blurred

I thought I was done for today.

After ten years of silence, one post felt like enough. Nostalgic. Safe. Controlled. I closed the tab thinking, okay, that’s it. I’m back.

But apparently, coming back to a space you abandoned for a decade means you don’t get to perform. You just write what’s sitting with you.

Lately, I’ve been thinking about presence. About how easy it is to disappear in subtle ways. Not dramatically. Not tragically. Just quietly.

And maybe that’s why I’m writing this.

I get that everyone moves differently.

Some people think out loud. Some people speak fast. Some people need to sound certain in a room.

And I’m not mad. I’m not even trying to compete.

It’s just strange how something can start as a shared conversation, and then somehow it lands as someone else’s certainty.

 I know I contributed. I know I did the thinking. I know the concerns weren’t random.

But when they’re said without me, I feel a little… edited out.

Not erased. Just blurred.

Maybe this isn’t about credit.

Maybe it’s about wanting to feel visible in something I helped shape.

I don’t need applause.

I just don’t want to feel like the draft while someone else reads the final version.

And I can understand someone’s urgency without making myself smaller in the process

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.

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. Urgent. 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.