud in the way she was proud of things she didn’t say directly. When she was young, she had only ever cycled in their yard, on her brother’s bicycle, in the small circle their front garden allowed.

She gave me what she hadn’t been given. That was its own kind of love.

And yet as I grew older she wanted me to also be soft. To take care of my skin color. To stay out of the sun. Not to play the sports that tanned me, hardened my hands, made me look like someone who had been outside living fully in her skin and body. She never said it was wrong. But she always knew when I had done it. She could read it on me, and there would be that look — not quite disappointment, something more complicated. Pride and its opposite, held in the same face at the same time.

I understand that look now. She was handing me freedoms she had never held herself, and she was also afraid — of what freedom does to a girl in a world that hasn’t caught up, of what it costs, of what it changes. Both things were true. Both things were love. I just didn’t always know how to receive it, and I’m not sure she always knew how to give it, and the space between us was sometimes where things got lost.

I didn’t know how to be close to my mother. And I am afraid — it surfaces at odd moments, in dreams, in quiet — that I don’t know how to build it for myself either. That I missed something, some template, some early instructions that daughters learn from mothers about how to be close — that we are making it up as we go…

What I know is that my girls are everything. I know that completely, the way I knew it about this baby before I even understood what I was holding. They came to me one after another and I have thought, more than once, that they are the sisters I never had — that Allah gave me the closeness (also the drama) that I was missing, just in a direction I hadn’t expected. My daughters. My people. The ones who truly know me and I am most afraid of losing.

People pity me sometimes for not having a son (yet). I have learned to receive that pity quietly, to let it pass through without catching on anything. But I will not pretend it doesn’t find the places where my own uncertainties already live. The wondering. The not-knowing if what I’m building is enough, is right, is close enough to what they’ll need from me later.

We live in a country where I can cycle now. My oldest got her first bicycle at four. No training wheels — we went head first into it — and she was riding before she was four and a half. People around her were amazed.

I smiled and didn’t say: her grandmother cycled in a yard. Her mother cycled at the parking lot. She cycles everywhere. Of course she does.

I want all my girls to ride early, to ride freely, to move through the world with their heads held high — answerable to their Creator, and to no one else.

I want them soft where softness is theirs to choose. I want them to know they don’t have to be soft to be a girl.

And I want them close to me. That’s the part I don’t say out loud as often. Not just loved — I know they love me. But close. The way I was close to my father, in ways I couldn’t have explained, in ways that didn’t need explaining. He took me to the outskirts so I could ride and I never had to tell him what that meant to me because he already knew.

I am always afraid that in working so hard to make sure my daughters have that with their father — because I know what it is, I know its value, I want it for them — I am somehow leaving myself on the wrong side of something? Giving away a thing I also need. Standing at the edge, proud, the way my mother stood at the edge of that road.

My brother knew what to do in the fire. He always does.

My mother was always closer to my brothers. Not as a wound — more as weather, as geography, as the way light falls differently in different rooms, as the way some things simply are. In the dream it felt right that he called her, that she spoke to him, that she trusted him to carry the rest of us to safety. That is its own kind of love too. I am not outside that. I just experience it differently.

My father is gone. He has been gone long enough that the grief has changed shape — moved from jagged to the kind that shows up in cherry blossom trees, in the middle of an ordinary Tuesday — from present tense to something I live alongside. When my mother said your dad and I are together — calm, certain, not asking to be rescued — I knew, even inside the dream, what she might have meant. I hope it was the dream talking. I am not ready for the other meaning. But in that moment I held it, turned it over, let it mean what it needed to mean.

I think about the baby. Held tight against my chest while the smoke above spread, while my daughters were somewhere I couldn’t name, while my brother led us underground to safety. I loved this baby before I understood it. I would have loved it in any direction, any form, any gender — that was never the question.

The question was why I was separated from the family I made. Why, even held and safe, I was in the middle — holding love, unable to find the people I couldn’t account for.

Maybe that’s just where I live. In the middle. Holding on.

My father took me to the outskirts so I could move freely, and I felt known in a way that didn’t need words. My mother stood at the edge and said nothing, and I felt that too — the pride she couldn’t name, the freedom she was handing me that no one had handed her. He is gone now. She is still waiting. And I am still moving, trying to pass on both — to my daughters, in a country where they can ride anywhere, where no one will follow them with their eyes and words, where the circle is wider and the road is endless.

I just want them to come back to me and share their story when they’ve finished riding. Just like my mom stands there at the edge, still now, still waiting …

That’s all. That’s everything.

💌 A Note to Close

Thank you to every pigeon who shared their words, art, humour, and inner world with us for Volume 6. This little collection exists because of you — the women who continue to show up, create, connect, and make this space what it is.

For Volume 8 (June), our theme is “A Trip That Changed Me”: Accepting Thought Pieces, Poetry, Photography etc

With summer around the corner, we’re thinking about the journeys that stay with us long after we’ve unpacked our bags. Not necessarily the most glamorous trips or the furthest destinations, but the ones that shifted something within us.

Maybe it was a solo trip that taught you to trust yourself. A holiday that went completely off script. A weekend away with friends that marked the end of one chapter and the beginning of another. Perhaps it was a visit back home that changed how you saw your past, or a journey that helped you imagine a different future. We’re interested in the moments that happen while we’re away from our everyday lives: the conversations, detours, mistakes, discoveries, and quiet realisations that can leave a lasting mark.

This issue welcomes stories about movement in all its forms — across countries, cities, relationships, identities, or seasons of life. Whether the trip changed everything or simply nudged you in a new direction, we’d love to hear about it.

This space welcomes stories that are honest, personal, and still unfolding.

📩 Submit your piece here by 20th June 2026: hello@screamingpigeons.co

Entries can include writing, drawings, poetry, photography, comics – anything that feels like you. Women-only submissions, and open to all ages.

Until next time,
With love,

Asha
Founder & Community Director, Screaming Pigeons 🕊️