What We Carry

 

The older I get, the less interested I am in being right about people. I’d rather be careful with them.

It’s easy to look at someone’s actions and decide who they are. It’s harder to remember that we’re only seeing a chapter, not the whole story. We don’t know what kind of love they grew up with, what fears they carry, or what they’re still trying to protect. Sometimes people become controlling because they were never given certainty. Sometimes they need to be seen because they’ve spent a lifetime feeling invisible. Sometimes they hurt others without even realizing it.

Understanding someone’s story doesn’t excuse the pain they cause. Some boundaries are still necessary. Some distance is still healthy. But I’ve learned that I don’t have to choose between protecting my peace and keeping my compassion.

We rarely know what shaped someone’s heart. But we always get to decide what shapes ours.

I hope life never hardens me into believing that the only way to survive is to become less kind. If anything, I hope it teaches me to be gentler without becoming naive, to have boundaries without losing empathy, and to remember that the way I treat people says far more about me than the way they treat me.

What Did You Lose Between 2020 and 2025?

 

Today, I stumbled upon an Instagram post that simply asked, “What did you lose between 2020 and 2025?”

At first, I thought the answer would be easy. Time, maybe. A few opportunities.. But the longer I sat with the question, the more I realized I hadn’t really lost things. I had slowly let go of the life I thought I would have by now.

Somewhere between those years, I lost the certainty that life would unfold the way I imagined it would. I watched my dad become someone I barely recognized after his stroke. I watched my mom quietly rearrange her life around his, until caring for him became part of her everyday routine. I watched my brother stay home to help take care of our dad instead of leaving for college.

It wasn’t the life I had imagined for any of us..

I celebrated another wedding anniversary, realizing that some milestones arrive on time, while others don’t. And through it all, life kept asking me to keep going—to show up for work, to laugh with friends, to make plans, even when some parts of my heart were still waiting.

Looking back now, I don’t think those years only took things away. They also gave me a gentler way of looking at life. They taught me that not every unanswered prayer is a forgotten one, and not every delay is a sign that life has stopped moving. Hope looks different these days. It’s quieter than it used to be, but it’s still here. If you asked me again what I lost between 2020 and 2025, I’d probably say this: I lost the version of me who thought life had to happen on my timeline. I still miss her sometimes. But I think the person I’m becoming is learning to trust a different one.

A Quiet Kind of Grief

this morning, I came across a post from a colleague. She wrote about losing her baby.

I sat there for a while, reading every word. My heart broke for her. I can’t imagine the weight of carrying a life, only to have to say goodbye before ever getting the chance to know them.

And then, almost immediately, I felt sad for myself too..

It felt strange admitting that. Almost unfair.

Because how do you grieve for something you’ve never had?

I’ve never seen two lines on a pregnancy test. I’ve never heard a heartbeat through an ultrasound. I’ve never had a miscarriage. There isn’t a date on the calendar that marks a loss, because there was never a beginning to lose.

Yet somehow, there is still grief.

Not the grief of losing a child, because I know those are two different kinds of pain. I would never pretend they are the same.

This grief is quieter.

It lives in the months that begin with hope and end with another period. In the questions people ask without thinking. In the way I catch myself wondering what our child would have looked like whenever I see my husband laughing. In every birthday and anniversary that quietly reminds me that time keeps moving, even when a dream feels like it’s standing still.

This year, my husband and I are on our way to six years of marriage.

Six years isn’t a measure of how much we love each other. If anything, we’ve learned to love each other in ways we never expected. We’ve learned that marriage isn’t only about celebrating what comes easily. Sometimes it’s about learning how to carry what never arrives.

People often imagine waiting as something active…counting days, making plans, crossing off milestones.

But this kind of waiting is mostly invisible.

You still go to work. You answer emails. You laugh with friends over coffee. You celebrate other people’s babies because you genuinely are happy for them. And somehow, in the quiet moments between ordinary days, you carry a question that has no timeline.

Maybe that’s why my colleague’s words stayed with me.

Her grief had a name.

Mine is harder to explain.

But perhaps both were born from the same place: love. One from loving someone she had to let go of. The other from loving someone I haven’t had the chance to meet.

I don’t know if that someone will ever exist outside my imagination.

I only know that, somehow, I’ve been loving them for a long time.

Ten Years Later

I checked the last post on this blog and it said 2015.

2015.

Back when I was still in college, romanticizing deadlines, overthinking the future, and writing like the world was waiting for my next sentence. I didn’t know what I was going to do next. Everything felt open-ended and dramatic in that very early-20s way.

And then... life happened.

Now (thankfully) I have a stable job and.. a husband. 

We’ve been happily married for five years... which feels both long and not long at all. 

We have a house. It’s technically “done,” but also not really. We haven’t bought all the furniture yet, so it still echoes a little when you walk through it. Not because we’re minimalist, but because we’re still filling it slowly, piece by piece, as life allows.

There are three bedrooms we once excitedly labeled in our heads: For kids.... But, for now, they’re just rooms. We’re still trying. It’s harder than I thought it would be, but we’re keeping it hopeful. 

Life doesn’t always work the way you imagined it would, I guess.

Overall though, I’m happy.

We have a tiny garden. Behind it, there’s a community garden that feels like an extension of ours. Five cats visit regularly like they own the place. We feed them. They pretend they don’t need us.

We have small routines I didn’t know I would treasure this much.

We take turns doing chores. We bought camping chairs and sometimes make susu jahe at night, sitting on the terrace facing the garden like we’re retired at 30. 

My husband planted sunflower seeds that haven’t grown yet. We check on them quietly, pretending we’re not hoping too much. Waiting has become a familiar habit lately (iykyk).

anyway,  its funny, because for the last couple of years I kept casually mentioning how much I like sunflowers. Subtle hints. Anniversary-coded hints. The kind where you imagine being surprised with a bouquet. He didn’t catch it. Not even a little. 

And somehow now, he’s planting them in our garden. 

Not wrapped in paper. 

Not handed to me with a ribbon. 

Just seeds. Just soil. Just time.

Which feels... very us.

He once bought garden lamps shaped like ilalang because he saw them at a dayclub in Sanur and immediately fell in love. Turns out they’re way too bright for our tiny garden. It looks like we’re hosting a mini music festival back there. I personally don’t love them. But I didn’t say anything. Because he looked so proud installing them, And I didn’t want to take that from him.

Ten years later, I’ve survived a global pandemic, the lockdown dalgona era, Zoom fatigue, vaccine debates in every family WhatsApp group, political seasons that felt louder than they needed to be, inflation that quietly reshaped everyone’s grocery habits, and the constant “is this the start of World War 3?” anxiety every time the news app lights up.

Some of the cast of Harry Potter are gone now. Kevin’s mom from Home Alone is gone too. Modern Family already had its finale years ago.... I can’t even remember when. The things that felt permanent when I was younger are slowly becoming “remember when.”

It’s strange how the world can feel like it’s constantly on fire, childhood icons quietly disappear, sitcom families take their final bow... and somehow you’re just at home, feeding five cats, checking on sunflower seeds, living inside the kind of quiet you used to think was boring.

Back then, everything felt bigger, louder, heavier... I thought adulthood would look dramatic, big milestones, clear timelines, triumphant background music. Instead, it looks like camping chairs on the terrace, susu jahe at night, garden lamps that are slightly too bright, and conversations about whether plants need more sun.

A life that’s not cinematic.

Not perfectly arranged.

Still growing in its own pace.

But it’s mine.