This piece has been sitting in my mind for the past few weeks. I didn’t know if this was worth the write-up.

For the past month, I found myself staring at my computer screen during my 9-5 and wondered if life would be better if I were dead. This was happening while work gave me a strong sense of purpose, in a place that feels far from what home means to me.

Stuck on a land that I know would be hospitable to many strangers, inhospitable to me.

Now, let me interject. I don’t think you come across a lot of people like me (does that sound narcissistic to you? It does to me) - I write my life on paper like it deserves its own biopic.

The truth is, I feel stuck and I write to release the tension I feel towards my life - some use fidget spinners, some do deadlifts like their life depended on it, some just take medication to feel at ease, to regulate themselves.

For me, I fucking write that piece of shit - within the intention that I get to release and to feel, to reflect and to breathe, to step outside of my body and to see.

Ever since I was a kid, people call me a fagg*t more than they call my real name. This includes working adults like my teachers. If you’ve been here before from my previous articles, I am aware that I sound like a broken record.

This started at the age of 8 but I learned quickly how to step outside of my body, to view life from the outside looking in - just to have a bit of hope that life is worth living, that life goes beyond being called a fagg*t - that I am more than just what people say I am.

I extended that ability today, as a 26-year-old - I do that when things get difficult, and it’s one thing I’m grateful I learned early on in life despite the circumstances I was being put in, at the time.

Now, where was I?

I thought my 20s were meant to be this exciting ballgame, that I get to have fun and play around with, I thought I get to fuck up as many times as I want to but unfortunately, I didn’t grow up in the West.

I grew up in a culture where they make fun of you if you don’t fulfil your parents’ dreams by the age of 22. They judge you if you earn below the threshold of what they deem as “he’s on the right path of being successful”, they judge you for being different - for being nothing like them or nothing like what they were told what normal people look like or what a heavenly child should appear as.

In that case, I’m far from normal.

I’m queer, I still practise my religion because I hold an unbreakable bond with God who watches over me, I still feel a lot of love despite what people have said about me or believe the formation of what I have become to be - and the biggest fuckery of all - my mum thinks the gates of hell are opened as wide as they can be to welcome me in.

My boss thinks I’m a child from hell too - for my ability to not give a shit when it comes to people pleasing, or to win people’s hearts by selling my soul to have them on my side. I made it clear early on that if my career deems me to lick people’s ass to feel appreciated and get promoted, they should expect a resignation letter the next morning. I’d rather be judged for my quality of work.

Then, Dad recently said I am highly westernised compared to my siblings - because there’s not a single bone in my body that gravitates towards collectivism. If that’s what it means to be westernised, then sure.

I find value in my individualism. I find realness in having some self-worth created from the inside, as opposed to feeling it by validation of others. I’m of the mindset that it’s a lot more sustainable to feel sane from within than to feel sane via people who are struggling themselves. People who don’t admit it and who are slowly crumbling like that meat in the slow cooker you have at home, just in time for Sunday roast - but for them, just in time for their hell to break loose.

Throughout my fucking life, people have told me that I cannot simultaneously be these things - that I contain things they insist cannot coexist, and I refuse to amputate parts of myself just to become comprehensible to them.

I was on the drive home today with a friend - I asked her “Do you think it’s valid for me to want to run away? For me to feel like there’s nothing for me here? And for me to be unhappy?"

She said: As a friend, I understand where you’re coming from. You’ve been exposed to a life that truly gave you the fulfilment you wanted to feel. You’ve lived abroad for a long time and that made you happy.

However, if you ask me, as someone who’s been living here their whole life, who only understands their people, and how they act on a daily basis and pass it off as “normal” - I can see that there’s a lot in store for you here if it means you gravitate towards wanting success through your career but then, I understand that you want something more than that.

Upon reflection, it’s true.

Should I want to be successful, I can foresee my current job could give me that. You see, I’d be happy if that was the case, if that is a dead-end goal that I could arrive at on my deathbed - but I desire to hold values that goes beyond what I do in my 9-5.

I hold values in conversations that keep me mentally stimulated - where people speak rawly of their experiences instead of having a facade to showcase a being that should be displayed on a primary school’s poster for children to look up to.

I don’t need a motivational lecture, I need realness in what life is as a human being in today’s economy - complexities - but my people on this land were taught that it’s better to have their walls up, to be careful with vulnerability. It’s better to lack humanity, in a body as human as theirs - to lack consciousness, to feel dry and emotionless, in hopes they would appear stable and sane because these questioning thoughts are only meant to exist behind closed doors as it would be too much to question the things they lack or the things they desire to feel.

I feel sick knowing that was the mentality I grew up with, that was the community i was being introduced to as a child. Today, I hold a reverence for life, with zero intention of feeling a single ounce of regret when it’s Death’s time to take me in.

I want to feel, I want to cry, I want to see, I want contentment - that’s what I want and after 18 years of experiencing life on this land and 8 years of living life on a foreign land -

I feel at home, out there, as a migrant who only wants to live,

freely.

In case it’s not obvious, I miss the person I was in 2025.

He was in such a gorgeous place mentally and physically, he was liberated and he holds a lot of gratitude every single morning.

I am writing this as a person that I am today, standing on the outside looking in - to release, to feel, to breathe and to be seen.

- i.h

Just when I thought I couldn’t be any more personal, I proved myself wrong.

Now the things I’ve written on here have been gaining traction lately. While that’s happening, I’ve grown fearful as to how I might be perceived by strangers; but the lack of my people-pleasing abilities allows me to stay sane since I lack fucks to give anyway.

Although, I can feel in my body, moving through my curvatures that the golden question is coming. That is; until when?

Now, I’ve not been as active as I’d like to be on here because I’ve started my new role. I work a 9-5 now - well that’s a lie, it’s more of 8-6 if anything (i know… long working hours eh…). I’m genuinely so mentally stimulated at work, and just trying to keep afloat that I have zero energy to do anything else after I log off.

It may be because I’m always learning new things and trying to understand what the hell on earth is going on in my life.

For context: out of all people, God gave me a calling to work not only in finance, but also in oil and gas - after two years of working in law. Either that feels like a death sentence or a big reward is for you to decide.

I believe it’s more of both. If you know me, I hate anything that’s got to do with maths or big numbers, and I grew up disliking O&G only because I grew up with a dad who’s in the industry and is obsessed with it - now, the allegations of me being a nepo baby might pop up in your head, but I kept my application a secret from everyone until I got the job.

Wish it was through nepotism though, would’ve been a much easier process don’t you think?

Anyhow, because I work every day in the office, I have more time to observe people, I have plenty of time to people watch, more time in the day to self-loathe and attack my own state of mind for not achieving what I want in life - when previously, I could consent myself to shut up and get the fucking sleep I deserve just to not think, just to breathe and reset for the next 24 hours before the cycle repeats itself.

It’s destructive, genuinely so destructive that I am surprised I have yet to burst out crying in front of strangers, friends, and family - I’m still able to sit still and pretend that it will all be eventually okay someday. That one day, i’ll figure this shit out and life will bloom how I want it to.

Also, I’m at the point in life now where I’ve seen and met enough people to know that we’re trying to get by by playing pretend. None of us actually knew what the fuck we want, what is going on, and our purpose.

I meant it as in what we want now, soon we will have, then the cycle repeats of “what should I go for tomorrow?”.

For example, I’ve always wanted to become a lawyer, till I got a taste of what it is to be one through being a legal executive, then decided it wasn’t really for me (at this moment in time) - literally after spending half a million to qualify as one.

Similarly and materialistically, I’ve always wanted a Louis Vuitton on-the-go East West until I got one for my 25th birthday and decided I should have opted for a classic Speedy 25 with a short strap.

You just can’t fucking win.

I came across a video of a monk who said that his purpose wasn’t to find happiness in life because no one will ever be happy, that he seeks peace and that will make him, literally, at peace with himself and his surroundings, his world, by that - his life.

I’ve come to the conclusion that that’s just life - and that’s how I should lead my life - but girl, I’m having a tough time adopting that principle because I still have plenty of space for a lot more great manifestations I’d like to see coming to fruition.

I don’t think I’ve met a single person that’s content with their life. Don’t even get me started on influencers - I fell into the trap of thinking I should become one because the influencers I follow seemed so fulfilled with “live, laugh, love” that I thought I should attempt at being one to feel something, until I was fooled to know it’s just brand and marketing (yes, I did look them up on LinkedIn to see what they would say about themselves and their content) - it’s WORK, babes.

I’m honestly just exhausted. It’s been almost nine months since I’ve moved back.

Going back to what I want to achieve, it’s always the same repetitive answer. That is, to leave. That’s my life’s aspiration, to leave this place I’ve been asked to call home. Not for reasons you may think - while I think it’s a beautiful country, I don’t have any sense of belonging besides the friends I confide in, to feel at home with.

The culture I find joyful seemed misaligned with the culture that exists. The mentality I wish to be stimulated by is not the mentality that’s made available. The life I aspire to lead is not the life made possible for me to live.

A best friend once said, “You could become a fucking millionaire by tomorrow, and you will still be unhappy - because you’re not somewhere you’d like to be”.

The grass isn’t always greener on the other side, I admit, but I come to learn that I get to decide where I want my life to bloom - that is, not here, never was - but out there.

I wish to write more, I really do, I have a lot of drafts on my notes app, but I think we’ll end this here for now because I’m starting to get a bit teary eyed.

Thank you and until next time.

- i.h

I’m a big nerd when it comes to films, especially the cinematography, costumes and set design.

I was unemployed for eight months, and during that time I kept a journal where I noted down every movie and series I watched and gave each one a rating out of five.

Here’s the list, along with a short explanation of why I loved (or hated) them.

The Odyssey - 1000000/5

Bitch, you better be joking if you don’t rate a Nolan film this highly.

What an incredible movie. Honestly, I’m still fucking gagged. I immediately went down a rabbit hole learning more about Homer’s work, how this film was even made possible, where it was shot, how long production took, the sheer scale of it all, and, of course, Circe.

Honestly, if I had all the money in the world, I’d fly to the nearest 70mm IMAX cinema. There are only 41 of them in the world, and Melbourne is the closest one to me. This is the kind of film that deserves to be seen in its full, uncropped glory. Its really good, and I can go on and on and on.

This wasn’t just a movie - it was an experience. Every performance was incredible, and I was completely moved by it. If you have the chance to watch it in cinemas and choose not to, you’re genuinely missing out. It doesn’t even have to be in IMAX. Just sit in a dark room, put your phone away, and let yourself be immersed.

Also, I’m glad to have celebrated unemployment by watching this film in IMAX and this being the first film I watched in the cinema since being back home.

Just go watch it.

Everything Everywhere All at Once - 5/5

Everything hit me right where it hurts. I’m talking about everywhere, and all at once.

I’ve watched this movie more than five times. Michelle Yeoh used to be my school’s ambassador, and I’m a huge fan of her performance in this one. It also doesn’t help that I’ve got mummy issues, I’m Asian, and I’m gay as fuck.

One of the things on my bucket list is to genuinely have a chat with her about what it took to make it big in the industry, especially when many Asian parents are against their children pursuing careers in the arts. As someone who had thought about becoming an actor, that ship fucking sailed but hey, I was Tin Man in the Wizards of Oz in my school’s production when I was 12 LOL!

Also, mate... the fucking cinematography is extraordinarily unique - it was gorgeous and beautiful. I highly recommend.

The Drama - 5/5

This one though - I had absolutely zero clue what it was about. I’d watched the trailer maybe once or twice, and wow... it has it all.

It was uncomfortable in the way movies are designed to move you. It makes you think, question your moral compass, and reflect on yourself. Zendaya is genuinely a generational talent, and I’m so glad I can tell people I was one of those kids who watched Shake It Up growing up.

I also really want that New York apartment as that spiral staircase feels almost holy and deserves a permanent spot on everyone’s mood board on Pinterest. I know I’ve got it on mine.

I’ll definitely rewatch this, and that’s saying something because I’ve already seen it twice.

Project Hail Mary - 5/5

A rock made me sob for twenty minutes straight. It fucking did.

Again, I went into this with very low expectations, but Ryan Gosling... he is fantastic in this one. Not only he’s a beautiful looking man, but this movie genuinely made me cry so much and I can’t even tell you the exact reason why???

The cover of Harry Styles’ Sign of the Times sent me into a full-blown existential crisis. What’s beautiful about this film is how close it sits to our hearts. There’s so much depth and so many layers to the main character, and it makes you appreciate the idea that maybe any underdog school teacher could end up saving the world so don’t be talking shit in school, kids.

Wuthering Heights - 3/5

I know there was a lot of discourse around this film when it came out, and that’s okay.

Unfortunately, I’d already read a bunch of reviews before watching it, so I went in with the mindset of, “I’m going to watch this as an Emerald Fennell film with zero correlation to Emily Brontë’s novel.”

Once I did that, and with my previous experiences watching Fennell’s work in Promising Young Woman and Saltburn, I found the cinematography and performances absolutely beautiful and gut-wrenching. The skin-like walls, the red tint backdrop, the theatre-like feel this movie gives you made me believe that this might be Ms. Fennell’s most poetic work yet.

Also, can we collectively agree that Promising Young Woman is one of those films everyone should watch?

If I Had Legs I’d Kick You - 4/5

I watched this on the plane while flying to Japan, and I’m honestly not sure that was a good idea.

It’s a great movie, but holy fuck... it was such a stressful watch. So stressful that I genuinely cannot imagine what life is like for a single mother raising a child on her own.

It’s unsettling, dark, emotional, and deeply human. The themes of burnout, isolation, and loneliness are incredibly prominent throughout and when she ran at the waves??? Bitch, I would do the same I can’t lie.

Rose Byrne gave such a beautiful performance in this.

Avatar: Fire and Ash - 4/5

Let me take you back.

When the first Avatar came out, I was blown away and I was a child, I was a baby. When the second one was released, I watched it on New Year’s Eve, and James Cameron somehow did it again.

Unfortunately, I missed this third one in cinemas because I was in the middle of moving back home, so I ended up watching it on my telly instead.

It was still great, but I think missing the full IMAX experience made it fall a little flat for me. Nevertheless, I’d still highly recommend the trilogy.

Industry - 5/5

I SAT AND WATCHED ALL FOUR SEASONS WITHIN A MONTH AND A HALF. I was unemployed remember?

Beautiful, intense, addictive!

It genuinely made me want to work on a trading floor, shouting numbers and throwing around random corporate jargon while strutting around in kitten heels and a double breasted blazer that could make me look snatched.

I’d honestly say this is HBO’s most underrated TV series. It’s just so fucking good!

Again, it’s very human. It’s complex, nuanced, and somehow I have zero favourite characters because they’re all so unlikeable, but you also feel for them because of what each character had to go through in the past or present???

I hadn’t watched a series this good until...

Read the next one.

(But seriously, please watch Industry. I cannot wait for the final season. Do yall need extras?)

A Knight of the Seven Kingdoms - 5/5

Egg absolutely won my heart.

He’s such a funny, lovable character, and overall this is just such a wholesome series that I could happily watch again.

I’ve always found Game of Thrones quite a difficult watch because it’s so violent and gory. Maybe I was just too young when it first came out but I also can’t stand gore, I’m one of those people that could faint instantly if I see blood gushing out of someone even though I damn well know they’re fake blood.

This one feels different.

You still get the sense that it belongs in the same universe - because it does, but it feels much more grounded, fun, and wholesome.

Close - 4/5

This one is depressing.

I don’t want to say anything else because I really think you should experience it for yourself.

There aren’t many films that explore the complexity of childhood relationships as detailed as this one does.

Superman - 3/5

Hear me out.

I like James Gunn as a director. I absolutely adore the Guardians of the Galaxy trilogy, and I’m genuinely excited about the direction he’s taking DC.

But... I’m not sure.

I just didn’t connect with Superman as much as I wanted to.

28 Years Later: The Bone Temple - 2/5

I almost fainted within the first five minutes.

I’m really not a fan of excessive gore, and this film was just unnecessarily gruesome. I genuinely wanted to throw up during one particular scene.

Ewww.

Okay, next.

Now You See Me: Now You Don’t - 3/5

This was so much fun, and I genuinely enjoyed it.

That said, it’s definitely a light watch. I was literally job hunting while watching it.

Still, it’s great Friday-night entertainment with the family.

Okay, I think that’s enough reviews because I’ve watched a lot of movies and series this year. Here are some of the others I’ve watched:

• The Conjuring: Last Rites - 4/5

• Predator: Badlands - 4/5

• The Fantastic Four: First Steps - 3/5

• Jurassic World: Rebirth - 3/5

• Thunderbolts - 4/5

• Drop - 3/5

• The Last Showgirl - 4/5

• Beef Season 2 - 3/5

I watched a lot more but i didn’t write all of them down sorry x

Til next time!

- i.h

I fell victim to downloading this app called Threads on my phone - within an hour, I deleted it.

Now, I can’t exactly blame myself for downloading it either. I thought it was another Twitter, I thought I could publicise my Substack on the app with the benefit of having it synced with my Instagram profile, but what the fuck.

It’s funny because had I not downloaded it, I wouldn’t have spiralled into this rabbit hole of annoyance, pure ick, and reading things that just make me want to punch a wall because of how seriously people take their online presence, and how valuable they think it is.

Setting the record straight, I was thrown into the algorithm that I hate most - the local algorithm, aka the Malaysian algorithm. Either my phone’s location is frighteningly accurate, or my phone is what Gen Z would call rage bait.

The algorithm I see is filled with keyboard warriors, judging one another with screenshots taken from private conversations, stories, and things that are meant to be kept behind closed doors and not shared in public. All in the name of receiving affirmation and validation from strangers they’ll probably never even say “hi” to.

So much so that it’s ironic to me to see a community who prides itself in keeping things private act this way.

I just think too many of us are too fucking loud on our socials just to fit in - and not when we genuinely have opinions to share or a topic to discuss that could perhaps invoke some sense of mental stimulation and open conversations.

I never realised how chronically online one can be until I moved back home - it’s highly likely because I’m unemployed, I have a lot of time on my plate to fixate and observe things I don’t usually pay attention to, but fucking hell, there’s a lot of you out there.

It could be as easy as “you should just log off if you find a lot of problems with the things you see online” - that’s true, I really could, but it’s embarrassing to know how backwards we are when it comes to utilising our online presence in the age of social media.

I keep seeing the same people, the same profiles, the same presence that brings so much shame to their character through the content they feel the need to put online. It’s sad how a lack of self-awareness or simply neglecting one’s own intelligence can strip a person of their dignity. It’s a waste of what social media could actually be.

I see influencers piggybacking on things that weren’t meant to be viral, just for clout chasing, and I see people openly shaming someone for deciding not to wear the hijab anymore with a simple comment of the woman being “a fucking hypocrite and a liar” and “a resident of Hell”.

The latter genuinely does not sit right with me - this holier-than-thou mindset is a living hell on Earth, and it just burns me up that a human being who thinks they’re so beloved by God could replicate the exact sentiments I envision would come from a Satan.

I think it’s just time for keyboard warriors to understand that -

Sometimes, your opinions don’t matter. Not every thought deserves to be posted. Not every disagreement needs your input. If all you’re adding is another shallow insult or another self-righteous comment, maybe you’re not contributing to the conversation as much as you think you are.

It’s this mindset where people become so damn entitled and self-righteous that they genuinely believe they have the authority to bring someone else down. To add to that, how much do you want to bet that behind every profile is someone who’s got nothing better to do with their life?

I hope you sit with that for a minute and reflect on how you want your online presence to be dictated by others.

Till next time and thank you so much for 100 subscribers!

- i.h

it sounds like i’m about to self-loathe my existence to death - but don’t worry, i don’t think we have to go there.

let me paint a picture of where i’m sat while writing this.

i’ve checked into a hotel in chow kit. it’s a four-star boutique hotel designed by the brooklyn collective. the whole place feels like a love letter to new york - people book this hotel for commercial shoots.

i booked it because i wanted to feel like the main character for a night. its been a while anyway since i felt like one - the last time i did was on my way home from japan when i was convinced the plane was going to crash because of how bad the turbulence was.

anyway, the hotel’s gorgeous. the ember lights set the ambience the moment you walk through the front door. it’s really cozy, just how i like it and exactly what i needed.

i literally just got out of the shower too. my hair’s still wet, and for some reason it felt so fucking sexy showering in that bathroom. i don’t know if it was the lighting, the room, the copper fixtures, or the fact that i’d finally escaped my own routine, but for the first time in a long time, i genuinely felt like i was breathing life back into myself.

now, if you’re wondering why the fuck this twink checked into a hotel that’s only 25 minutes away from home...

here we go.

it’s been one hell of a fucking month.

i started my first-ever job in this country, only to resign after two days. i had the audacity to think it was my dream role and the anticipation began in april so it was a long anticipation that fell extremely flat.

it was probably the quickest wake-up call of my life - do i have to thank god for that? maybe.

it was also a month filled with self-deprecating thoughts. i caught myself crying in the shower, wondering if i should finally give up on the hopes and dreams i’ve been clinging onto for years.

i also turned 26.

for the first time in my life, i dreaded ageing.

every birthday before this, i’d wake up excited to grow older. i’d joke that i was one year closer to death.

this year, it didn’t feel like a joke anymore.

it genuinely felt like i was one year closer to death, and i’d achieved very little besides eating into my savings in the hope that one day i’ll get to move abroad again.

but oh well - since my birthday month is coming to an end, i figured the best way to commemorate it was to disappear for a night.

away from family, away from “safe spaces”, away from everything that’s familiar.

just me, myself and i. the only thing i brought with me are my foldable shopping bag, a Longchamp filled with toiletries and pyjamas, Just Kids by Patti Smith, my digicam, and the journal i can never leave at home because it’s filled with angst and brutal honesty.

if you know me, solitude has always been the one place that makes me feel the most grounded. i love being alone, its so quiet and zen.

even the hertz music i’ve had on repeat for the past month to feel at ease suddenly started making sense.

back to the title.

26 sounds like a joke.

if you asked eight-year-old me what life would look like at 26, he’d answer without hesitation.

he’d think i’d escape every stereotype that was forced onto people like him.

he’d think i’d be successful enough that life would’ve figured itself out. maybe i’d live by myself, own a car, host dinner parties for friends at my cute little brutalist designed apartment, go shopping every other weekend without thinking twice.

he’d also imagine me living abroad, building a permanent home somewhere far away from the place i was taught to call home.

except...

he never really felt welcomed here to begin with. he never felt at home anyway - it feels bit too mundane and dead for someone with a deep sense of appreciation towards outdoors, walking everywhere, breezy air, and a low maintenance life.

more than anything, he’d think i’d be content with however life turned out.

unfortunately, he couldn’t have been more wrong.

the 26-year-old me wakes up every morning in his family home, counting the days one at a time because thinking too far ahead feels unbearable. this year itself feels like one long test - from having to deal with a narcissistic parent, not having any personal space (i’m sure my mom walked in on me sleeping with my balls out the other day when she barged into my room without knocking), and struggling in finding a sense of belonging.

my heart feels heavier than it used to, although you’d never know that if we met over coffee. i’ve become frighteningly good at performing okay.

i spend more time writing than socialising now, which is funny because it used to be the complete opposite.

don’t get me wrong, i still have a big mouth and can yap for hours if i’m with the right people.

its just that lately, i’d much rather spend hours trying to engineer an escape from my current life.

in today’s economy though where the job market has been extremely bad, on top of being a candidate that would need a visa to work abroad, i find myself starting at a blank screen when i’m job hunting.

lately, i’ve also been trying to give my parents more grace. this is their first time living too but some days, it’s hard to accept that their way of surviving was to pass their pain down instead of healing it.

funny how age is just a number and people do still project their insecurities rather than work on improving it internally.

somewhere along the way, i realised something that hurts more than i know how to explain.

strangers have started feeling more like family than the men who came from the same ballsack as me - my brothers are practically strangers to me, we have nothing in common and i just miss being abroad, where i’d meet strangers and the open conversations that we would have over a meal just feel so much more intimate - in which i find a lot of comfort in knowing that relationships like that could exist in my life.

i went for dinner with my family the other day as my youngest sister just turned 13. honestly, i did not see the point of being there - it just felt dull and performative. my mom is the type that feels obligated to post everything on her instagram - she wouldn’t admit it but i think its a trap of being a housewife for too long that you start feeling insecure and feel the need to perform a certain kind of lifestyle that makes you seem relevant to your circle or piggybacking on your husband’s achievements to feel validated.

its really sad and i don’t aspire to be like that.

two weeks ago, i woke up feeling miserable, so i cried in the shower because i just thought - how the fuck did we get here?

then i remember saying something to myself;

either you suck it the fuck up right now, or good luck finding comfort in feeling miserable for the rest of your life.

it wasn’t some life-changing revelation. if anything, it felt more like an ultimatum.

perhaps, that’s also why i’m here tonight. its not because a hotel room magically fixes anything and definitely not because turning 26 suddenly makes sense.

its just that i needed to be alone and to know that at the end of the day, all i wanted to believe is that there’s a ray of light waiting somewhere at the end of this tunnel. whether i like to admit it or not, this is my life now and i am still in charge.

by grace through faith with the help of god if he’s reading this, of course.

maybe tonight is me choosing to just have a bit of fucking faith in myself. maybe tonight is my wake up call that i need to keep my head held high.

also if you’re still here - i’m 7 subscribers away from 100 subscribers and that makes me really happy and proud!

i’m grateful for your support and i hope you’ve been enjoying the pieces i put out as of recent. i hope its relatable to a certain extent.

thank you and until next time.

- i.h

dear diary,

its been a while since i’ve written on here.

life has been a whirlwind of emotions - full of highs and lows, and still, so much uncertainty.

i’ve met new people, reconnected with old friends, attended dinner parties, stayed out late, and done all the things i thought might help me find my footing again.

it did not, but it kept me mentally stimulated of my potential in taking control of my current reality.

i’ve driven everywhere, spending an hour and a half stuck in traffic for journeys that were only supposed to take thirty minutes. in those times, i reflect a lot of what felt like my past life - the life in london i missed, to which i admit was full of highs and lows. yet, it still couldn’t match the lows i feel in me today.

i think its because i miss me too. i was once so driven and feel unbeatable despite life’s circumstances.

now i just feel unbearable - my thoughts still spark the most life, yet i don’t feel the need to give it a heart to beat. i’m just tired.

i was in the shower the other day where i caught myself in tears, feeling hopeless in how i should move through life. i think i’m at my breaking point, at my wits’ end and i just need god to speed things up quick; i need a miracle to come my way soon.

it should come soon…

in my misery, i’ve listened to a lot of new music - from records released in the ‘60s to songs that came out just last week. along the way, i’ve discovered artists whose work has soothed my emotions and offered moments of escapism - my sweet coping mechanism.

i’ve discovered the cure, and the psychedelic furs. i quite like them.

i also worked on a passion project - one i can’t talk about just yet because its for me to touch and see but its sentimental.

i’ve started and ended a new role too, as an editor - one I once thought was a dream job which only lasted two days.

i couldn’t see myself pursuing it for longer than a week. some people might say I gave up too quickly, but why settle this early in my career when life is meant to feel bigger than it does today?

it’s been difficult, readjusting and realigning my life. i don’t feel like i belong anywhere at the moment, and perhaps what’s stranger is that i don’t think i want to belong, either.

its a complex situation and i don’t know where to begin but the truth is, i’m fed up of grieving the life i had 7 months ago.

who would have thought you could be burnt out from grieving?

for now, taking it a day at a time will suffice.

- i.h

All I ever wanted, ever since I was a kid, was to run away - as far as life would take me.

I wanted a better quality of life, better education, better relationships, and a better version of myself. I wanted everything the world seemed to be offering somewhere beyond the horizon of where I grew up.

Even as a child, I was convinced that I had to leave home to find those things. Going abroad wasn’t just a dream; it was the dream. It was the only future I could imagine for myself.

And when I finally left in September 2021, with two luggages and a backpack full of hand sanitiser and face masks, I got what I had spent years chasing.

Finally, at what felt like at the time, a ripe age of 21.

(Little did I know, there was a whole ass 20s, that’s full of ups and downs, and waves of melodramatic fuckups one have got to go through and navigate themselves.)

I learned how to survive on my own. I met people who changed the way I saw the world. I discovered parts of myself that would have remained hidden had I never left. I learned to heal. Most importantly, I learned how to create a home out of myself instead of searching for one in other people or places.

Had I not taken that leap, I don’t think I would be the person I am today.

Respectfully, I am still alive today only because I was presented with opportunities that convinced me that life is worth living and this world is so much bigger than my struggles. That the opportunities I can build for myself are limitless.

And I myself, am fucking limitless, no amount of evil eyes will stop me from getting the gifts consented by God himself.

But no one ever talks about the price you pay for becoming someone new.

I came home in January 2026.

My dad looked older than I had ever seen him. The colour of his eyes seemed different somehow; it’s a lot bluer than it is brown. He looks tired. Somehow, he’s still motivated by his work. Grey hair covered more of him than I remembered. The man who had always felt permanent suddenly looked more vulnerable.

My sister had grown taller than 155 centimetres. The last version of her I had stored in my mind was still around 140, as she hugged me tight with the voice she has yet to have found, in comparison to the voice she speaks in today. Somewhere between phone calls and occasional visits, she had grown up without me noticing.

She’s got a brain that goes beyond my comprehension of what goes on in the mind of a 13-year-old girl. She also acts like a woman now, and finally understands the importance of spending time with herself when it’s the time of the month.

Finally, I am still what she calls her “sister” out of the four brothers she has, so that’s a constant.

The family home felt unfamiliar too. Every corner seemed filled with things my mother had bought, as if the house had slowly transformed into a fast-fashion warehouse. It looked the same, yet somehow it didn’t.

Everything was recognisable, yet nothing felt familiar.

Then, there were the friends - or at least the people I thought would always be my friends.

The group no longer existed in the way I remembered it. Everyone had moved on into their own lives, their own storylines, their own character arcs, their own friend groups within the four years I was away.

Some had built careers. A fucking good one, it genuinely makes me proud.

Some had found love. Some had disappeared into routines I knew nothing about.

From the outside, through carefully curated Instagram stories and posts, everyone seemed to be living their best life. Maybe they were, maybe they weren’t. Either way, life had continued without waiting for me.

I came back not as the kid who left, but as a fully grown adult.

An adult who, at 25, was suddenly given the opportunity to reset his life and forced to confront questions he thought he had already answered.

Who am I now?

What value do I bring?

Was everything I built abroad enough to make me feel sane?

Am I enough, secured enough?

I came home no longer certain of the value I could bring to the table. I came home realising how much I had left behind. I came home wondering whether I truly wanted to be here at all, if not for my father, my sister, and the handful of friends who still felt like home. Finally, if not for the self-imposed deportation and burnout I’ve experienced from job hunting.

Most of all, I came home feeling lost. Lost in the space between who I used to be and who I have become. Lost trying to redefine what a good life actually means.

A life with comfort.

A life with security.

A life that feels meaningful enough to die satisfied.

For years, I thought leaving was the hardest part. It turns out, coming back is harder.

Because when you leave, you expect the world to change you. What nobody tells you is that home changes too. Sometimes, when you finally return, you realise that the place you’ve spent years longing for exists only in memory, or it probably was just a dream. A fantasy that never existed.

I came home searching for something familiar, something that could represent the life I had. Instead, I found a stranger standing in a place I once knew, and a place I find issues with too many things about.

For the first time in my life, I confirmed to myself that “home” is not always a place you can return to.

Sometimes, it is just the thing you should try to run away from, for yourself and your sanity, for a peace of mind.

Sometimes, home is enough to be created from within.

Maybe the answer had always been in you, you being your own ultimate home is the only thing you need.

That in itself is enough to live the beautiful life you lead.

- i.h

Today marks six months of unemployment and five months of trying to rebuild a life I thought I had already built.

This is not a plea. Neither is it a PSA of me giving up.

This is simply an ode to the reality of the life I’ve been experiencing.

As a kid, you would often think life would be easy when you are a bit older. Nothing excites me more as a kid than to grow up into a full grown adult, the version of me I could potentially be proud of.

To put this within context, I did not have the best childhood which very well may contribute to that belief, I was excited for what life may entail when I finally entered my 20s, and the meaning I get to attach to it - to my life. But I just never knew that it would be this difficult.

There was nothing poetic about the way life arrived at my doorstep at the end of 2025.

The ebbs and flows of life I thought I could outrun eventually found me anyway. It arrived quietly, persistently and without my senses being alerted, knocking on my door.

That’s the thing nobody really tells you about your twenties, and perhaps it was because it was the very thing that is unteachable.

As a general rule, we all just have to go through it, navigate it, and learn through it whether we like it or not.

I’m turning 26 in less than a week. From what I have experienced, your twenties are a never-ending negotiation between the art of becoming and letting go. Between ambition and surrender. Between the version of yourself you desperately want to be and the parts of yourself you are forced to bury.

Out with the old, in with the new - you begin trading things away without even realising it. You sacrifice certainty for possibility, comfort for growth, and pride for survival. It is just the way it is.

You learn that self-respect can often look like cruelty to people who only benefited from your compliance to their demands, and it’s worth being a bitch if it means you having some self-respect.

Being a people pleaser may get you to places but you’d often find yourself questioning if it’s worth sacrificing your truths and dignity. The answer is, it isn’t. You learn that being liked and being at peace with yourself are not always the same thing. In fact, it was never the same thing.

Lastly, you learn that love is not only about who you choose to hold onto, but also about who you must release in the process. It doesn’t matter whether they’re related by blood.

Some people simply are undeserving to be a resident in your life. That’s the bullet you just have to take, and the baggage you’ve got to carry for the rest of your life.

At 25, I genuinely thought I had my life figured out.

The first few years of my twenties were swallowed by the pandemic, figuring out if law school was worth pursuing, and whether I’ll even graduate from Bar school. It was a never ending momentum, it was back to back and it just felt like I was on the edge of my seat of a rollercoaster with a 500 feet drop the entire time.

It also felt like chess, one wrong move, one small fuck up and I’ll run out of a good game. Let alone the fact that I hold this label as a migrant at the time.

Having graduated and being called to the Bar after passing all papers in one sitting and worked in Law up north in Manchester, I thought I was set for life the moment I secured a role in London. I had a seat facing St Paul’s Cathedral, I was earning “comfortably”, living independently in the city I had dreamed about since I was a child.

Every morning felt cinematic in the way only London can make ordinary life feel.

I know I'm romanticising it, but you start to feel grateful to live in the city that has a way of threatening your safety when you’re in it, once you leave.

London sort of blooms unexpectedly when you’re on the outside looking in, with the very knowledge that it is expensive but that’s fine, because being rewarded with beautiful parks, endless opportunities to meet new people, being able to cultivate your creative drives and having an outlet to do so comes at an expense. It is worth the expense, I’m not sure if I could call it that if it ultimately felt like the ultimate investment, one can do to live a life of quality.

I lived fifteen minutes away from Brick Lane and twenty-five minutes from Tower Bridge. Some mornings, I would walk aimlessly just because I could. Walking forty minutes to work felt like a breeze, because it was worth every effort of my being as I had experienced working in Cardiff and Manchester.

I carried gratitude everywhere. It would be to the point that if you think gratitude was a person, he would’ve been named after me.

Maybe, that was why the fall hurt so much. The knock on the door I explained earlier was when I received the news that I would not be sponsored a skilled worker visa.

August 2025 - I found out that my employment would end the same day my graduate visa expires. Overnight, the future I had meticulously built for myself became conditional.

I became fragile, knowing what once I thought could give me a sense of permanence decided to become temporary overnight. The worst part about devastating news is that life still expects you to continue afterwards and I did.

I kept applying for jobs, on top of my 9-5. I kept rewriting cover letters, I would stay awake past 2AM almost every single night, convincing myself that hard work will eventually amount to something. It had to because if it did not, I was not sure what to do with myself.

Then came another opportunity, I secured another role after having attended several rounds of interviews.

The salary exceeded the minimum threshold required for sponsorship; that is £41,700 per annum. It was shocking how just a figure could suddenly be enough to determine whether people like me deserved to stay and build a life in the country we had already contributed a lot more to.

For a brief moment, I thought the universe was finally giving me a way out of what felt like a hell hole I was in, at the time.

Having felt the excitement, the verbal offer received never amounted to a written offer. It was revoked.

It was not because I was not qualified, not because I was not capable. It was simply due to the fact that the HR team did not see the point in sponsoring me a visa, they thought having that extra task on their weekly to do list was hard work - and I’m referring to a multimillion company.

There is a specific kind of heartbreak that comes from realising your efforts were never the issue, it would have been better if it was. However, in the wise words of my coping mechanism, “we move!”

A solo trip in Berlin was booked. Not as a celebration, but as a reward to myself for trying. Putting in all my efforts to stay, having submitted over 600 applications, just to continue living the life that brought me a lot of joy.

It was a way to thank myself for staying alive through disappointment after disappointment without allowing it to feel bitter. I was hurt, deeply. It was deep enough that I sobbed my eyes off in bed, and in the shower for one whole day.

Berlin felt grey in the exact way I needed it to be. Somewhere between Kreuzberg and Alexanderplatz, I found myself walking for hours in -3 degree weather, with the occasional rest of coffee and kebabs, unsure whether I was searching for clarity or simply trying to outrun my own thoughts.

The city became both an awakening and a form of numbness. It distracted me from myself.

As much as I wanted to fixate on my thoughts and game plan for “what shall come next”, I had to focus on not falling ill because I was in a foreign city, alone.

The trip made me realise that me feeling hurt by the process was just not enough to be a competitor to the very thing I was grateful and so proud of; the fact that I got to live in London for 11 months and made my 8 year old dream come true. It was short lived, but it meant something.

By the end of the trip, I knew something for certain:

I still had it in me to continue. If I had stopped and if I had chosen to give up, what is the point of living?

I had only one choice; that is to keep going, to not admit defeat, and survive the version of my life without letting it consume me entirely because if I consent to it, I believe that it had every angle to destroy me. To compensate, I just needed to have some faith. Just a little bit to keep my head held high.

In the words of Miley Cyrus: it’s the climb - and God, was this my climb.

A few months later today, I now find myself waking up in the very house that spent years making me feel small. The very home that constantly reminds me I do not belong within its definition of who I should be. The very environment that punishes people like me for failing to perform masculinity in the “right” way.

I know for a fact that returning home after years of freedom and liberation is its own kind of grief. I grieve the beautiful life I had, but that also comes with a lot of love.

In a gorgeous saying from my favourite tv show, what is grief if not love persevering?

With that, I escape whenever I can.

Between Thailand, Indonesia and Japan, I went on short trips scattered across months like it was my own temporary attempts at resurrection. An attempt at resuscitating my will to live.

People assume travelling is always about adventure and seeing the world for what it is, but sometimes it is simply about survival. It was a way for me to consent that I can exist somewhere, where my nervous system can finally unclench. It was a message to say that the world is still larger than your suffering.

The truth is, during these past few months, I have had almost no desire to socialise. Even meeting close friends often felt exhausting and anxiety inducing only because I was not having it mentally. On some days, leaving the house required an internal negotiation so intense it felt physical. What’s worse is that I am aware of it all.

I know I am grieving. I just cannot fully articulate what exactly I am grieving.

Maybe I am grieving the version of myself who thought hard work guaranteed stability, the life I almost had forever, and the very thing I wanted and received since I was eight years old, only for it to be painfully short-lived.

Maybe I am grieving community.

Most of the people I confide in now live abroad. Most people who understand me best exist in different time zones. No one taught you that there is something profoundly lonely about having your emotional home located elsewhere while your physical body remains on a different land.

Or maybe, just maybe, I grieve acceptance. Knowing you are accepted can be the backbone that determines how you move through your day, or your life.

That’s why starting over is humiliating in ways people rarely discuss, especially when you were once so certain you had already arrived to the destination you want your life to lead towards.

During quieter moments, when the sadness softens into something more manageable, I still find parts of myself trying to dream.

You constantly find me searching for new ways to utilise my law degree and bar certificate, drafting random creative ideas at 1AM ranging from a fashion brand, a coffee table book, a manuscript compiling the poems I’ve written since I was fifteen.

And often, you can find me here.

I have been typing my heart out onto Substack as though my life deserves its own adaptation. It’s what works and my kind of surviving looks like this; the escapism in what funnily enough, something I have experienced and is going through.

That’s the thing they don’t tell you - sometimes, documenting the wreckage while still secretly hoping something beautiful can do you a lot of good. Because despite everything, despite the exhaustion and the uncertainty and the grief that follows me into almost every room these days, I want to believe there’s a light at the end of the tunnel.

It’s just my reality today. It’s really difficult, and I would not pray it on others.

Six months unemployed and five months into rebuilding a life I thought I had already built, I still don’t know what comes next.

I am burnt out.

I am still grieving (can I please get this over and done with? It’s really exhausting and fuck sake, it’s been six months).

But to say I am finished would be a lie.

For now, I am taking it one day at a time.

As I always say to everybody,

we fucking move.

- i.h

There’s this big trope circulating online about wanting to end things the proper way. Wanting closure, wanting that one final conversation, the final sex, the final teary goodbye before two people decide to disappear from each other’s lives.

Personally, the disrespect was the only thing I needed.

Maybe I’m less merciful. Highly likely I’m just a bit of a bitch, but I cannot understand the point of forcing conversations that are no longer worth having just because society romanticises the idea of “ending things properly”.

To most people, that final conversation is the necessary tick on their emotional checklist before calling it quits with someone. Be it your partner, your best friend, your family member, or whoever else.

For me, once respect leaves the room, everything else follows after.

To me, any door is within walking distance, so one’s ass shouldn’t take long to get there, including mine.

I think respect is the bare minimum in every relationship. I genuinely believe people should lead with that first and foremost because there’s a beautiful connection that comes from being able to openly communicate with another person.

Whether it’s with your best friend, your partner, a friend in the making, or even a stranger, there is something deeply human about being able to sit across from someone and exchange perspectives honestly, with an open mind.

But respect is the bare minimum that needs to exist from day one.

You need to be able to look at another person and accept that their worldview may not mirror yours. You cannot constantly force life through your own lens and expect everyone else to shrink themselves to fit inside it. If you cannot hold space for another person’s humanity, then what is the point of cultivating the connection in the first place?

Throughout my life, relationships have never been something I could negotiate loosely. I think a lot of that comes from my earlier friendships, where I was constantly bullied for being the odd one out. By odd one out, I meant the feminine one.

I was the fagg*t in almost every friendship group. Mind you, I was born and raised in a conservative country and a predominantly religious school. It’s worth mentioning to depict that my value as a human being or a friend is zero to none.

If there is a need for one person to be sacrificed to make room for the “cool kids”, it would be me. Sometimes, I’d even volunteer myself as a tribute just to save myself the embarrassment of feeling unwanted. I thought distancing myself first would hurt less than waiting around for rejection to arrive naturally.

Funnily enough, looking back now, it wasn’t FOMO at all. It was ROMO - the relief of missing out as per the words of Cillian Murphy.

Over time and over the years, I earned some self-respect to leave places where I am unwanted. I’d be so happy to pack up my bags. Even to my surprise, this is an easy task for an individual who can be sentimental.

Honestly, I would rather miss out entirely than force myself to remain in dishonest relationships that slowly determine how I see myself day to day. There is nothing sadder than constantly performing a version of yourself that makes other people comfortable, at a cost of your own comfort.

That’s what I did - I stopped performing, I stopped wanting to fit in, I just stopped trying when I learned that accepting is much more rewarding, even if it is at the expense of feeling lonely for not having any friends.

I realised that life would become incredibly miserable if I continued inviting undeserving people to become permanent residents in my life when they were never there to nurture me in the first place. Some people do not enter your life to water you. They arrive with their own unresolved unhappiness and slowly drain your spirit until you no longer recognise yourself.

Over time, having that self-respect started projecting outwardly with how I speak to people, and they started entering my life much more naturally. Now I’m older, I became wiser about the people I choose to keep around me. I learned to trust my gut.

I’ve experienced friendships where everything revolved around money and status. What phone you owned, what designer brand you were wearing, whether you’d seen the latest Chanel collection in-store, what car you drove. Conversations that looked glamorous on the surface but felt spiritually empty once you sat with them long enough.

I’ve had friends who could not spend quality time together without tearing another person apart. Every hangout became a competition in bitterness. Honestly, I think people like that are deeply unhappy with themselves. Talking shit about others is easier than confronting your own misery. Apparently, gossip is cheaper than therapy, which, let’s be fucking honest, it genuinely is. It’s still disgusting if it starts becoming a routine.

I’ve met people whose friendships were so toxic that they genuinely preferred isolation instead. People who would rather grow old surrounded by cats than human beings because somewhere along the way, relationships became associated with exhaustion rather than comfort.

That’s what I mean when I say human beings are complex. We are constantly changing, constantly growing into different versions of ourselves without even realising it’s happening. Sometimes people evolve together. Sometimes they don’t, and that’s human.

One thing about adulthood, now that I’m entering my 26th year of being alive, growing up teaches you not to take things personally.

Some relationships are only meant to accompany you through certain chapters of your life, and forcing them to survive beyond their natural expiry date only creates resentment. Trust me, it’ll do more damage than it will do good.

I have been there and I have done that.

I’m at the stage in my life where even if I’ve been friends with you for over 20 years, I have zero issues in cutting you off. Yes, the friendship feels sentimental. Also, yes, the disrespect spoke volumes louder than the quality of the friendship moving forward.

That’s why I made one rule for myself: every relationship I have must be built on brutal honesty and transparency.

No filters, no sugarcoating, and no pretending.

On a base level, if you’re unhappy with something I have done, you can tell me about it. This goes both ways where if one does something disrespectful, it may also be worth checking with mr. self awareness of what was said and done which often comes into play when one’s drunk.

On a deeper level, if we disagree to the point where it compromises our morals, values, or the way we fundamentally move through life, then maybe the relationship simply isn’t meant to continue. That does not automatically make either person evil. Sometimes people just stop understanding each other, and that’s okay.

You realise love alone is not enough to sustain a connection. History is not enough either. Neither is comfort, convenience, attraction, or nostalgia. Eventually, every relationship is tested by honesty and respect. Once those disappear, the relationship usually dies long before the people officially leave.

I remembered in 2021, which genuinely determined how I view my friendships today, I felt the need to confront a friend I had at the time who also happened to be my flatmate. I disliked and felt uncomfortable by the dynamic we had developed because everything started feeling emotionally exhausting, almost like a constant tug-of-war. Some of the things being said were becoming inappropriate, and it wasn’t fitting to the environment we were in, and I could feel resentment quietly building inside me.

I thought to myself, “It’ll be so unfair if I just keep this to myself without being genuinely honest with the things I have to say.”

I remember feeling terrified to confront someone I lived with.

So terrified, actually, that I prepared notes beforehand just to organise my thoughts properly. I sat there writing down talking points like I was preparing for a business presentation because I didn’t trust myself enough to improvise honestly in the moment.

Spoiler alert; I didn’t need it anyway, it was such a naturally tuned conversation.

One night, we sat down together in the dining room, and I simply told her the truth.

No screaming, no dramatics, none of us were being defensive, and passive aggression never entered the chat.

It was just driven by pure honesty, which was why it went really well.

She listened, I listened. We understood each other better afterwards. Today, she remains one of my closest friends and I love her to bits.

I think that moment changed the way I viewed confrontation entirely.

The truth is, I started this article stating that closure is not always about having one final goodbye. The disrespect itself is enough to close a relationship dynamic you have with someone.

Since the confrontation, I have realised that closure is simply knowing you were honest throughout the entire duration of the friendship. Knowing you respected yourself enough to speak openly instead of silently allowing resentment to rot the relationship from the inside out.

Because of that, disrespect has always been enough for me to leave. If one isn’t up to having an open conversation, being honest with one another, taking constructive feedback out of love and genuine care, then you’re just not the person for me.

This isn’t limited to conversations. This too goes to cheating partners, friends gossiping about you behind your back, and more examples I can’t seem to think of off the top of my head - I just mean, the act itself is enough to warrant a disrespect to your existence. There’s zero point in having a final conversation to close it off, because the act was in itself, the curtain call.

Once you lose respect for another, they’re not worth saving anyway.

Thank you and until next time.

- i.h

Upon reading the title, you’d probably think this was a difficult piece to write.

The truth is, it wasn’t.

People rarely, openly talk about this, but when you grow up around someone who constantly weaponises your emotions against you, you eventually stop treating your feelings as something safe. Feelings can be deceiving, so you learn very quickly, and early on in life, that vulnerability can and will be used against you.

Instead of sitting with your feelings, you learn to detach from them immediately. Over time, that detachment became tolerance. I can admit that my tolerance for chaos, cruelty, and words that should never have left a parent’s mouth is high - it’s pretty up there if you ask me.

Although, I understand that words are one of the most powerful weapons to ever exist. They don’t break me like they’re meant to anymore, and it’s not because I was born resilient; it’s just that life forced me to become someone difficult to break.

I wouldn’t be here had I not been. All thanks to the fact that I know what it feels like to grow up with a mother who does not want her own child to succeed.

Before you question what I had just stated, mothers like that do exist - we just don’t hear them being talked about as often as we’d like to. As someone who promised to write openly on this platform, I choose to become a willing participant in this matter because what is more important, if not exposure.

It took me years to even admit that sentence to myself. There is something deeply unnatural about acknowledging that the very person who carried you into this world may secretly resent your existence within it. Mine, however, openly resented bringing me into this world - to her friends, to her family, and to her other children. As sort of a running joke that runs in the family which no one finds funny, my mom would say that she had accidentally picked the wrong baby up from the hospital 25 years ago, or choked me to death when I was a baby.

For the longest time, I thought that maybe it was all my fault. Maybe this was what my life’s arc was just meant to look like, and it was written by God for my life to turn out this way.

As I move through life, I realised no healthy parent looks at their child with competition in their eyes.

Your parents shouldn’t be jealous that you funded your Japan trip out of your own wallet. They shouldn’t feel jealousy that you are loved by your chosen family who loved you far better than your bloodline ever could. Your parents shouldn’t be envious that you had the opportunity to stay in a foreign country for more than three years. They should never be jealous or feel threatened by your achievements that are worth celebrating, let alone by the very being, that they chose to produce and introduce into this world.

For context, on the day of my law school graduation, my mother sent me a series of texts. In one of the texts, she said she prayed to God that I would fail my exams in bar school after I had accepted an offer to pursue the course, that I’d never become a successful lawyer and that the doors of hell would open for me as wide as God could open them.

I was thousands of miles away from home, having to read messages from the woman who gave birth to me while mentally preparing for one of the hardest academic journeys of my life, that has yet to begin.

I remember staring at my phone, thinking, “What the actual fuck? This is insane.”

I think it’s normal to say, if someone signs themselves up for a course known for its low passing rates, the last thing they would need on their mind is psychological warfare from their own mother.

I had two options; to continue my relationship with my mom or, to have some self respect.

As a way to save myself from misery, I cut her off for more than a year - I chose myself. Had I not, I would have wasted a lot of money and time on my education, and potentially at a bigger scale, the rest of my life.

Spoiler alert: I passed all my exams in one sitting. Thank God I did but also thanks to God, that I did.

That taught me something valuable - your relationship with God is sacred; and distance is a blessing. Being far from the chaos at home allowed me to focus entirely on self-improvement, subtly enhancing my quality of life.

During the year I took some time off from my mum, as if I was on a sabbatical leave from employment as the middle child, my father became the middleman between us. He would pass messages along like some exhausted prophet trying to negotiate peace between two countries permanently at war, except only one of us was a professional gamer in the victim-blaming game.

Bless my dad, genuinely - if there’s one person that is God-sent, let it be my father. He’s truly the soul of my heart and everyone else’s. If you know, you know.

But NOTHING that my mum said through him moved me anymore - if someone truly believes they are justified in wishing failure, humiliation, and death upon your career, especially to their own child. Then, why should I feel guilty for protecting myself from that person?

Recently, at 25 years old, my mum said to me in front of my father as we were having lunch:

“I’ll pray to God that you’ll die this year. You just watch out because it will happen.”

That sentence was what finally pushed me to write this.

It was not because it broke me, it’s more so because it didn’t when it should have. It had every right to break every faith in myself to continue pursuing my life. After all, this came from a mother.

However, when you’ve spent your entire life emotionally preparing yourself for cruelty, eventually even death wishes begin to sound so fucking ordinary. It’s like an everyday saying almost, like an “I love you” or “Have a great day”, except mine’s “You’ll die” or “You’ll fail in life”. I just stopped flinching.

I’d compare it to a sweet delicacy, like a molten chocolate lava cake if that makes sense. It’s humorous on the surface level, when the reality is, you’re just emotionally numb.

I believe the ability to push it aside isn’t strength, it isn’t resilient too. I’m a firm believer that real resilience should feel soft and fulfilling.

If you know me personally, you’d know there’s a common understanding that I’ve never been the type to sit around resenting people who had loving mothers. If anything, I admire them deeply. I love seeing people celebrate their mums online. I love watching healthy relationships between mothers and their children exist because it reminds me that tenderness is real somewhere in the world. Even though it isn’t in mine.

As a cherry on top, I never once hated motherhood even though I believe I had every right to. After all, the one I was presented with is pretty disgusting from an objective point of view. I would hate to hear if any of my friends has a mother who would constantly pray for their downfall - but I still find that being a mother might have been the most beautiful gift for one to experience. I only mourned the version of it I never got to experience.

In the dead of night, I constantly find myself wondering if I had grown up being loved gently, would I have been a different person? Would I not have been emotionally detached? Would I be able to trust people more? And finally, would I understand the feeling of being celebrated for being alive?

Maybe, in all that wondering, I might become exactly who I am now anyway. Who the fuck knows, am I right? We don’t get to control our fate in the family we were given.

Mother’s Day recently passed in Malaysia and social media became what it always becomes every year. There were endless posts saying:

“Happy Mother’s Day Mama, thank you for everything.”

I find myself scrolling through all of it when I had just woken up from a solid eight hours of sleep. My automated response from seeing the posts was giving myself a pat on the back, and I said:

“Happy Mother’s Day, bitch.”

It took me the longest time to realise that some people had to raise themselves emotionally while still living inside the same household as their parents. It’s a rare sight to see, even rarer to be spoken about publicly but some people had no other choice but to become their own comfort system - if not, they’ll just break.

Some children had to learn how to self-soothe, before they even learned long division or additional mathematics.

There are people walking among you today and every day, who have never experienced emotional safety at home, but tried their very best to become functional anyway. These people try to exist in society beyond their unfortunate circumstances, and honestly, they deserve their flowers.

There are people who taught themselves kindness because nobody ever demonstrated it to them first. They actively choose not to project what they have learned from home, and choose to keep moving through life, learning healthier ways of trying to find the joy in being alive.

I am and always will be a firm believer that human beings are complicated. We are way too layered and complex, every range of whatever one could think of exists in the human body and mind, they too exist within human relationships.

For years, I understood my mother through emotions alone. It wasn’t until adulthood that I began understanding her through ideology - through religion, shame, status, and fear.

Growing up Muslim made this even more psychologically complicated. Within Islamic communities, mothers are often positioned as sacred figures. Heaven sits beneath your mother’s feet is not just a principle, it is a concept to understand how high a mother sits in one’s life. Your mother’s prayers are powerful and your treatment towards your mother determines your blessings in life.

I would be lying if I told you that I wasn't scared to death when my mum told me she prayed that I’d fail my bar school - every time I sit for my papers, I’d vomit in the toilet near a lecture hall on the ground floor of Cardiff’s Law school. Every night, I find myself begging to God, on the prayer mat I had since I was sixteen, to not let my mom’s prayers come true and for me to deserve a seat at every table because I am deserving of success like other children are.

Now, please tell me, who do we go to when our own mother becomes the source of our suffering? Who do we run to when it feels like the world is against us because our mother is not on our side?

It was no surprise I started to internalise the idea that my life will never flourish; that God Himself is against me, that maybe my inability to connect with my mother makes me inherently unworthy. I carried that baggage for years.

However, my early twenties, even though tough as fuck and still is, were on my side. It woke me the fuck up to the reality of life.

It woke me up to how abnormal my “normal” actually was. It woke me up to the fact that religion can be manipulated by deeply unhappy people who constantly use God as a shield for their own cruelty.

It woke me up to the reality that surviving someone does not mean you have to hate them forever because despite everything, I do not think my mum is a villain in my life.

It would genuinely be a lot easier to label her that, but going back to my belief that human beings are complex, I’ve come to realise that my mother is deeply miserable, insecure, emotionally unequipped, and unintelligent.

As I grow older and try to build my life from different angles, I stopped viewing her exclusively as “my mother” and started viewing her as her own person, a human being first and foremost before she became a mother.

She is a human being who probably spent her entire life needing control because she lacked peace internally. She had never found peace with her own mom, her own mother was controlling too for context. Through that, she became a person who mistakes intimidation for authority and someone who believes being feared is the same thing as being respected. She became limited in understanding what could bring pure joy and fulfilment in one’s life.

This is coming from an individual who has lived comfortably for years, someone financially provided for far beyond what most people experience, someone who travelled, who was privileged to have lived abroad multiple times, who has status, who once came from extraordinary wealth before life humbled her family entirely out of greed.

Somehow, despite all of that, she remains one of the unhappiest individuals I have ever encountered in my life, ever.

As someone who claims to be holier than thou, being God’s chosen one, is constantly rewarded, my mother allowed me to look at rizq in a different angle.

Now what is rizq if you’re asking - rizq is a concept in Islam that is often attributed to money but generally, it means God’s blessings and it could be anything and everything. From your friends, family, internal peace, material items, the trips you take, literally every thing one can think of.

Because I had my mum as a primary example within the four walls of our family home, I understood that rizq is not just about money. It is emotional stability, it is softness and it is being able to sleep at night without constantly needing to control or destroy people around you.

It also is the ability to love without jealousy and finally, being able to witness your child succeed without feeling personally threatened by it.

That’s why, some people are blessed financially but starved spiritually which I think is far scarier than anything in life.

For a long time, I thought I was the unfortunate one, because I did not have the kind of mother people write poems about. Wait, let me correct myself, I do write poems, but not the kinds people would expect to read when one is writing about their mum.

Today, I think differently about myself. Despite everything, I am proud that despite the lack of motherly love, I am loving. I am able to find joy in others’ achievements without feeling threatened by it. I’m compassionate and I find joy in protecting others, instead of feeling proud to have break them.

Maybe that is the greatest lesson in all this and that was why the title plays a big role in this piece. I wholeheartedly believe that even mothers from hell are worth celebrating. If not for my mum, I would not have learned the concept of “if you fall down, only you can bring yourself to get back up” at a very young age. Because of my mom, I had to grow up pretty fast.

Hence, I credit that to the woman who actively takes credit for my achievements, despite praying for my failure. The woman who claims to be the best and most religious of all time, and thinks I am deserving to burn in Hell. The woman with a superiority complex but deep down, someone who is only haunted by her own limitations.

My mother is the reason why I no longer want to lead my life feeling like I am missing something. Instead, I choose to celebrate the fact that the motherly figure I spent my entire life searching for can actually be built from within myself. It has been something I’ve been building within myself, today, tomorrow and forever.

Lastly, if I die someday, as per my own mother’s prayer to God recently, I will die happy knowing that despite everything, I mothered my way through life.

Until next time and lots of love x

I am grateful for the support.

- i.h

Is it really difficult to respect people?

A few days ago, I came across a comment from a Malaysian on Ms. Rachel’s video. The comment stated, “Is it time to boycott this woman?” and I remembered thinking to myself: why? What did she even do?

Now, Ms. Rachel isn’t just a teacher for children during the most important years of learning new words, understanding emotions, discovering joy in little things, and simply being entertained while exhausted parents finally get a moment to breathe.

She has also been an incredibly inspiring advocate for many of us, including full-grown adults - especially with what she has done for the children in Gaza and the awareness she continues to raise.

Hence, after reading that comment, I obviously became curious.

In a world where cancel culture has become a hobby for keyboard warriors to constantly look for someone new to tear down, you can’t really be surprised when these things suddenly appear out of nowhere. Some findings are extremely credible, some are completely picked out of thin air, out of one’s boredom of doomscrolling, and not having anything productive to do with their lives.

This stopped being about her the moment I realised what people were actually unsatisfied about.

After scrolling through the replies, I found out that the issue people had with her was of her recent post where she stated that she supports gay rights and openly supports people from the community as a Christian.

All I could react was “That sounds about right to me.”

You see, growing up in Malaysia with a trait I never asked for; being feminine meant I was bullied throughout most of my life. Since I was eight years old, teachers and classmates alike labelled me as a fagg*t, a bapok, and a pondan.

At 13, my uncle once told everyone during our annual family dinner that he didn’t understand the point of adopting me if he wanted a boy, because eventually it just felt like having “another girl” in the family.

My childhood was a wreck. It was emotionally abusive to my system. I hated waking up to live another day of what felt like a vicious cycle to my development as a kid who’s experiencing life for the first time.

I dreaded school because fear became part of my routine, when I was meant to be filled with excitement. I was terrified of people, I was terrified of classrooms, and it felt uneasy knowing I’d become the punchline before I even opened my mouth.

At 10, I was known as a “pengawas pondan”. I would be on duty during school recess, and the main target peers would feel the need to shame upon, an attraction worth the ridicule.

At 16, I contemplated ending my life because I genuinely thought maybe the world would become easier for everyone if I simply stopped existing in it.

Imagine if it was your own child; he never asked to be feminine, never requested God for any internal struggles, and never asked to feel different.

For you as a parent, imagine knowing that the first sentence your kid hears as they walk into class is, “the fagg*t is here,” said by a fully grown adult and children of his age.

How would you feel?

That’s a genuine question, sit with that for a minute.

I experienced enough humiliation growing up that eventually, I stopped caring around 17. I was tired, I had no more fucks to give, and I built my confidence over time - I had this awakening where I questioned:

“If I was going to continue my life, I would need to have full authority on how I want to lead with what I’m gifted with.”

Ironically, that was also when people suddenly found me “intimidating”. If I was supposedly everything they were taught was abnormal, disgusting, or wrong, then how did I become so comfortable being myself?

I could feel it in the air when I walked into the room; the question unsettled people more than my existence ever did.

I’m turning 26 in a month. I’ve lived long enough to understand that my people - people who were meant to have my back, people I thought would choose empathy and community - have an immense obsession with the LGBTQIA+ community.

Honestly, I think a lot of this hatred is conditioned.

People are taught from a young age to reject anything that feels unfamiliar or “abnormal.” This cruelty did not magically appear out of nowhere.

It was taught, it was recycled and it was passed down from generation to generation until discrimination became so normalised that people no longer questioned it. Instead, they found joy in the act of discriminating against another.

It’s a form of cruelty that walks among us day and night without any consequences.

It has gotten to the point where every inconvenience somehow circles back to gay people. When things go wrong, and when society starts collapsing morally; somehow the LGBTQIA+ community becomes the explanation. It was a perfect scapegoat to justify why things are not working out.

If the weather isn’t as sexy as it used to be, apparently someone in the neighbourhood must be gay. When the economy struggles, because gay people exist in this country. When crops don’t harvest well, maybe there are gay people living in the area.

As ridiculous as that sounds, you know exactly what I mean. You hate to admit it or be too scared to say it is true, but that is how we think as a society.

This isn’t written purely from the perspective of a liberal; although I can wholeheartedly admit that I am. This is written from the standpoint that before we are anything else, we are human beings.

Before labels, before politics, before sexuality, before religion - we are only human beings.

For people who constantly say “we are all God’s creations,” I wish they truly understood what those words are supposed to mean.

Religion shapes a lot of these conversations. Yes, many religions teach that same-sex relationships are a sin. I grew up hearing and learning it but because of that, many people immediately feel justified in attacking those from the community.

However, you fail to understand that respect was always meant to be the foundation of how we treat one another, in Islam.

What happened to treating each other with respect, compassion and humility?

Somehow, those values disappear the moment someone different enters the room, and that does not sit right with me - I just find it disgusting.

As someone who isn’t the most religious, I have never once hated the religion I was born and raised with. I love my God and over the years, I have built a sacred, private relationship with my religion. I love the principles I try my best to live by: honesty, kindness, sincerity, and openness.

What I struggle with are the people who act “holier than thou”, as though they were personally sent down by God to humiliate, belittle, and police everyone who does not fit their personal stereotype of what a “good Muslim” should look like.

There is nothing holy about cruelty; there is nothing righteous about humiliation. Although before one tries to argue, there is certainly nothing beautiful about using religion as a weapon to strip another human being of their dignity.

It is strictly a cover-up for those with a shallow mindset and a hollow soul disguised as morality - which is exactly why that woman’s comment did not shock me at all. She was Malaysian and a muslim. Unfortunately, I have seen this too many times before for it to surprise me anymore - it was a broken record.

These people exist everywhere; they exist within my own home, within my bloodline and I absolutely make it clear that I do not need anyone like that to speak a single word to me in my life, ever.

Potentially, if we look at this matter from a global lens, it could very much be a global issue - maybe every country struggles with people who are incapable of respecting differences.

Although, I feel more comfortable writing about this from the perspective of a Malaysian, someone who has lived within the culture, experienced it firsthand, and carried its wounds for years.

This message is for everyone, regardless of age, religion, or background.

If this speaks to you in a way nobody ever has before, I hope you sit with it for a while. I hope you realise how better our society could become if we simply learned to respect one another despite our differences.

I hope you understand that there is value in self-awareness. We can make a significant difference with how we live our lives if we spent more time asking ourselves, “How can I become a better person?” instead of constantly deciding who deserves to be treated like less of a human being and letting outrage think for us.

Human beings are imperfect by nature. We are built to lack, to learn, to improve, and to love.

I am a firm believer that life is a never-ending lesson for all of us, so do better and think twice before you comment on something. Honestly, in the age where everything surrounds social media, the best thing you can do for yourself is sit and think before you stick your opinions onto something.

I have absolutely zero structure for this piece. I’m just filled with enough discontent that I entered a flow state in consenting my fingers to type out what my brain wants to think and what my heart wants to feel.

My hope as I turn 26 is that I do need to start seeing people be a little bit kinder and more compassionate to one another - despite our differences.

Thank you, and until next time.

- i.h

I have been back home for almost six months now. I moved back to Malaysia recently after living abroad for four years. Somehow, I knew, one way or another, the algorithm would find me.

Not the general algorithm (although applicable but we’ll be stuck here for ages), but the Malaysian algorithm. It found me, and I hate it.

The algorithm that somehow knows exactly what’s happening in the city before you do.

The one that tells you which running club to join, which café serves ceremonial-grade matcha and hojicha, how everyone wanted to become DJs with mixtapes I swear was taken from SoundCloud, general quick-to-cancel culture, makcik-pakcik’s stupid and reckless AI contents, and which wellness studio everyone suddenly swears changed their life.

It’s the fucking algorithm that quietly teaches you what being “relevant” is supposed to look like.

One week it’s HYROX.

The next, it’s cold plunges.

Then, it’s Strava screenshots.

Somehow, it’s also butter being churned by hand in 34-degree weather because apparently artisanal suffering is back in style.

One day, it might as well be learning how to do black magic with two coconuts, swaying by our shoulders. If you know, you know.

Before anyone says I’m being cynical or too cool for all this, I am not above it.

I see it, I pay attention to it, I sometimes laugh at it. If we are being honest, I sometimes want in too.

That’s how algorithms work, they don’t really force you to do anything but they do seduce you like that 6ft boy with blue eyes in your class, you genuinely thought everyone wanted to fuck.

Although, coming home after years abroad has made me hyperaware of something else: beneath the aesthetics, beneath the trends, beneath all the “soft life” content and urban wellness culture, there’s something much deeper happening.

There’s class.

There always has been, but now it’s branded better.

There’s a certain kind of social currency attached to being an anak bandar - urban, polished, globally aware, fluent in the language of oat milk, daddy’s money, marathon medals, and curated playlists.

With that often comes an unspoken hierarchy, and yes of course, who the fuck on planet earth would want to admit that? unless you’re crazy like me with zero filters of how to contain my thoughts to myself.

There’s a hierarchy of who belongs, who’s cultured, who’s “behind.”

There’s this quiet connotation that comes between a girl having Patrick Ta on her face as opposed to the girl who used Silkygirl. There’s this quiet judgement between one who drives a Myvi instead of a Mercedes Benz. There’s an ongoing competition within friend groups of who wears it better, who looks better, who’s financially well off.

No one says it out loud (some people do via their faces), but you feel it if you observe long enough.

Stuck between the places people choose to be seen, the hobbies they suddenly adopt overnight and make up as their personality trait (all they could ever talk about, but somehow sounds like a rehearsed script), the way some people speak of communities that didn’t grow up with the same access, exposure, or privilege.

Sometimes it’s subtle, most times it’s not. Maybe that’s why I find it hard when people romanticise “western living” as if it’s some ultimate upgrade from life here, on this land.

Of course, this viewpoint comes from a place of privilege too, in which I acknowledge for context purposes since I was exposed to living abroad since the age of 10.

Contrary to what many of us were taught growing up, the West or anywhere outside of this region isn’t automatically freer, happier, or better. Just because you’re far away from home, doesn’t mean it’s significantly better.

One thing I can admit that's way better is; living abroad offers a far better sense of individualism. People are too preoccupied with their own lives to notice if someone’s a bit eccentric. This contrasts sharply with Malaysia where discussing others is a common social activity - it forms the agenda of a social hangout.

Besides that, living abroad stripped away a lot of illusions I didn’t realise I was carrying.

I met countless Malaysians overseas, from students, young professionals, migrants who, despite all the opportunities around them, quietly admitted they wanted to come home. Those who chose to stay would quietly cry to the taste of sambal ikan bilis a friend brought back from Petronas’ kiosk or the Mammee pack and Super Rings from NSK.

It’s not even because they failed, or lost in whatever they chose to pursue, but because living the migrant experience is very different from fantasising about it.

Assimilation is exhausting. Loneliness is real.

I can’t remember how many times I interchange between Beyoncé’s Renaissance to Noah Kahan’s album in one sitting just to feel something. Music was my best friend more than human beings were, but that is a part of the experience not everyone can find a connection with. I thankfully did, I had to.

Building a life from scratch in a place that may tolerate you but never fully understand you can change the way you look at the world, and how you want to view your life - you find yourself reconsidering the kind of life you’d wish to lead.

I think a lot of us in postcolonial societies still carry this inherited belief that what comes from elsewhere must somehow be better. I tend to joke around and say that it’s the residue of colonialism (just like how I am really into white men which I believe is a postcolonialism effect because my ancestors were colonised).

Maybe it’s global capitalism, but today, what if it’s just social media? Even worse, it could be all three - to which I’d say let’s find the fourth factor together to make up the four horsemen of the apocalypse.

Anyway, now that I am back home, I’m noticing how that same mentality has simply evolved. We no longer chase Western approval directly.

Now we chase their aesthetics, Western hobbies, Western lifestyles but localise them just enough to call them ours.

For example, running. I came across a video recently saying running is no longer just a hobby or a sport. It is culture.

Honestly, coming from someone who experienced a phase where I was really into running - they’re not wrong at all.

Running now feels less like movement, less like an activity to keep your body moving but more of a social signal.

A signifier of discipline, success, status - from the shoes you put on, whether they’re some “lousy” sport shoes, or an Adidas Evo SLs, or an Asics Novablast 5s to where you choose to run.

I recently had a friend who told me that they did not want to run around our neighbourhood because they’re embarrassed, and prefers to run around the park in KLCC (which is a 20 minutes drive away).

My social conscience immediately unfriended the person, because I thought that was silly and a bit of a bullshit reasoning for someone pushing their 30s. Who in the hell thinks about how they will be perceived based on where they are seen running?

Before the avid runners come for my fingers for typing this out, I’m not saying people shouldn’t run.

Go on kids, get your steps in. Run your 5k, sign up for that half marathon, run until your knees or your shin splints start negotiating with you.

But one thing though, why does everything have to become performance?

Why does every two-kilometre jog need to become a public declaration of self-optimisation?

When did every hobby eventually become content? It’s a good money-making scheme, I get that and I understand, to an extent.

As a viewer though, it gets to a point where I find myself asking “are you doing it because you genuinely enjoy it or do you think you’ll be perceived as something?”

Since when did our very own humanistic interests and desires need a public validation?

How did we get to this point of life where we find ourselves questioning the following before we pursue something that we think can bring us joy:

1. Will this make me interesting?

2. Will this make me desirable?

3. Will this make me belong?

The real algorithm, for the lack of a better word, isn’t on your phone, never on your for-you page, and not on your explore feed. It should come from within.

It’s a big issue to deal with and a hard one to decondition yourself from when your inner voice is terrified of being left behind. That’s why I am such a big advocate for finding a sense of security from within (well, thanks to years of being bullied and being called a f*ggot).

It’s just that when everything around you feels like they’re in total chaos, you’ll still have the stability to bounce back.

Since being back, I’ve spoken to enough people to realise how deeply social media now shapes identity here. Age is a number because evten men and women in their 40s feels trapped in this pressure of wanting to fit in. They get you real good.

They range from what to wear, what to eat, which brands matter, which cafés are worth queuing hours for, which restaurants you must try because it is important to say “I have tried that”, and which hobby makes you look like you have your life together.

To a certain extent, I empathise.

Belonging is human, wanting to be seen is human just like how I openly admitted that I felt seen recently because an article of mine received 5000+ views on TikTok.

But at some point, we have to check in with ourselves and ask;

If nobody could see it… would you still want it?

If the answer is no. Maybe it was never yours to begin with.

Anyhow, this article is purely just my opinion. Whether we agree or disagree, it’s up to you.

I have a tendency to write whatever runs in my brain. With whatever speaks to me, i treat it like an open discussion, with zero filtration - and by the sounds of it, i’m sure you can tell I don’t hold back.

Also, to avoid myself from being cancelled, opinions can change, I think.

Thanks for reading and until next time.

- i.h

I recently wrote an article that ended up getting over 700 likes on TikTok. Because of that, more people found my Substack, and my subscribers grew from 14 to over 25. For the first time, I felt seen.

Honestly, I’d be lying if I said it didn’t feel good.

That feeling reassured me. For the first time, it felt good knowing my work was reaching strangers from different backgrounds.

Whenever I write, I never write with the intention of chasing a viral moment, wanting my work to have its overnight success, or having my work land in front of someone famous (although, if Patti Smith or Dua Lipa ever wanted to leave me a review, I wouldn’t complain).

With every piece I write, I want it to be honest, reflective, and worth interpreting to those who are interested in reading. I want it to feel as if I’m speaking to you, straight from the heart.

I learned early on, that when I write, I want to write like how my favourite writers write - as a reader, I enjoy reading books that makes me feel seen, understood and acknowledged to a certain extent. It’s a pure joy one gets to receive and I think that’s hard to replicate as I never learned journalism or have a writing degree; I went to Law school but that’s about it.

Although sometimes, I think my work could come off as cringe or borderline trauma dumping (in case you haven’t noticed), I still want it to have that essence where it feels like you’re talking to a friend - conversational. I think its worth acknowledging that I am also learning as I go at the end of the day.

But lately, I’ve experienced the worst writer’s block I’ve ever had. I did not know it was a thing but oh boy, was it one hell of a feeling to deal with.

Every time I write, my writing feels stale and dry, and nothing seems worth the output. This coincides with my brain choosing to speak volumes about worthy reflections, changes needed, and topics for discussion. Very convenient.

However, I can’t translate these thoughts into proper writing. Something about me is that, if I doubt the honesty of the writing, I’ll scrap the idea, be it the paragraph or the whole damn thing completely because it’s just not right.

I am not getting paid to write so why bother? Even if one is getting paid to write, would it feel good to know something you put out to the world is not something you completely believed in? To each their own.

If you have access to my Substack account, you’d be surprised by the number of drafts I’ve attached. They range from discussing how men deserve to be humbled to exploring family traumas and the overwhelming difficulty of navigating your twenties.

Putting thoughts into words is challenging. I sometimes feel envious of those who write so effortlessly - they could easily vomit words and it’ll still roll off their tongues and straight onto their keyboard.

Recently, I’ve also felt insecure about my language skills. Moving back to Malaysia meant conversing mainly in Malay, and the Malaysian accent has gradually crept in. It’s fun and easy, but it’s difficult to regain the rhythm of the daily vocabulary and sayings I learned when I used to live in the UK from friends and colleagues.

I’d pick up random words, and over time, they’d accumulate, making it easier to write spontaneously on my drafts when needed. However, now that everyone in my household speaks Malay, it’s hard to maintain this dynamic.

This block has made me question myself frequently about using the right terms, grammar, and general English usage. You might be wondering, is it meant to be that deep?

It’s not, I am aware of that - but I have always been my own harshest critic. If I don’t hold myself accountable, who will?

I want to be able to produce a body of work worth people’s time, worth my time and efforts, and that’s the intended drive behind why I started Substack in the first place. It was the only platform where I felt safe to treat it as an open journal as I had an inkling that I would go through a lot of challenges this year. I did, and here we are today, writing our hearts out.

Anyway, I thought about putting Substack on hold for the next week or two until I feel ready to publish again.

When I return, I genuinely hope I have something worthwhile to share. As I mentioned, my brain is brimming with topics I’d like to discuss on this platform, and I can’t wait to finish off my drafts (the ones worth publishing, of course!).

See you soon and thank you for your support. I am very grateful!

- i.h

I came across a quote recently that made me want to write:

“We were never given the right to choose our family - it was something given to us, so the only thing we can do is accept it. Accept fate.”

It struck a nerve, especially in a world where social media insists that your family is a direct reflection of who you are. If your family is loving and whole, then so are you. If it’s fractured or toxic, then somehow, so are you too.

I believe childhood trauma is real. It’s not just a phase - it’s something many of us spend years unpacking. I was in my 20s when I started unlearning traits I once thought were normal, only to realise they weren’t but it built my tolerance to the bullshits of the world I am presented with.

The idea that “the family you come from defines you” has always felt incomplete. Its an unfair speculation and benefits only those who comes from healthy ones, but is an injustice to those who spend years trying to break away from what they were given.

Toxicity, like poverty, can be a life-long cycle. People will do anything to break free so the least we can do is offer empathy and support for their efforts.

There’s also this belief that the more we resent how we were raised i.e. the limitations, the environment, the beliefs, the heavier life becomes. I’m starting to see the truth in that.

I’ve caught myself dwelling on the past - the things that were said to me and about me, the way I was taught to see the world and like anyone else, I naturally would compare especially to those who had a gentler upbringing.

However, focusing on what we lacked only deepens the wound. I’m starting to feel the effects too. It invites unnecessary weight into our lives and quietly reinforces the belief that our potential is limited by where we came from.

And I don’t think I want to live like that, anymore.

It’s no secret that I’ve struggled with family. “Blood is thicker than water” is a saying I’ve never related to.

Growing up meant being called slurs for being feminine, again something I never chose - by my own bloodline. Ironically, it’s often the people closest to me who have weighed the heaviest on my spirit.

Now I’m 25, unemployed and back in my family home; instead of paying rent, I have to sacrifice a bit of my peace, maybe my soul.

It helps a bit when I started observing rather than absorbing and listening without immediately internalising.

It is only then I realised something simple: we all have things to fix. What matters is our level of self-awareness and whether we’re willing to change - for ourselves and for others but it comes down, again, to personal preferences.

It’s been four months, and God knows how difficult it’s been to be back. But as I approach 26, I know something has to shift - because if my thinking doesn’t change, neither will my life.

Recently, I’ve started to feel a sense of gratitude. Not for the dysfunction itself but for the awareness it forced me to develop.

Being part of a complicated family is not the end of the world.

It does not get to define the limits of my life.

Where one part is lacking, others are not. I have friends who check in on me with genuine care. I’ve learned how to face judgment without letting it consume me. Most importantly, I’ve learned to create a safe space within myself - to come home to who I am, regardless of what’s happening around me and what happened to me that day itself; be it good or bad.

“If others deserve a beautiful life, I think I do too.”

That’s the mantra I carry with me when I wake up and when I fall asleep.

Is it perfect? No but it’s enough to keep me going.

In Malaysia, I’ve noticed something else. Broken families are often hidden behind polished appearances. It’s more acceptable to perform perfection than to admit things are falling apart.

Communication breaks down, personalities clash, values don’t align but as long as everything looks fine - from open houses to family gatherings - that’s considered good enough, all in the name of “for show”.

There’s also this need to prove something. People insert themselves into conversations they don’t fully understand. If someone opens up about family struggles, others rush to defend their own version of perfection - as if it validates them more. Sometimes, even faith is used to justify opinions rather than offer compassion.

I’ve never been good at maintaining that illusion.

I don’t filter my truth well - except at work, where it serves a purpose.

In real life, when people ask, I answer honestly.

Maybe too honestly.

At a recent Eid open house, my grandaunt asked about my family. I said, without hesitation:

“I don’t really know. We’re not close. We don’t talk much despite what this might look like.”

She, appropriately gasped. In my head, I thought “exactly….”.

Afterward, I wondered if that was the “right” answer.

But then I thought, why does it matter? It was the only truth available to me in that moment.

I no longer feel the need to protect an image that was never real. I’m not obligated to make my family look like something it isn’t just to make others comfortable.

I value conversations that are honest. The kind that allow you to actually think, not perform.

So here’s what I believe and will stand by:

Your family is not a mirror of who you are.

As adults, the choices we make are our own. Your starting point may shape you, but it does not define you. You get to decide how you live, what you carry forward, and what you leave behind.

As long as you continue to do good in the world, you are already on the right path.

And more often than not, the most meaningful life you can build is one created in spite of your circumstances, not in reflection of them.

As always, I hope this resonates.

Until next time.

- i.h

I’m writing this at Haneda Airport, waiting to board my flight back to Kuala Lumpur. Maybe I’ll finish it on the plane, maybe I won’t. RAYE’s new album hums softly in my ears - I may have just wiped my tears to I Know You’re Hurting.

I needed something gentle, something quietly melancholic, to echo through me while my thoughts try to find their own rhythm.

So, let’s begin with Malaysia.

I had been home for two months and one week when I boarded my flight to Japan. The timing was intentional: the very last day of Ramadhan.

I had zero intention of being home, zero intention of celebrating Eid despite not celebrating it for the fifth year, and, if we are being transparent, I had zero interest in performing forgiveness.

There’s no reason for me to rehearse the art of apology when it feels more like theatre - something I could perform well enough to earn an Oscar.

Culturally, the first thing you do on the morning of Eid is ask for forgiveness from your “loved” ones. It’s tradition but in my bloodline, it often feels less like sincerity and more like ritual - something enacted, rather than felt deeply. Unlike the conversation you have with your best friends on a girls trip.

To say that being home was ideal would be a lie. It wasn’t hell, but it brushed close enough at times. I felt contained, when I was meant to feel expansive. I felt limited, when I was meant to be limitless in the life I wanted to lead.

And yet, something shifted in me during Ramadhan.

I found my way back to God in a way that startled me - quietly, unexpectedly but also in a way that steadied me. It kept me grounded in moments where everything else felt uncertain and when my head was off the roof - my mental health was not having it. It came at the right time, knocking gently, then all at once.

It’s a kind of healing I don’t fully understand yet, but one I will try to keep pursuing for the rest of my life. I’ve come to believe that whatever spiritual connection you hold, with whomever you hold it, is a journey best kept sacred. Private and untouched by too many voices which I find difficult. Where I am based and who I am surrounded by; many love to be “holier than thou” which feels demotivating.

After a while of being back, all I wanted was to breathe.

I craved space - my own space led with independence and silence that belonged only to me.

The only solution was escapism.

I needed to leave. I wanted to see my favourite person - someone I had missed in a way that doesn’t shout, but settles quietly and heavily in your chest. Someone who has always felt like home.

Those two weeks in Japan were the most exhausting, most fulfilling, most alive I have ever felt.

I arrived just in time for the sakura bloom. It felt almost divinely timed, like I had been placed there to witness it at its peak as if it were a reward, or perhaps a peace offering since I had wanted to see this country since I was fifteen.

This trip, though, felt sentimental in ways I hadn’t expected not for the reasons you might assume.

We don’t talk enough about rewarding ourselves at this age. I used to be incredibly frugal with myself; I’m known as the cheapskate among my friends. I hate spending and feel undeserving of many things. However, last year’s end of year events woke me up. I could die tomorrow and be filled with regret for not treating myself when I had the chance. So, I’ve adopted this principle: money will always come back and if I want something, I’ll make it happen one way or another.

It’s been almost five months since I’ve been unemployed. Still, I was determined to make this trip happen using only my own savings. No safety net, no quiet financial help slipped into my bag by my parents - something I think many Asians would understand.

Maybe it’s ego and maybe it’s pride so call it what you want but I feel so full knowing I paid for this trip myself. And to me, that matters. It felt like the biggest reward I’ve ever given myself - a quiet acknowledgment of my own determination since God knows what path I had to walk on to get here.

The 15 year old me, the one who once said no to a Disneyland trip in Japan, would probably be so fucking proud that he did this at 25 on his own terms.

No Disneyland though. Just a carefully curated two weeks that brought me the most joy.

I experienced Tokyo’s restless energy, Hakone’s serene stillness, Kyoto’s tranquil poetry, Nara’s gentle deer, Osaka’s vibrant hum and Hiroshima’s profound sense of memory.

Moving between these cities, I remembered why I love travelling so much.

It’s not just about seeing new places, it’s about noticing and observing how people exist with a kind of quiet respect for one another.

The kind of respect that should be the bare minimum, yet somehow feels rare especially in my country where often, service workers are looked down upon.

I learned a lot about love too or perhaps, about its absence.

When you step into a place that feels different, somewhere that feels safe, you begin to notice what’s been missing. You understand what love is supposed to feel like when it isn’t restrained.

If you know me, you’ll know I love to live in my head. Sometimes friends catch me doing it and it’s funny how they seem to enjoy my daydreams and romanticisations about things that give my life meaning. I’m grateful for those escapes. I’ve made peace with that as I once thought it was a strange curse or a case that could be studied medically.

I now see it as a kind of gift - the ability to leave, even when I’m still. So yes, I respect my delusions and no one can tell me otherwise.

On the Shinkansen, with a playlist made just for this trip playing in my ears, I sat beside my best friend, I watch the world blur past me.

From villages tucked between mountains, people running across paddy fields, cyclists weaving through narrow streets.

At one point, I even felt slightly sick from how fast the Nozomi train was moving. Still, I held onto those moments. I always do as I might never have them again.

I build playlists for every country I visit - little time capsules I can return to whenever I want to remember how it felt. You can spot check my Spotify account out of curiosity, it gives you the ick but music has always done that for me.

I mean, are we fucking kidding??? I passed the bar exam with Beyoncé’s Renaissance on repeat, memorising entire modules to the rhythm of her voice. If nostalgia had a soundtrack, that one would rank dangerously high.

It worked for Paris, Berlin, and Lisbon. Hence, I don’t see why Japan would be any different.

It was, easily, one of the most beautiful experiences of my life. It confirmed something I’ve always known: I’m a city girl at heart.

Tokyo had me instantly. Completely, I was hooked to the floor. I was gagged.

I could see a life for myself there. The pace, the energy, the constant movement doesn’t whisper “wait”, it demands that you chase and go after the things that gives you that rush. It felt familiar, in the same way London once did like something in the distance calling my name.

Hiroshima, on the other hand, felt slower, quieter, almost meditative like the feeling you get after a hot yoga class at 35 degrees. A place I could return to, to reset like Cardiff in Wales.

Moving from that stillness back into Tokyo’s chaos during the final leg of the trip felt like being jolted awake - exhausted, but somehow revived. The Don Quijote soundtrack played endlessly, like a fever dream I didn’t want to leave while having a bunch of Matcha Kit Kats in my hands to bring back home for my sister.

And then there was Hakone.

Hakone was… complicated.

It was, in many ways, the softest part of the trip. I stayed in a ryokan that felt more like a home than anywhere I’ve been in a long time. The woman who hosted us carried a warmth that felt almost maternal - more than I’ve known in my lifetime. I pondered if this was what having a healthy relationship with a mother feels like.

A Gen Z would say: she was mother. And I was, undeniably, mothered.

Breakfast was served the proper Japanese way. I lost count of how many times we bowed to one another, how many times she said arigatō gozaimashita with a sincerity that felt almost sacred. If God had favourites, I think she’d rank highly.

Hakone was also where things didn’t go to plan.

The weather was terrible. Mount Fuji remained hidden - either shy, or simply unwilling to come out. It was freezing, and I had foolishly packed nothing but a V-neck sweater. Despite subscribing to the Hakone Free Pass, we skipped the pirate ship entirely. There was no point unless I wanted to die of hypothermia with no views as we’d be covered in fog.

Still, we rode one of the steepest trains in existence, so I’m counting that as a win and I got my hands on the black egg that was meant to add seven more years to my life. Oh, I also experienced my first public onsen, butt naked. Nothing’s sexier than that.

Kyoto, though. Kyoto was complicated in a different way.

In many ways, it felt like America. Too many of them, if I’m being honest. The sounds produced by the tourists dims the quiet grace I associate with Japan.

It’s strange, because I witnessed the most beautiful sakura there and yet, also the most visible frustration from locals. Tourists being so loud, pretentious, disrespectful. They would record service workers up close while their matcha were being whisked without consent, speaking carelessly about random shits, carrying an energy that felt unnecessary and uninviting.

Still, there were moments I held onto.

A capsule hotel I’m glad I experienced, a small French café we returned to three mornings in a row, coffee at Le Labo’s Kyoto café where I treated myself to a Santal 33 hand cream that lingered like memory.

Note: Kyoto smells like Santal 33 more than Kyoto’s exclusive scent of Osmanthus 19.

From temples to rituals, to Nara where I walked alongside more deer than I ever have in my life. I found meaning in small things during the trip.

At one temple, I drew an ice fortune that told me to keep my future private. Don’t tell anyone about your business. It was hilarious only because even the universe seems to know I am an open book.

Osaka came next after four nights in Kyoto. We were burnt out and running on fumes. Admittedly, we didn't do much as the city felt like it had so much more to offer than the energy we have to pursue its attractions.

However, two nights wasn’t enough. The city felt alive in a way that reawakened my mind, even as my body began to give out. We played claw machines and ate what might have been the best wagyu egg fried rice of our lives.

Finally, comes Hiroshima. An hour thirty minutes away on the Shinkansen.

We went for the museum. At first, the city felt like exactly what we needed - quietly paced, slow, and gentle. Inside the museum, everything shifted.

I had to study of Hiroshima and Nagasaki in History when I was Grade 10 but it was merely just a syllabus that I memorised, sat an exam for and called it a day.

However, walking through those halls felt heavy and emotional: seeing burnt lunchboxes, clothing, drawings, it forces you to confront something uncomfortable:

How did they endure that and why does it feel like we’re still repeating the same patterns of treating human lives as if they’re disposable? It’s like we are all merely, just a bunch of wooden chopsticks you get at Sushi restaurants, which you dispose of immediately after you finished your meal.

It doesn’t help I watched Oppenheimer last year and I was so in sync with the three exposures I’ve had of the history; syllabus in school, watching the movie, and walking through the city where it happened.

There was a section about a family - Family N. While I won’t elaborate, people around me cried and I found myself holding back tears, again and again while reading of his story, and I am crying right now, while writing this.

Anyway, let’s just move on to the last leg of Tokyo.

Bittersweet, in the way endings always are.

Not just because I had to say goodbye to a country I’ve grown to love in the past two weeks, but because I also had to say goodbye to my favourite person, my best friend and just one of the best gifts God has ever given me.

We stayed in Akabane. While I was afraid at first because it felt completely opposite to Asakusa, where we stayed for the first five nights in Tokyo, I had to remind myself that this is Japan and is probably the safest place on Earth you can be in right now.

After a few hours of settling in, I grew fond of it. The traditional Tokyo feel is almost nostalgic, like stepping back in time. I loved it.

We visited a nearby cafe where I treated myself to a gorgeous blue mug. As you know, I love my mugs but I think we’ve moved beyond my initial obsession with Le Creuset.

On my final day, after a quiet night alone in Tokyo, I decided to keep things relaxed. I finally fulfilled a bucket list item by getting my Tabi shoes, a desire I’ve had since my trip to Paris last year. I also stopped by Don Quijote to pick up some essentials to bring home.

At the airport, I treated myself to a matcha and began planning how I want this piece to unfold. If you’re still here, thank you so much for reading.

Just as a final thought and as an affirmation to myself, I feel incredibly grateful this trip happened, despite the feeling of stagnation and discomfort this year brings - given my current life stage. If you’ve read my journal entry posted a few days ago, I yearn for something beyond my grasp and it’s tough but as I always tell myself and you, we fucking move.

The thing that is within our control, is something we can change and as long as you keep on moving, things will keep progressing - whether you realise it or not.

Let’s just pray that I get to pack up my items and move back abroad soon.

Thank you so much and I hope you enjoyed reading this piece as much as I enjoyed writing it.

Until next time.

- i.h

Starting with my earliest, fondest memory of people turning money into a personality trait: I was 15, enrolled in a state school, watching classmates, some only a year or two older, who were rewarded with an iPhone 5S by their parents. What I thought was a gift wasn’t just that. It was a signal.

If you grew up in Malaysia, you’ll understand this unspoken hierarchy. iPhones weren’t just phones; they were shorthand for status. Androids, no matter how functional, were quietly relegated to the “other” category.

They were less desirable, less seen. At the time, I owned a Huawei that cost under £200 and an iPod Touch that felt like a consolation prize. It didn’t take long to notice a pattern: those with iPhones displayed them like badges, weaving them into their identity with almost ritualistic repetition and it fucking worked in their favour.

School staffs, teachers noticed. Assumptions of the kinds of families you belonged to were made. Doors, even though subtle were opened for these kids.

There was an unspoken alliance. Students with privilege often knew when rule enforcement (i.e. bag spot checks) would bend in their favour. Phones were technically banned, yet somehow always present.

Although, mine weren’t confiscated - because I didn’t dare bring them which was funny because even if I did, I don’t think anyone would confiscate a golden plasticky android anyway - but I was still bitter because my copy of The 5th Wave was. We were only allowed to bring textbooks. That still feels absurd and dumb if you ask me.

Two years later, I transferred to an international school. The hierarchy didn’t disappear - it was sharpened like the tip of the Burj Khalifa. I was still carrying that same Huawei, now outdated not just technologically but socially. I wasn’t just different; I was marked. Embarrassment settled into something heavier as a 16 year old kid - shame. I remember wanting an iPhone 7 so badly, especially after I was asked to help my dad pick the colour of my mum’s 7 Plus before they left for South Africa.

For three years, they built a life there, not knowing what was going on to their middle child. I had to navigate an environment where wealth wasn’t just visible - it was performative.

There was a particular kind of cruelty that thrived in those hallways. Casual, almost. People asked what your parents did, not out of curiosity but as a way of placing you. If you didn’t own an iPhone, how could your family possibly afford the fees? It sounds shallow and yes, it was - but we were kids so I probably should let it pass because my sister who is only 13 has a classmate who keeps flashing her orange iPhone 17 Pro Max. My sister was brave though, she asked the girl to shut the fuck up and move on.

Then again, I’ve met adults who never quite grew out of that framework. You’ll recognise them. They’ve simply traded school uniforms for designer monograms or they would flash the fact that their partners are rich, and they feel settled for life.

I remember the pick-up line outside school: a quiet parade of Mercedes, Range Rovers, BMWs. And then there was me, climbing into my aunt’s Perodua Axia, decorated with Hello Kitty stickers. I felt like an outlier and I hate to admit it, I felt poor. Let’s place that on top of all the bullying (e.g. being called a fagg*t.)

It took me until I was, maybe 18 or 19, to realise something fundamental: money doesn’t make me. I have to make something of it.

That same year, I got my first iPhone. Not as a reward for perfect grades - I didn’t achieve straight As - but because my dad thought I deserved it anyway as I practically had to raise myself while they were away.

Almost instantly, something shifted. People stopped asking questions about my background. The assumptions were made for them because the device in my hand had already answered.

That was when the absurdity became undeniable. I watched the same patterns repeat during A-Levels, this time from a different vantage point. The labels, the quiet judgments, the social sorting - it was all still there. And from where I stood, it seemed that money or at least the appearance of it held disproportionate weight in the social fabric I had grown up in.

Something else changed too, from within. I became less interested in people who made wealth their entire personality. There’s a hollowness to it - a kind of one-dimensionality that leaves little room for anything else. If one goes through an X-ray machine, I don’t need to see their credit cards.

I found myself wanting more from people: complexity, curiosity, substance. The kinds of things you can’t purchase or display.

It was a craving that I only truly ever got at the age of 21 when I left the society I understood and my brain fucking exploded. It was an explosion that allowed me to genuinely grow as a human being and the kind of being I aspire to be. It did me too fucking good and I could write a book about it. Trust.

Looking back, I think this relationship with money started much earlier. Between the ages of 9 and 13, I lived in Dubai among Malaysian expat families. There was a quiet competition that ran through those communities, particularly among housewives. It was subtle, but persistent. Bigger houses. Drivers. Designer wardrobes. Just anything extravagant.

Even language became a status marker. I met parents who took pride in their children not speaking Malay, as though distance from their roots signalled something aspirational. It’s ironic, considering how valuable multilingualism actually is. (In my opinion, you’re quite close to God status if you could speak three languages.)

That environment leaves a residue. It shapes how you see yourself and others, often without you realising it.

For me, the shift came when I began to rebuild my relationship with money on my own terms. I started finding pride in things that I was conditioned growing up to feel like compromises: thrift shopping, charity stores, cheap eats. When I was living in the UK, I memorised which racks held items under £5 and I was proud of it. I recommended budget spots to friends with genuine enthusiasm. There was something grounding about it - learning to live well without excess, to feel satisfied without constant upgrading.

Funny because it started being a thing I was known for.

“If you ask Iqmal where he got certain items from, his follow up question would be: guess how much?”

Only because I was just so happy to have found a preloved item for £2 and I still have those items with me today. I loved it.

And yet, I’ll admit the contradiction: I do appreciate designer items. I enjoy understanding them, researching them, even wanting them. Although, I’ve come to realise that the joy rarely lies in ownership. It’s in the anticipation, the idea, the story you attach to it.

For example, I had always wanted a Louis Vuitton bag. I remember my dad gifting my mum a Speedy 25 or 30 when I was a child - it stayed with me as a symbol of something aspirational. In 2021, I came across the OnTheGo MM and thought, that’s the one I’d like when I start earning my own money. I’ll gift myself that bag.

In 2025, I was gifted the OnTheGo East West while I was strolling the streets of Paris with my dad. While it felt good - of course I’d be lying if I say it didn’t. Never in my life I thought my father would get me a bag from the women’s section of the store’s layout. Hence, the real meaning wasn’t in the bag itself. It was in why it was given. The context carried more weight than the object, wouldn’t you agree or am I dramatising the sentimentality I have towards my items?

That’s the thing I’m still learning: what actually brings me joy when it comes to money. It’s not static. It evolves - with age, with environment, with the people around you. I’ve been told this relationship will keep changing, shaped by everything from career, to family, to expectations that haven’t even arrived yet.

For now, I think I’ve landed somewhere more honest. Money matters - I believe it always will. It shapes comfort, access, opportunity but given what I have been exposed at such a young age, I don’t consent myself to see a day where I make it as my identity.

If anything, I’ve learned to be wary of anyone who treats it as such.

Finally, I am glad to have found my people, they go right through where their credit scores sit and gave me what I crave for on the daily: the beauty and complexity of what it is to be human with lived experiences.

This one felt complicated to write. I think I was figuring it out as I went because I had a lot more examples I’d love to give but we’d be sitting here for ages and I don’t think either of us wants that.

I’d be curious to know how others have experienced this, especially within similar cultural contexts or if you grew up with posh kids abroad, what was that like?

Until next time.

- i.h

There seems to be a common stereotype that we’re stealing jobs from locals - that our efforts and hard work don’t deserve even the faintest spotlight. At least, this is what I felt the most in 2025.

Anti-migrant sentiment felt louder than ever. I remember public protests in central London, people wrapping the Union Jack around their arms like a limited-edition Hermès scarf, or wearing DIY shirts that read “RIP Charlie Kirk.”

I remember overhearing “ching chong” in public while I was walking in central London by Tottenham Court Road, with Charli XCX’s 360 in my headphones - so much for a main character moment.

I remember people expressing surprise when they realised I actually had Asian parents - confused by my hybrid accent that sounded foreign, yet somehow local enough for them to assume I was adopted by white parents.

Don’t even get me started on the £42.7k minimum salary threshold that was implemented.

One day, I happened to be out when a protest against migrants was organised nearby. I had met Abby earlier that day, but our meeting was cut short once we realised what was happening. It felt unsafe.

Was it scary? Not exactly.
But I did feel intimidated on the tube back home; where I suddenly became aware of my position as a very obvious foreigner in a country that seemed not to want me anymore, even though it was happy to accept the money I had paid to study there.

And yet, I love the country. I really do.

For the first time in my life, I felt something close to belonging. I built my life there entirely on my own. I didn’t go back home to Malaysia for the first three years.

I stayed, worked, studied, and pushed myself forward.

Eventually, I had three jobs alongside my academic achievements to back me up.

But somehow, it still wasn’t enough to secure a Skilled Worker visa.

I’m not special, I’ll openly admit that. While the competition is incredibly high, I sometimes feel like the reality isn’t about the skills I could bring to the table.

Sometimes it feels like the deciding factor is simply my title: migrant.

Maybe it’s my skin colour.
Maybe it’s my narrow “snake” eyes.
Maybe it’s the fact that I don’t speak a third language - the kind of killer trait that might secure someone a role at Bloomberg or Thomson Reuters.

It’s hard not to bring race into the equation. Being Southeast Asian in a foreign country comes with a set of stereotypes. One of the most common is that we only associate with our own communities.

Because of that assumption, I sometimes feel like I’m already placed into a predetermined box - someone who doesn’t quite fit into society unless the people around him look like him.

Tough luck, right?

(Also, why did that sentence sound like it came straight out of Bridgerton?)

Since returning to Malaysia, I’ve applied to over 100 jobs. A few interviews came through, but many ended quickly once hiring managers realised I needed visa sponsorship - as if I hadn’t clearly stated that at the very top of my CV and as if there wasn’t a number beginning with +60 for them to take the hint.

Today, I had an interview in Kuala Lumpur.

There were two interviewers. One of them looked at my CV and said:

“You’ve done a lot career-wise. Looking at your experience, it feels like you belong in London… so why settle for Kuala Lumpur?”

I gave what was essentially a polite lie after starting my answer with;

“Do you want the brutally honest answer?”

I said as much as I loved to continue living in London, I had returned because I needed to spend more time with my dad after being away for so long and also, my visa expired.

But if I’m being honest - when that question was asked, something inside me questioned “What the hell am I doing here in this room? Is this it? Are you accepting defeat now?.”

In that moment, my mind drifted somewhere else entirely. Outwardly, I stayed present. Inwardly, I was replaying the life I had imagined for myself - the life of a migrant I once got to come home to and wake up to every single day.

Looking out my window over Commercial Road in Shadwell.
The massive Sainsbury’s I’ll probably be obsessed with forever.

Lime bikes scattered everywhere.
Tired faces on weekday mornings.

Chatting with Matthew at random hours in our flat.
Meeting a friend for coffee.
Or just wandering around Spitalfields Market by myself, quietly grateful that my efforts had taken me somewhere I finally felt like myself.

It’s strange, isn’t it? How can something that once felt so permanent be gone just in one day? It’s like you blink once and that’s that - you’ve closed a chapter you wished you had the privilege of writing longer.

Sometimes the life that rewards you the least is the life that fulfills you the most.

Life in Malaysia is objectively easier for me. I’m surrounded by everyday privileges that make things comfortable. I eat really good food every day, I get to spend time with my little sister, I go shopping almost every day, I drive everywhere (but also I’m becoming fat - thank fuck kettlebell workouts exists).

In the UK, I had none of that. Everything I had, had to come from my own work and I had to be conscious of my spendings.

And yet, that was exactly what made it meaningful - the independence, the quiet confidence of knowing that whatever happened, I could rely on myself.

The interview today actually went well.

But if we’re talking about monetary rewards, the contrast is wild. The role here would potentially pay me around £600 per month, compared to the £2,000+ salaries I was used to seeing in London.

Cost of living comparisons are complicated. Groceries here aren’t drastically cheaper, though other things are. Still, I can’t help but wonder:

Could I actually sustain my lifestyle on £600 a month?

Stay tuned to find out.
(That is, if I even get the final offer - which, between you and me, I’m not sure it’s what I want.)

The moment I got home from the interview, I opened my laptop and went straight to LinkedIn.

I searched for jobs again, in London.

Nothing new.

Right now, I honestly don’t know what the next two months of my life will look like. I don’t even know if there’s a clear plan at all.

But for now, I’ll keep trying.

I’ll keep applying, keep pushing, and keep hoping that somewhere out there is an employer willing to take a chance on this migrant kid who simply wants to return to the city where he built a life he truly loved.

Maybe this is just a pause I needed.

Or maybe it’s simply part of the trajectory I’m meant to go through.

Either way, I’m growing. Not as intensely, but I feel more of an adult now, and that’s enough.

Thanks for reading.

As always, lots of love.

- i.h

I possess the title of a son from hell; it’s quite a remarkable compliment if you ask me today - as if the hellfires themselves built me from the ground up. Truth be told, I do feel at times I’m made of fire as I rage at achieving my dreams like there’s no tomorrow and think I don’t deserve rest because when the furnace runs out of heat, that’s when I’d be dead.

Anyway, I am this satanic being no one in my family would claim as their own, unless it was useful to them - unless it was the part where I once lived in the UK, a convenient personality trait for them to boast about in their social circles.

Otherwise, I am this feminine and liberal nuisance that doesn’t maintain my lane within societal and religious’ construct I was presented with - technically, a Satan to many.

If you know us Asians, you know education sits at the highest tier of our existence. If someone’s son isn’t a doctor, a lawyer, or an engineer, they’re often quietly labelled either a kid too rich or a failure unless they somehow make it big in whatever niche industry they choose to pursue.

“Oh, you’re an artist??? Your parents must be rich as you don’t have to work so hard.” - so typical and annoying.

You would think me earning a placement at Cardiff University would make my family proud. You would think that being the middle child and the first in the family to earn a degree would be something worth celebrating out of all five siblings I have.

But you would be very far from the truth if you think so.

That experience became a wake-up call. It taught me that if I ever fall, I will be the only one responsible for building myself back up again. People say blood is thicker than water, that family will always be there when you need them but not mine. At least, I don’t think that will ever be the case.

My chosen family (my best friends and the families that adopted me along the way) will come to the rescue should anything happen to me before my family finds out what happened to me.

Believing blood is thicker than water would have destroyed me in the blink of an eye. I understand family is a big thing among Asian families, but also, it should not be used as a justification to tolerate toxic traits of your bloodline.

In 2022, my family was supposedly planning to visit and “celebrate” the day I made it out alive from law school. Three years of law school, multiple exams, and only ONE date to graduate from the all-nighters I have pulled.

Truth be told, my mother insisted on going to Amsterdam on the very day I am meant to graduate - July 20th 2022. Even before any flight tickets were booked, the boasting had already begun to her close friends.

“I’m going to the UK in July. I’m going to Amsterdam after that.” - something like that.

To everyone around her, it sounded like pride. To me, it felt like something else entirely.

It was triggering enough that I took a step back and told her, “You know what? If that’s what you want to do, then go to Amsterdam and leave me alone on the day I graduate. Or better yet - don’t come at all.”

I think if the intention is to be there for my graduation, let us fixate on that first prior to planning anything else, but it seemed Amsterdam took priority before Cardiff ever did.

When you grow up with a narcissist, the response is very much predictable; I saw it coming.

“If I’m not going, none of us are going.” - yes, that includes my dad, who has been nothing but supportive of my education.

I remember thinking: you know what, it’s fine. If this is how life is meant to unfold, I will have to let it be.

It happened exactly that way. I graduated entirely on my own. All by myself with my best friend beside me, but she had a flight to catch the very next day to celebrate with her family back home.

Surrounded by other Malaysian families celebrating together on that day, I unknowingly became the object of sympathy, a pity party, a sight everyone felt the need to see just to balance out the happiness that was in the air that day. Other parents gave me gifts - I remembered one of them being a Famous Amos cookies’ graduation bear. They also invited me to join them for dinners. They were kind, genuinely kind, but the entire experience made me feel like a piece of discarded meat being passed around.

Because my family wasn’t dead and they simply chose not to be there as they felt compelled by a narcissistic mother.

That wasn’t even the most painful part, by the way.

On the very day I graduated, my mother sent me a series of messages - threatening texts calling me an ungrateful son, praying that the gates of hell would open for me and how strong a mother’s prayers are - growing up Muslim, I was aware of how strong your mother’s prayers can be. Adding on to that, she blamed me for her divorce with my dad (they’re still together, by the way, but if this doesn’t paint a picture of the kind of woman she is, I have no idea what will) and sent a picture of broken plates as proof of the chaos I had supposedly caused - thousands of miles away, in a different country on a day I was meant to be at my happiest and feel proud of myself.

And then came the sentence that would stay with me.

“I pray that you fail bar school and never become a successful lawyer.”

Those words came from my own mother. You would think those words couldn’t come out of a mother? Maybe yours would not, but mine did.

It was simply the loudest, most disrespectful thing anyone could have ever said to me.

How exactly was I supposed to react to that, you ask? Between feeling anxious and sad, it was the moment I decided to cut off all communication with my own mother. Zero, not even a single text.

During that period of zero communication, my father became the unwilling middleman - forced by my mother to check in on her behalf while I struggled through bar school, having to deal with the annoyance that wasn’t even coming from the messenger directly herself.

Every single time, I found myself praying to God, not only for success, but simply that my mother’s prayers would not come true. I remembered sitting down on my prayer mat this one evening and I said:

“Dear God, if you ever allow my mother’s prayers to come true, I can tell you right now that I would rather die than have to face my own failure and incompetence of not being able to pass my exams.”

At the time, the passing rate was at 30%. Fortunately, God was on my side and has always kept me in His light of guidance. I passed every paper in one sitting.

So much for the power of a mother’s curse.

Today, you can advise me to respect my mother, but as a 25-year-old who’s learned life the hard way and witnessed so much disrespect growing up, respect is and will never be a one-way street.

If that was the level of respect I received from her, then there was simply none left for me to give.

When I was given two invitations for my Call to the Bar ceremony, I thought it might finally be time for my family to come. They did, which I’m glad as I’ve not seen anyone for two years since I left the country in 2021.

Before anything else, I texted both my parents and said one thing very clearly:

“I’m only inviting Dad.” As the person who prayed for me to fail my exams does not deserve to stand in the very room where I will be celebrated for passing them.

Until today, my relationship with my mum is not the same and will never be the same, and I like to keep it that way. We do talk, but I will always be envious of others who possess such healthy and kind relationships with their mothers because that’s what I once considered should be the bare minimum.

It is a principle I hold deeply: if I ever have a child, I will make sure they feel supported no matter what. I will always be proud of whatever they achieve in their lifetime - the kind of pride and reassurance for the things achieved that I never had the privilege of experiencing in my lifetime. Through them, I live vicariously.

We’d be here forever if I wanted to tell you all the nasty, petty, and crazy things that have happened in my household over the years, but I’ll save you the tea if one day a TV network wants a Southeast Asian version of a reality tv series as I feel my family would be the best contender for it.

To close this off, if I ever have a child, they will never have to pray that their parent’s words don’t come true.

- i.h

I just got back from Jakarta yesterday, a trip my parents successfully forced me to go on as I have not travelled with them for over six years.

My parents wanted a weekend trip for their annual Eid al-Fitr shopping and to pray Tarawih at Istiqlal Mosque so I thought, hey why not - its the perfect time to fix my relationship with God too as I feel that I am in need of His guidance more than ever.

spoiler: I am born and raised a Muslim and yes, I went to the mall instead of joining them at the mosque because I forgot to bring my sandals.

That’s not an excuse. I promise (I think) or maybe I am just insecure to be standing among men who know what they’re doing and I wouldn't.

This is also the first trip of my life where I took fewer than 20 photos - you know I treat my camera roll like an archive but a boy was hungry, and couldn’t wait to eat at Pagi Sore for iftar. Thank you Angeline for the recommendation!

Between shopping while fasting during Ramadan and waiting for sunset, I started noticing as I always do when I am bored and in need of something to pick and analyse from thin air. That is, the way Indonesians reacted to me walking, very casually, into women’s boutiques to browse halter tops and off-shoulder pieces with my shoulder bag, and slightly cropped box tee.

I think we all know this but I have always preferred shopping in the women’s section. The silhouettes feel more honest, more interesting and it makes my body look good, and ultimately, i feel sexy.

You might say, “You think about yourself more than the world thinks about you.” And maybe that’s true.

But don’t you just know when you feel it? That quiet instinct that says you are an alien in a space designed for normal people?

Back at the hotel, my dad said, “A lot of people were staring at you just now. I think… they couldn’t tell if you’re a girl or a boy.” and mum consistently judged me for picking up pieces “oh my god… are you being serious…??? you’re a guy.”

And honestly? I felt that.

Ironically, I’ve never looked more masculine than I do now. Shorter hair and a more toned body after all those kettlebell workouts. Its valid to earn the remarks circa 2025 because I could pass as a soft butch.

My haircut once prompted an Employment Judge to call me “Ms. Handan,” then paused, apologized, and asked for my pronouns after I said, “Yes, Judge, I can hear you well..” on a virtual hearing.

So it’s not new but it hits differently here.

In Southeast Asia, gender feels… structured. It’s Intentional, categorized, “stay in your lane of the genital you possess” kinda way. There’s a clear box for everything. Men shop here. Women shop there and God forbid the lines blur.

Its rare to see the lines blur unless you’re in a store like Uniqlo where even then, in Indonesia, women’s section is at the front of the store, kid’s in the middle and men all the way in the back.

So what’s a man gotta do at the front of the store??? not a single clue - either they’re gay or they’re perverts.

When I walked into a local designer boutique with the most interesting and stunning collection. Exactly, something that could align with my androgyny. Something that would make me feel sexy in a way that felt like me.

As I was browsing, I see eyes of SAs navigating my movements within the store but me being me, I picked up six pieces to try on.

The sales assistant looked at them. Then at me.

“Are these… for you?”

YES, GWORL. WHO ELSE WOULD THEY BE FOR?

But out loud, I said quietly, “Yeah… is that okay?”

She gave me the sizes. I stepped into the fitting room and who would have thought, I would spiral. Literally, S P I R A L.

SPIRAL.

Is this how I am meant to dress?
Is this allowed?
Is this normal?
Should I go back to ugly plaid shirts and skater boy trousers?
Is this what makes me happy?

Six outfits. One existential crisis.

Later that same day, I went into H&M. Holding women’s pieces. A staff member redirected me to the second floor - “That’s where the men’s fitting room is.”

So I grabbed a random ugly tee from the men’s section to disguise what I actually wanted to try on as if the cotton shirt could shield me from scrutiny that my shoulder bag is already projecting the kind of person I am.

It’s strange, isn’t it?

I’m back in Southeast Asia - where I belong by blood and I am proud of that. Everything’s so much more richer here culturally.

However, there’s a LOUD identity crisis I can’t shake. I feel more myself in places like Berlin or London. I don’t think I would’ve dissociated in a fitting room there I can tell you that.

Here, my body feels like a question mark and my intentions of dressing for me and myself only feels….. rejected?

I don’t know man… it’s wild and I wish you could’ve listened to my brain at times.

Anyway, are you proud of me if I tell you that I ended up getting the pieces anyway???? I thought fuck it, these people will never see me again so what is there for me to lose.

So yeah, they’re back home with me but funnily enough, there’s no chance in hell I’m wearing it in Kuala Lumpur because that will soon be another episode of me spiralling but hey, you never know.

- i.h