“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.

--------------------------------------------

(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

“There is a word in Korean, ‘in-yeon’. It means providence or fate… It’s an ‘in-yeon’ even if two strangers walk by each other in the street and their clothes accidentally brush,” – Past Lives (2023)

Recently, there were moments when my mind occasionally wondered about where fate would bring me. Then fatefully, I stumbled upon a movie that eloquently talks about fate namely “Past Lives”, written and directed by the talented Celine Song. In Korean, there exists an expression for providence particularly regarding human connection: “in-yeon”. The narration of the Korean proverb 옷깃만 스쳐도 인연 (“even simply brushing clothes with someone is fate") made me pause the movie and think deeper. It suggests that a seemingly insignificant encounter with someone on the street, when the edges of our clothes brush, is fate. That the presumably minuscule scenes in our lives carry within them the destiny.  And for 2 individuals to eventually marry each other, they have 8.000 layers of in-yeon between them. 

In Islam, we're taught of qadar (divine decree), where even the fall of every single leaf is governed by Allah’s will.

I can write a long essay on how beautiful the movie is: the storyline, cinematography, dialogues, performances, and everything. However, I am here today to specifically talk about my thoughts about fate after watching the award-winning movie. This isn't the first time the concept of “fate” in Korean culture has been discussed and caught my attention. In Reply 1997, the series also delves into its role in human relationships.

“Some people believe they are born with an invisible red string tied around their little finger… The string is tied to a person they’re destined to be with. However, it’s hard to find out who the person is at the other end.” – Reply 1997

In Islam, too, we find the notion of predestined connections between individuals. It is said that who we will end up with was inscribed 50.000 years before the Earth was created. 

So, my heart should be at ease, right?

Despite the comforting embrace of destiny, an unsettling unease grips my heart. Even within this framework of destiny, where I should find solace, there remains an element of uncertainty I couldn’t help but be worried about. Sometimes I sensed that my paths are not predetermined in their entirety, but rather shaped by the choices I make and the people I encounter along the way. It whispers to me that while fate may guide us, we are, to some degree, the authors of our own stories. 

Hence, I fear I may have avoided a fate that will eventually bring goodness.

What if, in my haste, I've overlooked the subtle signs that guide me toward him? What if that someone has crossed paths with me, but I barely register? What if he slipped by, unnoticed? 

What if, in my hesitation, I forfeit the chance for love?

What if my destined other half is forever beyond my reach?

I am haunted by the possibility of missed connections, of souls meant to intertwine and then destined to remain forever apart instead. 

But also, I am afraid that I will give up too early.

Thus, I couldn’t help but think about it over and over while grappling with my own destinies. If there is someone on this earth who is destined for me, why does it feel so impossible to find him? Should I just give up on the idea that somewhere, someone is also looking for me? Borrowing Past Lives' analogy: Is there someone out there who shares 8.000 layers of in-yeon with me? Truly, as mused in Reply 1997: “If the red string of fate really exists, where will mine end?”.

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Image source: Henry & Co. via Pexels

source: Hyundai

Journalist: “Everyone’s talking about the driveway to the past. To when do you want to go back to if you could visit?”  

Choi Jung Hoon: “Hmmm. The moment I decided to become a singer?  My mom always had her compilation album in her car and listening to it…”

Recently, I stumbled upon a captivating collaboration project between Hyundai and Jannabi titled “Pony”. It's not often that an advertisement captures my attention so thoroughly. This particular ad isn't just something to skip through—it's one I find myself happily watching again and again. Among the many factors contributing to its standout appeal, storytelling undoubtedly takes the spotlight.

Have you heard that storytelling is the future of advertising? In this instance, Hyundai borrowed Jannabi’s profound storytelling skills in a package with the story itself.

Jannabi, a South Korean indie band, has gained widespread acclaim for their exceptional lyricism, nostalgic melodies, and musical finesse. Their raw authenticity has endeared them to audiences across generations, propelling them to commercial success that surpasses typical indie boundaries. They became a prominent name, headlined big festivals, topped music charts, won awards, and appeared on major TV programs --all while keeping full control over their artistry. Becoming an independent artist while gaining mainstream recognition, don't you think it is too good to be true?

No wonder, people were curious about the secret behind Jannabi’s triumph in getting the best of both worlds. Frontman Choi Jung Hoon credited his mother's influence for inspiring his career path as a singer-songwriter. Her enthusiasm for music shared through car rides with him, introduced him to influential musicians and shaped his artistic ideals. This piece of story clicked with the fact that Jannabi’s songs sound like “the music you heard in your parents’ car”. It makes all sense that the band’s tunes always feel warm, nostalgic, and unique yet somehow familiar (and humans love familiarity). Walking on top of Jannabi’s noteworthy popularity, it instantly became a well-known story among South Koreans.

Hyundai, recognizing the potency of this narrative, seized the opportunity to advertise in a unique way. They collaborated with Jung Hoon to create a song inspired by his memories of listening to his mom’s favorite tunes in her Hyundai car. The video beautifully depicted him being transported to 1975 in a classic Hyundai retracing her youthful passion for music, closing it with a seamless transition to the present-day Hyundai model he drives. It's a subtle yet powerful message highlighting Hyundai's enduring presence across generations. They implied that the manufacturer has served South Koreans for generations without even saying anything about it in the video.

Through Jannabi's vivid storytelling and heartfelt expressions, listeners find themselves drawn into narratives that resonate on a deeply personal level. The song tapped into shared experiences and emotions of sitting as a passenger in their parents’ cars. The lyrics allowed listeners to empathize with the joy of youth, passion for something, and the dear memories of their parents. This is why storytelling will always win against any advertising methods. It evokes emotions that resonate with audiences, encouraging the listeners to reflect on their own experiences and relationships.

****

Heath and Starr in their book “Making Numbers Count” called it a “landmark”--where we leverage existing well-known information to create our narratives. As people already knew this “landmark”, it would be easier to take people on the journey. In this case, as the story of how Jung Hoon’s mom shaped her son's career was popular among the people, it served as the landmark that brought people into the narratives Hyundai wanted to create. This is a powerful move that I, as a storytelling enthusiast, must applaud.

In a world packed with advertisements competing for our attention, only the ones that touch our hearts and souls endure. Hyundai has leveraged Jung Hoon's stories about his passion for music and his bond with his mom which are potentially the collective stories of many people. The story belonged to many people and as an implication, it created an "unconscious" sense of belonging to Hyundai.

To conclude, the shift from product-centric advertising to narrative-driven storytelling has fundamentally changed the way brands connect with consumers. Because at the end of the day, stories are the things we remember, cherish, and share the most. They will stay forever with us. I meant, you still remember the fable or fairytale you heard as a kid, right? Those stories will forever etched in our minds, even without us trying. Those are the "landmarks" we all dearly keep in our hearts.

The "I Want to Touch People's Souls Like Jannabi's Songs", 

iim

If a woman my age cries, one can predict several possible reasons behind it but structured query language (SQL) is probably unthinkable.

Dear my teenage self, we hit a roadblock again. Our current job demanded proficiency in SQL, a language founded on the principles of logic. Don’t you remember how much you struggled with logic? During high school, you were so afraid of attending classes in logical subjects. You were so fixated on the thought that you weren’t built for logic, proven by your low marks on almost every assignment and test. Mathematics and physics seemed to dance just beyond your reach, leaving you feeling inadequate and frustrated. I can still taste the bitterness of embarrassment from those days when your math teacher distributed the results and said, “Take the remedial test next week” to you.

Fast forward, the present you should learn SQL’s lines of code. I hid my confusion and fear as I confronted the daunting task. Try as I might, there were moments I couldn't wrap my head around the SQL queries. I felt so out of place again, feeling small as a familiar ache in my chest resurfaced. I once again realized that this journey would be far from easy, as every function felt like a tangled web. Witnessing my friends study much faster than me, one even jokingly teased my turtle pace, I couldn’t stop the tears from streaming down. It gave me all the years of “smart people are the ones proficient in math,” where I don’t belong.

As tears flowed down, I realized that the emotions weren't just about SQL anymore. It was about the years of feeling inadequate: the years of constant embarrassment coming from red marks in logical subjects. It was about the countless times I'd struggled to prove myself in a world that seemingly revolves around numbers and logic. It was about the weight of expectations and the fear of failure that threatened to consume me.

And guess what? Just like you back then, I allowed myself to feel the frustration and embarrassment again. I will face everything with my shaken bravery. I may not have been born with an innate understanding of logic, but I refuse to let that define me. For years, even when I was the weakest one in the room, I knew that persistence ran through my veins. I will walk slower than anyone, fail, be frustrated, and cry again many times but it’s okay.

Until then, let's keep pushing forward, one query at a time.

The “I might be the weakest but I can learn”,

Your present self

------

image credit:  Zeeshaan Shabbir via pexels.com

It's been a while, hasn't it?

I found myself amidst an intense introspection--contemplating life and expectations. Navigating the labyrinth of human relationships has recently brought me face-to-face with poignant experiences--each a miniature heartbreak from those I hold dear. At this juncture, the weight of expectations and disappointments seems putting dark clouds above me. 

I've always believed in giving my utmost to those around me, investing my heart into every interaction, every relationship, and every connection. I know I have so many shortcomings but I have always tried my best. I put in great effort to be there for others, to support them, and to show them love. It's the way I've always lived my life, and I don't regret it for a second. 

Yet, along the way, in some settings, I can't help but discern a lack of reciprocity.

There have been moments when I couldn't help but wonder if I was receiving the same treatment I gave. Often, I was being left behind questioning if the consideration I extended was returned in kind. It's a bitter pill to swallow, which made me ponder whether I even deserve the care I long for. Again and again, it made me feel that I didn't deserve kind treatment in the first place. (T_T). 

Disappointments have become frequent in this chapter of my life. They often trace back to my expectations of people. I've learned that expecting too much can lead to heartache. Expectations, like delicate glass ornaments on the tree of relationships, are placed with care, hoping they'll enhance the beauty of the bonds I share. Yet, I've noticed that most of the time, I'm the one caring more and putting in more effort. Facing this, I couldn't help but feel down and, at times, even resentful.

Actually, throughout my journey, there have been times when I felt strong and resilient. I've faced life's challenges head-on, and I've overcome many of them. But there have also been those tiny, fragile moments when I yearned for a little extra kindness, understanding, or love and what happened made me think that sometimes I should even beg for people to treat me decently.

Truth is, there were tiny, tiny times when I hoped that I would be treated better.

The reality is that even the strongest among us are only human. We all have vulnerable moments.  Truly, I am just an ordinary human. My heart breaks, and I yearn for genuine treatment. 

To whoever reading this, if I may say something to you: please, please, I beg you, treat people kindly. 

---------------------

P.S.: While I recognized the aforementioned heart-breaking moments, it didn't necessarily mean that I failed to notice the kindness people did to me. I truly appreciate the people who treat others carefully and kindly. And I am happy to say that most of the people around me are thoughtful and kind people.

(I've learned to gradually diminish my expectations of people and shift them more towards Allah. I feel so much better.)

-------------------

image credit: Mat Reding via pexel.com

There is a conversation that remains etched in my mind, forever altering my perspectives and reshaping the way I perceive contributions to society. That one dialogue shifted the lens through which I viewed my role as a civil servant, transforming my understanding of how I can make an impact beyond my office work. This conversation rekindled a sense of responsibility and ignited an aspiration to create something that potentially holds meaning--at least from my perspective.

As a civil servant, it's almost natural to limit my perception of contribution to the tasks I perform within the walls of my workplace. However, a conversation with a close friend unveiled a new dimension of it that resonated deeply with me. 

"But rarely did we realize, we are essentially being paid by the citizens, not merely the government," my friend shared. "Hence, our contributions shouldn't be confined to our office tasks alone. If there's more we can do – like creating informative content or sharing our knowledge – those actions too are valuable contributions."

That conversation was a revelation, prompting me to reconsider doing more than I’ve done.

With newfound realization, I embarked on a journey to create a program that would serve as a (hopefully) educational platform focused on internal auditing and IT auditing. Yet, the path was far from straightforward. Doubts loomed over me like dark clouds: Was I skilled enough? Could I consistently present in front of a camera? Did my equipment meet the standards? Would anyone find my content useful, let alone watch it?

Yet, I recognized a pattern. Many of my steps began amidst the shadow of doubts. And I understood that the key was not to eliminate doubt entirely but to persist despite its presence. As long as my actions aligned with a perceived value and usefulness, I was determined to push forward.

So, today, I present #bicaraaudit – the realization of my long-nurtured aspiration. Through this program, I hope to become a companion in your journey of learning about internal auditing and IT auditing. The dream, once limited to thoughts, now breathes life through this initiative.

The first episode kicks off with an exploration of the Certified Internal Auditor (CIA) certification. I delve into its benefits and ponder whether the effort invested in obtaining it truly pays off. But this is only the beginning. Starting this week, please anticipate new episodes every Thursday at 09.00 WIB. Your feedback, thoughts, and inquiries are invaluable to me. I wholeheartedly invite you to engage by sharing your insights in the comments section.

I am looking forward to having more discussions with you all.

Love,

iim

For some time now, I've been deeply conscious of the impact of digital transformation in today's world. In an era where it is hailed as the key to organizational success, I have witnessed some organizations getting lost and confused on this transformative journey. Often, digital transformation is misinterpreted as merely implementing the latest tools and technologies. It could end up looking like a race not to be left behind, a haphazard move to showcase innovation, or an imprudent change to incorporate technology without considering the bigger picture.

The consequence of this "technology-first" mindset is a misalignment between the technology and the organization's overall vision. This can lead to wasteful investments, subpar user experiences, and ultimately, a failure to realize the true potential of digital transformation and derive the true value of the efforts.

Feeling concerned about this trend, I decided to address the issue in my blog through a dedicated column called #sensibletech. In these blog posts, I shared my perspective on the thoughtful implementation of technology, particularly within organizations. It felt like a good starting point until a friend made a thought-provoking suggestion:

"If you really care about it," she said, "as I believe that people don't read that much anymore, you should consider disseminating your thoughts through a medium that is widely consumed nowadays - video."

I stared at the wall in front of me as her words struck me deeply. As someone who finds comfort in writing, I had been hesitant to step into the world of audio-visual content creation. While I have occasionally spoken at seminars and videos, expressing my thoughts through written text has always been my go-to option. But my friend was right; to expand my reach and educate more people on this crucial topic, I needed to embrace a new medium.

Yet, doubts and questions flooded my mind. Was I technically and non-technically capable enough to host a podcast? Who is willing to be the guests? Did I enjoy being on camera enough to do it regularly? Could I handle the challenges that might arise in the future? Could I manage the entire process, from recording to editing, with my current capacity? Ultimately, will people watch it?

Fortunately, during my time at university, I encountered two kind souls who offered unwavering encouragement. Their advice was simple yet profound: "Start small," "Use the gear you have now and upgrade later," "I'll be your first guest if you need one," "Even if you don't have access to guests, you can do a monologue,", "Don't worry that much about whether the program will have viewers or not", and so on.

I realized that sometimes, all you need to find the courage is the support and push from people who believe in you and offer their unwavering support.

And so, here I am, presenting "Kenal Digital". With this program, my goal is to introduce a more thoughtful and strategic approach to digital transformation. I hope that the insights shared in this podcast lay the foundation for a careful and mindful digital transformation journey, where technology aligns harmoniously with the broader business strategy and even the broader system necessity. I believe that digital transformation is not a one-size-fits-all solution, but rather a tailored and customized expedition that enables companies to harness the true power of technology while staying true to their core values.

With gratitude and excitement, I present to you the first episode of "Kenal Digital." I hope you enjoy it.

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image source: CDD20 @ Pixabay

“Di saat rentan hati, ingin rasanya saya pergi mengasingkan diri. Pergi jauh ke sebuah pelukan dan berlabuh di bahu seseorang, tetapi pelukan siapa, bahu siapa?” (“When I was vulnerable, I want to go into exile. Go deep into an embrace and land on someone's shoulder, but whose embrace, whose shoulder?”) - Srimenanti, Joko Pinurbo

Several days ago, a close friend and I visited a place together with my motorcycle. As our outing came to an end, we made our way back to the parking area, only to discover it was packed with vehicles, making it challenging to retrieve mine. Determined, we both exerted considerable effort to navigate our way out while sharing jokes about how “independent” we are. I later uttered, “I remember a quite similar moment where I still get emotional when I think about it,”

“What happened?” She inquired

"One morning, while riding this exact motorcycle to work, I noticed smoke emanating from its front. Later, when it was time to head home, I approached a male colleague from my team, seeking reassurance about the safety of bringing the motorcycle to the repair shop in its current condition--hoping to convince myself that I would be alright," I narrated, the scene replaying vividly in my mind.

There was a brief pause as I took a deep breath, "Instead of offering me the assurance I sought, he said, 'Just ask a man for help. What's so impossible about it? You don't have to handle everything on your own.'"

The floodgates of mixed emotions surged within me. “I ended up seeking assistance while battling to hold back tears. Truthfully, I don’t want to be this ‘independent’, I just don’t have the luxury to rely on someone,” I noticed that the smile I offered was broken.

“Same as today. It’s not that we are inherently strong, just we don’t have options. That’s what you meant?” She tried to read the direction of my story.

I nodded. Truth is, there are times when I wish to rely on someone, putting down the burden of making difficult decisions or performing strenuous tasks. There have been days in my life when I yearned for a break from the constant need to engage my mind fully. There have been instances where I wanted to mindlessly follow someone else, trusting that he would lead me to the right path. I secretly longed for moments when I could surrender to a sense of ease, knowing that someone would take care of things for me.

As someone who always thought that nobody was willing to be her place to lean on, sometimes, I desired the freedom to be weak and vulnerable. There were also tiny moments when I hoped I could let go of the worries and responsibilities. Therefore, I would highly appreciate the moments when I am allowed to not have all the answers as someone else would be there to figure things out alongside me. Therefore, I just smiled when people said that I was a strong independent woman who didn't need help. Sorry to burst your bubble but that's not necessarily true.

Life has taught me resilience, nurturing independence born out of necessity. From time to time, I consoled myself with the knowledge that, despite the difficulties, I possessed the strength to navigate life. And perhaps, in an unexpected encounter, I may stumble upon someone’s shoulder. Until that, I will remain steadfast, honoring both my fragility and strength. Because, just as Joko Pinurbo also mentioned in Srimenanti: Namun, bagaimanapun saya mencintai hidup ini. (However, no matter how it is, I love this life). 

I will try to always love this fate.

Love,

iim

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(Amor Fati is translated as a love of fate.)

image source: John Nature Photos at Pixabay

Have I mentioned that one of my secret favorite things to do is blog walking? There’s something captivating about strolling through the depths of someone’s (even stranger’s) mind. A personal blog, in my opinion, offers a window into the intricate complexities of an individual’s train of thought. What a great thing it is to have access to someone’s mind by reading their posts.  

Recently, I revisited one blog that stuck in my mind even after years of reading it. I decided to delve into the posts that I hadn’t explored yet. After wandering around, one particular entry gripped me in its emotional embrace. I didn’t close the tab after I finished it as I was captivated by the poetic expressions that totally describe my feelings:

“As I willed myself not to cry, I realized I was probably too soft for this city. And that I should probably drink more water…. And, yet, I’m too hard for other cities. I can’t seem to find the right fit.” (I Am Too Soft for This City, Generation Meh)

For years, I found it difficult to express my confusion about the fit living space for me and then the author squeezed my struggle in just 4 sentences.  It was as if the post had eloquently captured my perplexity regarding finding a suitable place to call home. These sentiments mirrored the conversations I had with my friends, where I expressed the struggle in discovering a sense of comfort in my current residence, Jakarta.

Navigating the capital city, in my opinion, demand a high-level resilience and a strong-as-stone heart. Someone with delicate feelings like me often can only cry for what I and other people in this full-of-inequalities-and-unfairness city have to go through. I am aware of how overwhelmingly tiring it is to breathe in this bustling, fast-paced urban environment while being sensitive like me. It’s a metropolis with relentless demand and perpetual motion that will leave anyone behind unless they run. Yet, here is the land that offers the most opportunities and growth--stuff that I recognize as necessary.

“And that I should probably drink more water.”, the author wittily continued expressing their feeling towards the city. It’s a beautiful metaphor that in this kind of city, we need to take care of our well-being more. Indeed, I need to stop ignoring the importance of physical and mental well-being, even when I live in a stressful city.

On the other hand, some cities exude a gentler aura, embracing me with warmth. I find comfort in slow peaceful living but after months, I would find myself feeling out of place. I seemed can’t fully integrate my aspiration of having a meaningful impact with this softer lifestyle. There is a reluctant nod from me because turned out “Yet, I’m too hard for other cities” also fits my situation.

Then I remember an old piece of advice my dad said to my mom: “No matter where we go, there is always a neighbor we can’t genuinely get along well with or something that we couldn’t completely accept. The Prophet in the hadith had discussed this as well so let’s be grateful for where we live.”.   

While I acknowledged the truth in that advice, I still wish I can find the environment that fits me the most. I know this constant search for the right place leaves me disheartened at times. However, I hope that someday, I will stumble upon a city that balances growth and tenderness. I pray that one day I can find my rightful place in this vast world--the perfect equilibrium between my inner world and the external environment. Though the path may be uncertain, I believe that there is a city out there, a home out there, that provides me with the harmony I seek. I believe someday I will find it. 

Oh wait, perhaps I had found it...

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(For now, I will try to enjoy Jakarta.)

image source: Ahmad Basyar on Pixabay