“Have you had a child?”

The question was asked lightly over lunchtime. It was not intrusive in tone and carried no bad intention. It was simply… normal. At my age, it is probably safe for people to assume that marriage and children have already become part of someone’s story. I have learned not to feel offended by it. It is, after all, a “socially acceptable” curiosity.

I smiled and shook my head. “Not yet,” I said, trying my best not to make this new friend of mine feel sorry for asking.

The expression that followed was familiar: a brief moment of surprise, quickly masked but not completely hidden. I sensed the confusion forming behind her eyes. I could almost see her rearranging the image she had unconsciously constructed of my life. And before she could ask another question, I felt compelled to fill the silence myself.

“I haven’t married yet,” I added.

The mood shifted immediately. The person in front of me began apologizing repeatedly, as if she had brought the wrong question to the serene break time. And strangely, that was the part that hurt. Not the question itself, but the realization that my situation made people feel the need to apologize to me. It was the second time in a month this had happened, and once again, I smiled and brushed it off, “It’s okay.”

The story does not end there. In another setting, another friend asked whether I would visit my family since we were already near my hometown. It was an innocent question. A kind one, even.

“I will not go home,” I replied.

Again, confusion. And somehow, without being asked, I felt the need to explain myself because silence would likely invite misunderstanding. I began to get used to explaining myself even when I hope I don’t have to.

“My parents passed away last year,”  I said carefully.

There is no easy way to say that sentence. No version that doesn’t rearrange the air between two people. No version that doesn't create instant discomfort in a conversation.

“In an accident,” I added, because the silence seemed to demand context.

The same expression appeared again: shock, followed by sympathy, followed by apologies. And that broke my heart, seeing people staring at me pitifully. Conversations that once flowed easily suddenly stopped, replaced by a silence.

****

These past few weeks, I have witnessed that same expression repeatedly. I noticed how people looked at me differently afterward. As if behind the cheerful and bubbly identity, they suddenly saw someone lonely. Someone unfortunate. Someone pitiful.

When I was a child, my family struggled financially, and perhaps because of that, I sometimes felt ashamed of my circumstances. I promised myself early on that I would work hard so I could stand tall one day. Later, I wanted to carry myself with confidence, knowing the years of effort I had poured into building a life I could be proud of. Education. Work. Discipline. Growth. I have played the long game in many areas of my life. I have endured difficult seasons. I have earned my place at tables where I once felt small. And yet, now in the presence of certain questions, that confidence fades. I shrink, like someone who has worked so hard to climb in a game of snakes and ladders, only to land on a snake that sends her back to the beginning. As if returning to square one, I feel embarrassed by myself even when I know that essentially fate isn't something I could control: not back then, and not now.

When conversations revolve around spouses, children, and parents, I see the sparkle in my friends' eyes. I listen to stories about school festivals, family vacations, the chaos and warmth of domestic life. I am genuinely happy for them to celebrate their lives. But there is also a silent prayer that comes from insecurity in my heart: Please don’t ask me to share mine. A friend once noticed that I rarely talk about my family. I did not answer out loud to prevent myself from ruining the atmosphere, but inside I whispered: "I wish I could also tell stories….." then smiled like everything is alright. 

Unknowingly, I became an expert in navigating awkwardness that surfaces in social gatherings, in family-centered conversations, and within subtle cultural expectations. 

****

This afternoon, as I sat quietly watching the sunset in Yogyakarta, the sky turned into layers of orange and blue. As if time had frozen, the world did not rush me. It did not question me. It did not require explanation. And in that stillness, something shifted.

I realized that my life, while it may look sad from certain angles, is not a bad life. There is still warmth in siblinghood and friendships. There is still meaning in work. There is still laughter in ordinary days. And above all, there is still the chance to continue, with ease granted by Allah in ways I often fail to notice, and with hardships that perhaps exist to bring me closer to Him. I realized that He replaces what is taken with forms of strength I may not immediately recognize, and for that, I am grateful.

As the sun disappeared and the sky darkened, I felt a quiet acceptance settle in my chest. My story is not over. It may not resemble the story I once imagined. It may not fit neatly into conversations. It may require explanations more often than I would like. But it is still unfolding, and I fully trust Allah's decision.

Everything will eventually be okay. Everything will be okay, insyaAllah.

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(Yogyakarta, 10 February 2026)

Image source: Kent Zhong via Pexels

“I regret being unable to say my final farewell. To the things that are already gone, to a time that has already passed, I want to say a belated farewell.” (Reply 1988)

Just like Deok-sun once looked back on her youth through the K-drama “Reply 1988”, I imagine that one day I will look back at 2025 with a softer heart than the one I have now. But speaking from where I stand today, 2025 is not a year I am ready to remember fondly yet.

I thought 2025 would be a year where I said “welcome” to many things. Instead, it became a year where I had to say “goodbye” over and over again. I remember entering 2025 in a tired, hopeful way, believing that after everything I carried through 2024, this would finally be a gentler year. I truly believed life would loosen its grip on me.

Just when I thought the hardest part was over, 2025 broke my heart in ways I didn’t see coming.

It became the year of my biggest heartbreaks: the kinds that instantly drain the color out of my days. The kinds that leave me functioning, but not really living. There were moments when I genuinely didn’t know how to continue life, not because I wanted to give up, but because I no longer recognized the path I was on. The future I thought I was walking toward abruptly disappeared, leaving me standing still, holding questions with no answers. I felt lost. Disoriented. Like someone who missed their stop and didn’t know where to get off next.

And yet, life didn’t pause. I still had to show up. I still had to do my work. I still had to smile when needed. So I learned how to cry silently, to grieve privately, and to keep functioning outside while crumbling inside. Everything that has happened that year humbled me deeply. It stripped away my confidence and sense of control until I felt small and fragile.

Through my lens, 2025 felt like a season where everyone else seemed to know where they were going, while I stood still, unsure of my next step. The world kept moving: technology advanced, careers progressed, people fell in love, and people moved on. And there I was, trying to gather the scattered pieces of myself with my powerless hands.

Yet 2025 taught me that survival does not always look brave. Sometimes it seems like getting through the day without collapsing. Sometimes it looks like crying in silence and still choosing not to disappear. Sometimes it looks like trusting Allah even when I don’t understand His plan at all. Sometimes it simply means whispering: “I don’t get this… but I’m still here.”

If 2024 was about endurance, then 2025 was about vulnerability. About admitting that I was hurt. About accepting that healing is not linear. About realizing that being “strong” doesn’t mean being unaffected: it means choosing to hope, even when the road is dark. I decided to embrace fate with trust, even when sadness buried me. 

I don’t yet know what meaning this year will hold in the future. Maybe one day I’ll look back and see how this heartbreak redirected me. Maybe one day it will all make sense. Or maybe it won’t, and that’s okay too. For now, all I know is this: I survived a year I thought I wouldn’t. And maybe that is enough.

A quiet goodbye to 2025. The year I lost the most important people in my life. The year I felt the most lost. The year my heart hurt the most. The year I learned that even when my heart felt unbearably heavy, Allah never left me alone with it. And if happiness cannot come yet, at least He accompanies me.

And as I step forward, carrying everything 2025 has left me with, I allow myself one small hope. That in 2026, I will see myself smile again: not the kind of smile I wear out of obligation, politeness, or strength, but a smile that rises genuinely from within. A smile born from a heart that has finally felt peace again. 

This year is the time to heal, Im. It's time for the long-overdue smile to bloom. 

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Read also: Reply 2024
image source: Lisa Maria via pinterest

(Inspired by “Second Chance” episode by Pancatera)

    Now when I look back, I realize that for the past ten years, I was almost always sad. It’s a strange thing to admit because if you were to look at me back then, you’d see someone who smiled often and carried herself as if everything was fine. But deep inside, even in moments that looked like happiness, there was always a quiet sadness that never truly left me.

    It felt like I was living in a constant state of waiting: waiting for the day all the pain would finally make sense. I kept believing that if I was suffering this much, then surely, something extraordinary must be waiting for me ahead. That one day, I’d be able to say, “Ah, this is why I had to go through all of that.”. I imagined some kind of poetic fate: that I would rise from all the hardships with a heart full of smiles, stepping into days that finally felt beautiful.

    But life didn’t unfold that way. There was no fairy tale-like plot, no grand revelation, no sudden rescue, no miracle ending. Instead, unexpectedly, I fell even deeper. It was as if I kept walking through a tunnel that only grew darker and narrower. Until one day, I couldn’t see any light at all. It felt endless, as though the sun had simply forgotten I existed.

    So, I stopped walking. I stopped trying to find my way out. Maybe, I thought, this is just how my life is meant to be: an unending stretch of endurance. Perhaps the happiness stock in my life had simply run out. Maybe I had used up all the joy I was ever meant to have. The older I got, the more I believed it so I just learned to live with pain quietly.

    At my lowest point, when everything inside me felt too heavy to bear, I decided to go to the one place where my heart might finally find rest: the house of Allah. I thought, if there’s anywhere on earth where I am the most seen, heard, and understood, it must be there. So I packed my things, and with a weary soul, I went to perform umroh.

    I still remember telling my friend at the airport, with teary eyes, “My life feels so bitter. I hope I’ll come back feeling better.”. But, deep down I didn’t even go with big expectations. I only wanted to tell Him everything: the sorrows that had been sitting inside me for years, too deep to explain to anyone else. In front of the Ka’bah, I cried in a way I hadn’t cried before, out of surrender. I told Him how tired I was of being strong. How I no longer knew how to be hopeful after a series of pitiful life events. How I wanted to believe that I could still have a gentle life, even if I couldn’t see it yet.

    And then, something heartwarming appeared before my eyes. My roommates were three women in their 50s and 60s, best friends who came together to perform umroh. They were devoted in their worship, yet they also carried such lightness in their hearts. They prayed with tears, but also laughed with joy. They teased each other, shared snacks, and told stories about their families and lives with warmth that filled the room.

    Watching them, something soft flickered inside me. Seeing their happiness, it was the first time in a long while that I thought, “Maybe I can be like that someday.” Maybe I can also grow older and still find reasons to smile. Maybe my life’s happiness hasn’t run out after all. Maybe there are still things to look forward to: moments yet to come, people yet to meet, memories yet to be made.

    Maybe my happiness isn’t the bright sun constantly shining over me, but a collection of small candles along the way: the heart that slowly accepts Allah's decree, the people I encounter, the little kindnesses I receive, the warm words that breaks through a tired heart. They are the lights from Allah that reminds me that even in darkness, there are still reasons to keep walking.

    So now, I want to give myself a second chance: a second chance to live. To stop merely surviving and start feeling again. To stop blaming myself for everything happened in my life. To stop rushing toward a future that must “make sense,” and start appreciating the small pieces of joy that already surround me.

    Also a second chance to forgive myself, for my failures to make my late parents happy, for being heavily lacking, for not healing fast enough, for feeling lost, for being sad almost all the time. A second chance to believe that Allah has never forgotten me, even in the moments I thought He did. While others might walk under the bright sun and enjoy the scenery effortlessly, I’ll learn to cherish the small candles I find along the way in this tunnel.

    I will heal insyaAllah. With time, with patience, with faith, and with every small step forward, I will heal. Someday I will find myself smiling from the heart again. Someday, I will perform umroh again, with a better condition, with a heart full of gratitude insyaAllah.

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    I remember a reel by Putri Ratu Balqist that appeared on my Instagram’s explore tab. She narrated: When I talk “I don’t want to get married. Besides, I never deserved to be loved by anyone.”...... but I cry in Madinah.

    And I felt that deeply. Not necessarily just about marriage, but I also often told myself I didn’t expect anything anymore. I found it hard to stay hopeful with this broken-into-pieces heart of mine. But I cried in Madinah because deep down, I realized it's not I don't want to hope. I just think I don't deserve it. I think Allah is extremely kind but I just don't deserve it.

(Inspired by “Sore: Istri Dari Masa Depan” (Sore, Wife from The Future), a movie by Yandy Laurens)

If one day I wake up and find someone next to me claiming to be my husband from the future, I think I would be stunned into silence. Not because I don’t want to believe it, but because deep down, I’ve never been so sure that I would actually find him. And yet, if he did appear, my first words would probably be: “Are you really my husband from the future?”

I would want to know what made him decide to come back to this very moment. Did he want to bring me a message? A warning? A glimpse of what’s waiting ahead? Or perhaps a gentle guidance on the things I should change, so that one day, I will carry fewer regrets.

But first of all, let me ask about the dark cloud that is hanging over me.

Do I still look the same: someone who hides misery behind her smile? Has the sadness that once weighed so heavily on my heart finally softened with time? Do tears still wait quietly in the corners of my eyes, ready to fall at the smallest trigger? Does my breathing still feel heavy from grief, or have I finally learned to breathe freely again? The deep pain I’ve carried for several months, tell me, has it healed?

And then, what about the life we’ll share? What kind of wedding will it be for someone like me, who has never been able to picture herself in a wedding dress? What kind of family will we build together?  What kind of home will we call ours? Will it have a small backyard garden, like the one I’ve always dreamed of?

Of course, I know he might not give me any answers. Maybe he would just smile, keeping the future a mystery. Maybe that’s how it’s meant to be, because some journeys are not meant to be spoiled in advance, but lived, step by step. And that’s okay. Because just knowing he exists, knowing that somewhere out there, someone is destined for me, would already be enough to make my heart a little lighter. I would carry that thought with me: that I am not walking toward nothing, but toward someone.

So thank you for existing. Thank you for letting the current me know that you exist. I have a lot of shortcomings, so please treat me with patience, understanding, and mercy. And I promise, when our paths finally cross, I will take good care of you, too. For now, let’s pray for each other until the day our prayers are answered in each other’s presence.

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(I write this today on my late mom’s birthday. Her last wish was to see me get married. I am deeply sorry that I couldn’t make it happen while you were still here. That regret still weighs on me every now and then. I pray that your wish, though delayed, still found its way to me. I will sincerely pray about it.)

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P.S.: It took me 5 months to finally be able to write again. Hello, everyone. I hope you and your loved ones are doing well. 

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image source: idntimes.com