Author: sophea's

On the last Friday of the year, I realised how many promises I made to myself that I truly believed in when I said them. Promises that I was doing good, that I had grown, that I was finally becoming the version of myself I kept reaching for. And maybe I was, just not in the way I imagined growth would look. Because alongside every step forward, there was hesitation. Alongside every small victory, there was a moment where I pulled back, questioned it, softened it, or quietly undid it myself.

I don’t always recognise it as self-sabotage when it’s happening. Sometimes it looks like overthinking. Sometimes it looks like waiting for the “right time.” Sometimes it feels like being realistic, cautious, grounded. But standing here now, at the edge of the year, I can admit that I had moments where I was doing well and still chose comfort over courage, familiarity over risk. Not because I didn’t want better, but because better felt unfamiliar, and unfamiliar still scares me.

I think I confuse people. I think I’ve always confused people. I come across as happy, light, easy to laugh, the kind of person who can make a room feel warmer just by being present. But beneath that, there’s a sad soul that never fully leaves me. Not heavy in a dramatic way, just quietly there, observing, remembering, feeling more than it lets on. I carry joy and sorrow in the same breath, and most days, people only notice the joy.

I am bold in ways that even surprise me sometimes. I step into positions that ask for confidence and leadership, even though they drain me more than I let on. On paper, I look capable. Put-together. Like someone who knows what she’s doing. But in person, I am shy in the most obvious ways. I don’t talk easily. I hesitate in conversations. I overthink where to stand, what to say, how long to hold eye contact. I have fewer friends not because I don’t care about people but because social closeness doesn’t come naturally to me. I’m awkward. Quiet. Often unsure of where I fit in a room.

When it comes to being emotionally seen, I feel malu in a way that makes me want to shrink, like exposing my feelings would make me smaller somehow. I can show competence without flinching, but vulnerability makes me freeze, like disappearing would be safer. I love deeply. I feel every connection intensely, every bond with people, every quiet moment of care and even small gestures matter more to me than I let on and yet letting someone see the soft, sensitive parts of me terrifies me, so I hide those parts behind walls I don’t always notice I’ve built, convincing myself it’s independence, when really it’s protection and I’m still learning how to let myself love without armor.

This year taught me something uncomfortable: I can be healing and hurting at the same time. Growing and grieving in the same body. Becoming better while still falling back into old patterns. There were days I felt proud of myself, days I felt like I was finally moving forward and then nights where everything collapsed inward and I wondered if any of it counted. I thought healing meant choosing one side; light over dark or progress over pain but it turns out I live in the overlap. In the in-between where nothing is resolved, just felt.

I am deeply committed to growth. I see it in the way I reflect, in how much I think, in how badly I want to be better than the version of me that stayed silent out of fear. But I also have to be honest with myself now, sometimes, I am the one who gets in my own way. I delay joy. I question peace. I hesitate when things start to feel good, as if I’m waiting for something to go wrong before I allow myself to relax into it.

Maybe part of me doesn’t trust happiness yet. Maybe part of me still believes I have to earn ease, that comfort must be temporary, that good things require constant vigilance. So I self-sabotage in subtle ways not by destroying everything but by never fully letting myself have it.

On this last Friday of the year, I’m not disappointed in myself. I’m just aware. Aware that I am layered and contradictory and unfinished. That I can be brave and afraid in the same moment. That I can want healing while still holding onto the habits that hurt me.

Maybe this isn’t failure. Maybe this is what being human actually looks like; messy, paradoxical, trying. And maybe surviving this year wasn’t about fixing myself but about learning to sit honestly with who I am, even when I don’t fully understand her yet.

And for now, that honesty feels like enough to carry into whatever comes next.

Okay tu je bye

Finally had time to write or maybe finally had time to write alone, while crying a little. Haha. I’ve always imagined turning twenty would feel terrifying, and in a way, it did. There’s something about the number that feels so heavy, two full decades of being here, of figuring out how to live, how to love, how to keep going. If you ask me, I’ve always been someone who gets scared of growing older. Yes, I used to be excited about becoming a grown woman; juggling work and life, earning her own money, confidence, all that. But behind that excitement, I think I’ve always hated the idea of time moving too fast. Because as I grow older, Ibu grows older too. And that thought alone always finds a way to make my chest ache.

A few days before my birthday, my family decided to celebrate early, a small breakfast outing, three days before the actual date, since I’d already be back at college by then. We’ve always been more of a breakfast family anyway; when Ibu got older, she couldn’t really drive at night anymore, so breakfast became our little ritual, our way of being together. She always believed mornings carried better memories, softer light, and simpler laughter.

That morning felt warm and familiar, but also a little lonely. Just me and abang celebrating each other that way. He got me a giraffe plushie as a birthday present which something small, something silly. I actually told him to buy a cheaper gift because the electricity bill went up last month. Hahaha. He always complains that whenever I’m home, the bill spikes. And I just laughed, because it felt nice to have something to laugh about again. I was so happy that he liked the present I gave him too. We rarely talk about our feelings, maybe we never really learned how to, but deep down, I always hope abang stays strong. Because I know he feels the loss more deeply than he’ll ever admit.

Turning 20, I didn’t get a wish from Ibu anymore. The last birthday wish I have from her was from last year, she was on a hospital bed, her voice weak but still gentle, apologizing that we couldn’t celebrate because she was admitted. I still remember how she sounded, the way her words trembled yet carried so much love. I replay that moment sometimes, the way she said my name, the way she still tried to make it special even when she was in pain. And I guess that’s why this year felt so heavy because how do you turn 20 when your heart is still stuck at 19, still holding on to the last birthday that she was a part of?

Sorry, I suddenly ended up recalling something sad, and somehow it made this whole blog sound even sadder. Haha. But honestly, my birthday this year was a little sad, yet somehow, also so full. 

On the day itself, I got wishes from my family too. Mama texted me a sweet message, and even though abang got a longer text for his birthday (as usual, haha), I still felt grateful. Grateful that I still have figures I can look up to, people who still think of me, even from afar.

This year’s birthday, though quiet and a little sad in its own way, felt softer, maybe because of the people around me. The small kindnesses, the quiet gestures that stitched warmth into the cracks I didn’t even know I had. The morning message that made me cry because I never thought someone could appreciate me that much. The so-called “secret” lunch plan my friends tried to hide, which, let’s be honest, I already had a feeling about. Hahaha. The day before, Qis dropped by my place before QMT class, and everyone kept taking turns to go to Maz’s place to “discuss” something with Ecah. Then on the day itself, Maz told me to dress up nicely but Far didn’t even put on makeup to class, and when everyone suddenly showed up in green, I just knew. The ironed clothes, the shy smiles, the quiet excitement, all of it made my heart so full. And when Nadiea airdropped her letter note to me, I cried again. You’re all so sweet, seriously. Thank you for making this birthday feel lighter, for the balloons, the laughter, and the kind of gentle love that made everything hurt a little less.

I know people are always ready to be there for me. It’s just… I’m the one who doesn’t ask. I don’t reach out, don’t ask for help, don’t ask for ears. I’ve always been the type to hold things in until they make a home inside me. It’s not that I don’t trust my friends, I do, deeply. Sometimes the feelings get too heavy that I don’t even know how to carry them myself, let alone let someone else hold them for me. Maybe I just struggle differently. Still, reading all the birthday wishes this year, the little reminders, the gentle words, it made me realise how I’ve never really been alone. That even when I go quiet, people still stay. They always have.

When Maz asked me how I felt about turning twenty, I didn’t really know what to say. “Entahla, biasa je.” I told her. Because it didn’t feel like some big, dramatic change. It just felt like another day that reminded me time is moving whether I’m ready or not.

Growing older, I realised, isn’t about feeling grown. It was about realising that I’m now the one making decisions for my life. No one’s going to tell me what to do anymore, when to rest, when to stop crying, when to start again. It’s just… me now. I have to be responsible for myself, for the life I’m building. And that realisation hit harder than I thought.

Being twenty feels like standing in the middle of a bridge, half of you still a teenager, scared and unsure, and the other half trying to look composed enough to keep walking forward. Some days, I still want to call Ibu, just to ask what to do. Some nights, I still scroll through our old texts, rereading the words just to remember how it felt to be cared for that way. But then morning comes, and I remind myself; maybe this is what growing up really means. It’s learning to live without certain kinds of love, but still choosing to love anyway. It’s the age where you begin to see how fragile everything is; family, friendships, time and how precious it all becomes once you’ve lost pieces of it. It’s scary, yes, but it also makes you want to live gentler. To be kinder. To love slower.

These days, I don’t really feel comfortable when too many people know it’s my birthday. Not because I don’t appreciate it, but because it feels a little too loud for something that’s become so personal to me. I’ve learned that I treasure the quiet wishes more; the ones that come from people who really mean it, who remember without reminders. Maybe it’s because birthdays don’t just mark getting older anymore; they also hold memories of the people I wish were still here. So I like keeping it small, softer and closer.

Still, every message means something. Some come from people beside me, some from those who are far away, and somehow both fill the same part of my heart. Because growing up, I think, isn’t about counting wishes, it’s about realising how love shows up differently now. Sometimes through a text, sometimes through laughter across a table, sometimes through the quiet thought that someone, somewhere, still remembers you. And in those small, ordinary moments, I find the kind of comfort I used to think I’d lost.

Maybe that’s what this birthday really taught me; that life doesn’t always get easier, but it does get softer, if you let it. That even in the silence, love still finds its way to me. 

Because at the end of the day, I may still cry while writing this, but I know one thing for sure, I’m here, surrounded by love I didn’t think I deserved. And that’s enough.

I am, after all, so blessed of turning 20.🤰🏻

I always find myself cherishing any kind of break. Even the short ones. Tapi kalau sem break, that’s a whole different feeling. It’s not just a break. It’s the space where I finally get to sit and feel everything I’ve been putting off for weeks. I don’t know why, but every time it comes, I always feel like I need to write something. Not for anyone, but for myself. Just to remember. Just to breathe. Just to look back and go… oh. I actually survived that.

Some people celebrate their wins in big ways. I celebrate mine in silence. I reflect. I overthink. I write long paragraphs I’ll probably delete. I re-read conversations. I scroll through my gallery and pause at random pictures. Sometimes I forget how much has happened until I really sit with it. Then suddenly I’m proud. I don’t even know of what exactly, but I just am. Maybe of how I handled things. Maybe of how I kept showing up. Maybe of how I laughed through days that didn’t feel very funny.

It’s funny how certain things only feel precious when you look back. Sometimes it’s a person. Sometimes a moment. Sometimes it’s just a regular day you didn’t even realise meant something until it passed. And suddenly you’re like oh… that was soft. That was safe. That mattered.

One of my resolutions this year which I never actually wrote down anywhere was to be more grateful. Like really grateful. For anything. For everything. For the things that didn’t work out but taught me something. For the feelings I tried to ignore but came back stronger. For the people who stayed. For the people who didn’t, but made me feel something real for a while. Even for the little routines. The awkward silences. The quiet kindness. The stupid jokes at 12AM. The pain that taught me how to breathe deeper. I don’t want to miss these things just because I was too busy surviving.

So this isn’t a list. I mean it sounds like a list. But to me, this is more like a little archive. A soft collection of things I hold close. People. Feelings. Random memories. Situations I’ll probably over-romanticise. But all of them, I carry with me. All of them made this semester what it was. And I hope when I read this back one day, I feel nothing but warmth. Even for the parts that hurt.

So here they are. Not in any specific order, not ranked by importance, just gently laid out. One by one. The things I didn’t know I’d miss until I did. The small, precious pieces that made the semester feel alive. The ones that slipped by quietly, but stayed with me anyway.

The people I saw every day, without fail

Most days, I only really talk to around eight to ten people. On average. And most of the time, it’s the same people. The same group. The same chaotic mess. The same weird comfort. I don’t know how it happened honestly, how I ended up spending so much of my semester with these people, to the point it felt weird when one of them wasn’t there.

They’re dramatic. Let’s start there. Drama is never-ending with this group. Someone is always upset, someone is always too loud, someone is always telling a story they swore they wouldn’t tell. And then there’s me. Listening. Making the most dramatic face at the juiciest part. Pretending to be chill, but I’m fully invested. People say I’m the calmest one, I’m still not sure if that’s true, or if they’re just all too loud that I automatically seem peaceful in comparison. But I think… maybe that’s just the role I play without realising. I listen. I react. I exist in between the noise.

Sometimes I wonder if I’ve changed because of them. Like, if I became a bit more expressive just because I had to survive in that energy. Or maybe I became more quiet because they were loud enough for all of us. But either way, I felt like I belonged. Even on days I didn’t say much, I was still part of the story. And that means more to me than they probably know.

There’s always something happening. Some argument, some inside joke, some rant, some hug. Some people are closer than others, some drift in and out, but the core always felt the same. It felt like something solid like I could fall into it and still be caught. Even when I was quiet. Even when I was tired. Even when I didn’t have anything to give.

I don’t tell them much. Not really. I don’t sit around confessing how much I love them or how I pray for their happiness when they’re not looking. But I do. I do notice. I do care. And I do carry them with me. All the small gestures. All the shared meals. All the late-night chaos. All the random calls. All the random texts. I remember it all.

Being around them made things easier. Lighter. Fun, even when life wasn’t. I think I’ll always remember this phase of my life with their voices in the background. Loud, annoying, familiar. Like home, but messy.

Lunch hours that felt like a daily pause

Lunch hour was always a mess, just the usual “tak tahu la nak makan apa..” stress. Which is funny, considering I only ever rotated between two lauk. Literally just two. If I didn’t feel like one, I’d take the other. But still, every day I’d be stressed with everyone else over what to eat… as if I had options.

Usually it was Ecah and Qistina, sometimes Maz, Fareesya, Amir and Fendy. Always that group. Fendy would make some loud joke that no one layan properly, but he’d still continue like he had a whole audience laughing with him. And it somehow became part of our lunch routine.

I always sat at the same table with Qis and Ecah. Every single day, our lunch convo would basically be me asking “semalam tidur lambat kan?” sebab obviously I slept early and missed everything. And Qis would start cerita, giving me full coverage of what happened at 1AM. I’d just sit there eating my same two lauk and laughing like I was there too. There was always something to laugh about. I liked that. Even when the food wasn’t great.

Sometimes I’d have lunch with Maz, Amir and Fendy too. It’s a different kind of noisy loud, but in that familiar way you kinda miss once it’s gone. And Maz, without fail, would repeat all the stories she already told me earlier in the room. Like the exact same thing. Same intonation. Same reactions. And I’d just sit there nodding like I didn’t hear it before. But honestly… I didn’t mind. I actually liked it.  I liked knowing she trusted me enough to keep sharing. I liked being that person she wanted to say things to, even when I already knew how the story ended.

I don’t know those moments felt really ordinary at the time. Macam nothing pun. Just makan, cerita, gelak. But now I look back and I really hope we still get to do that next semester. I don’t know if we’ll have the same schedule, or if we’ll end up sitting with different people. But I really, really liked that version of lunch. That little hour where even if everyone was moody or tired or just blur, there was always warmth. I didn’t even realise how much I needed that until it became a routine. I always felt included.

The unnamed group chat

Let’s keep the group chat name confidential, for obvious reasons. Hahaha. It’s just me, Far, and Nadiea, our little corner of the internet. To be honest, the three of us rarely have long conversations in person. We don’t really sit around and pour our hearts out over drinks or anything. Nadiea’s busy with her rumah sewa life now, and I’ve been hellishly busy (sorry Far hahaha), so our catch-ups don’t happen as often as they should. But even then, I always felt held by that space. I feel honoured, genuinely, to have a quiet kind of support like them.

The chat isn’t always active, but when it is, we talk about everything. Or anything, really. It’s Far who does 90% of the storytelling. Like, she will just drop a full trilogy at 11PM with voice notes, screenshots, all the works while I’m there giving the most random, awkward reactions or just stickers because my brain is buffering. Nadiea chimes in with her little laugh and somehow makes everything 10x funnier. 

And in between all the rambles and chaos, there are always those soft little things like, “Nadiea esok pergi kelas dengan apa?” or “korang kat manaa?” or “nak turun pukul berapa?” or “kat ptar kee?” And that’s what I love about it. The chaos, the random shifts, the way we just… exist there. I cherish every single thing in that chat. Every sticker. Every bubble video. Every not-so-funny-but-we-still-laugh reply. It’s comforting in a way that doesn’t need explaining. And I think I’ll always be quietly grateful for that space.

The fear I never liked, but still cherish

Some moments, I really didn’t want to remember. But weirdly… I do. I still think about the times I had to show up to formal events alone, pretending I was okay. The ones without Dina. Without familiar faces. Just me, my nerves, and whatever version of bravery I could stitch together that morning.

Semester 4 was full of those moments. Parlimen. Official visits. Things that sounded impressive on paper, but in real life just made my palms sweat. I remember standing at the entrance, holding my phone just so I wouldn’t look lost. Rehearsing how to say “hi” in a way that didn’t sound too awkward. Hoping someone would make eye contact first so I didn’t have to. It was new. It was scary. And I think that’s why I remember it so clearly.

I’ve always said I’m shy. And I mean it. I really am. I like being in a crowd, but I don’t like being noticed. I want to be part of the room, not the centre of it. But when you’re in charge of things, when you’re the “president”, you don’t really get to disappear. You have to speak up. You have to shake hands. You have to show up, even when you want to run the other way.

And I did. Even on the days I almost cried before leaving. Even when I felt like everyone in the room had it all figured out and I was just… trying to survive. I still showed up.

That’s something I didn’t expect to cherish, but I do. I cherish how scared I was. Because it meant I was doing something real. I cherish that fear, not because I enjoyed it, but because I didn’t let it stop me. I cherish every small brave thing I did that no one else saw, the quiet strength, the shaky voice, the standing alone. I cherish the version of me that did it anyway.

The people I led (and quietly loved)

Being the leader of a club was never something I imagined for myself. I liked being part of things, yes but being the face of it? Having to lead a whole committee of 23 people with different personalities, different moods, different energies? That wasn’t in my plan. But somehow, it became one of the things I truly cherish.

Leading isn’t always about being the loudest. Sometimes it’s just about showing up. And sometimes, it’s also about doubting yourself at 12AM wondering if you were too strict, or too blur, or too… whatever. I’ve had so many of those nights. I always wondered if I did enough. If I was present enough. Friendly enough. A good enough “president.”

But what softened the doubt was when I sat down to write my reviews for each member. That’s when I realised even if I wasn’t the loudest or closest, I noticed them. Their growth. Their style. Their little wins. Some of them reminded me of who I was back then. Some of them did things I never could’ve done at their place. And in those quiet reflections, I started to feel a little proud.

Exco Akademik. I’ll be honest, academic stuff still confuses me sometimes even though I was one of them before. But Haziq handled it well. Calm. Reliable. Aimi, Hureen, Yus, and Fada — I’m pretty sure they’re loud. Just not around me. Hahaha. When I’m there, it’s all polite mode. But even if they kept it lowkey in front of me, I could see they carried their roles well. Maybe a bit takut at first, but honestly… they were the silent charms. The kind of presence that doesn’t take up space loudly, but still matters. And in an exco like Akademik, that kind of quiet balance really matters.

Exco Korporat. I called them the solid ones. Aqmal especially, you really held it down. Some of you, there’s that quiet “boleh harap” vibe. I still remember what Hajar said about me during KPO, something about how I led. And that reminder is one of the reasons I kept going. Naurah, Hajar, Dee, Abid — your presence mattered, even if we didn’t talk much.

Then there’s Multimedia. Honestly? A blessing. Hazirah just gets me. Like I can say something vague and somehow she and Hana will magically understand. It was so easy working with them. Multimedia team memang banyak main, but they also showed up. Far, Nopal, Danish — thank you for making things fun and surprising me with how well you guys did.

Exco TTK. I won’t lie, this exco wasn’t the strongest at first. But I saw your bond towards the end. I saw how you all started to figure each other out, how things slowly came together. Aniq, Adeeb, Ammar, Yusra, Nurin — you made it work. You stayed. And that counts for more than you think.

And of course!!! Dina, Faizah, Amir. I know I kept asking you guys to do a million things, sometimes all at once. Dina always helped without complaint. Faizah… genuinely one of the kindest. Always a lifesaver. And Amir sorry if I always asked you for random things and barely let you finish your sentences hahaha. You’ve been patient in ways I didn’t even realise.

I still cherish each of them. Their work, their effort, their small messages, the way they still did things even when it was hard. Even when they were tired. Even when I wasn’t always the best leader. Sometimes, being part of something doesn’t have to be loud. Sometimes, it’s just knowing you contributed. That you were there. That you mattered. And I hope, in some way, they all know that.

The walk back from meetings

Some of my favourite memories didn’t happen during the meetings, they happened after. That short, sleepy walk back at 11PM. The sky’s dark and everyone’s tired but still weirdly awake. There’s always something to talk about. Some new drama. Some random joke. Some issue from another class that suddenly becomes our entertainment.

It’s funny how those walks could drag time a little. Like we all knew we needed to sleep, but no one really wanted to go in just yet. There’d be some kata-kata semangat out of nowhere, a mini therapy session on the stairs, or just laughing over something dumb one of us said without thinking. It was chaotic in the gentlest way.

I think I’ll always cherish that the way even after long meetings, we still had space for each other. Even if it was just for that short walk. Even if it was just for five more minutes before everyone disappeared back into their own rooms.

Baking for someone

Every time I balik for the weekend, I try to make time to bake something. It’s not just a hobby. It’s how I regulate myself, how I grieve, how I process whatever I’m feeling without needing to say anything out loud. Some people cry, some people sleep for twelve hours straight. I preheat the oven and measure flour.

I think one of my favourite parts is seeing how excited Maz gets whenever I bring something. Like I’d open the container and she’d already be smiling. That kind of reaction makes it worth it, knowing that something I made with all my messy emotions ended up making someone’s day a little brighter.

I remember once I made cinnamon rolls the same day I got back from a braces appointment. I couldn’t even eat them. Everyone else was happily eating, while I just sat there watching, in pain. My teeth hurt. My heart did too, I had been missing Ibu the whole day, but in that quiet kind of way that just lingers while you’re doing things. That day stuck with me because sometimes people find joy in something that came from your sadness. And maybe that’s the irony. Some of my best baking came from the loneliest parts of me.

But I don’t mind. Not really. I think I’ve come to cherish it, the process, the reactions, the quiet warmth of giving something sweet when I didn’t feel sweet at all. I think it taught me that even sadness can be shared gently.

On suddenly being the funny one

This is so random, but apparently I’m getting funnier now??? Hahaha. I don’t even know how it happened. I’ve been going through it, emotionally unstable, constantly on the edge, questioning life like every other day but somehow in the middle of all that… people started laughing when I talk??

Maybe it’s because I mumble a lot. Or my reactions are just too much. Or I look annoyed at everything even when I’m actually fine. I don’t know. One day someone just said “eh soyaa ni kelakar laa” and I was like huh?? Me?? Okay…

It’s silly, but I kind of cherish that. Because there was a time I really thought I’d never feel light again. Never thought I’d be the person people joke with, or laugh around, or say “best la borak dengan soya”. I was too busy surviving to even think about being fun. But somehow… I made it here.

Not just the compliment but the fact that something soft grew out of something hard. And I guess that’s the best part, that somewhere between being overwhelmed, overstimulated, and overstressed… I became a little bit entertaining too. Hahaha. What a plot twist.

The quiet comfort in just… mengalah

I think I’ve found a strange kind of comfort in mengalah. Like, not in a sad way. Just in a way that makes things feel lighter. I no longer terasa over the small things. I don’t overthink if I wasn’t included in dinner plans or left out of something. I always believe people had their own reasons. Maybe they thought I wouldn’t want to join. Maybe it wasn’t that deep. And maybe that’s okay.

I’m okay sitting with anyone. I’m okay doing things alone. I don’t cling to the idea that “this person has to be my person every time”. Everyone feels like a friend to me now. Even if we don’t talk that much. Even if we don’t hang out all the time.

And these days… I can’t even merajuk properly anymore. Sometimes I do feel mad like genuinely, undeniably upset but the next second I’m already trying to let it go. I’m too tired to hold on to that urge. Too tired to expect perfect kindness from people who are also just trying to get through their own stuff. Sometimes they’re kind. Sometimes situations made them act otherwise. I try to forgive both.

And honestly, I cherish this version of me. The one that doesn’t make everything about rejection. The one that doesn’t take silence personally. The one that just shrugs and moves on. Because I used to get so hurt over things that… didn’t even mean to hurt me. And I don’t want to carry that anymore.

Academically mid, emotionally stable (kind of)

To admit it, I was super average this sem. Like, solid average citizen. But honestly? I was okay with that. You won’t see me cry over a paper or my marks this time around. Not because I didn’t care but because I knew I did what I could. And I believed in that. I believed in me.

Of course, there were moments where I felt small. Macam, “eh everyone’s scoring, why not me?” But I didn’t let it stay too long. I knew some people carried expectations, from family, from themselves. So did I. But I still wanted to be the person who made the group feel lighter. Who could still smile, even if the carry mark was… questionable. Hahaha.

This sem was tough. Like, really tough. Marks alone could ruin someone’s whole week. I saw it happen. People cried, got quiet, lost motivation completely. And I just wanted to be the kind of friend who reminded them, “Hey, this isn’t the end, okay?” Even if I said it half-jokingly. Even if I was lowkey fighting for my own sanity inside.

And whenever I felt a bit dumb, I always reminded myself that I once got selected to represent MRSM in a cerpen writing competition back in Form 3. I don’t even remember what I wrote but I was chosen!! And on bad days, it’s kind of funny how that one memory still saves me. Like, maybe I’m not the smartest in class… but none of my friends can write cerpen, so. Balance. Hahaha.

I cherish this part of me, the one who stayed positive even when I had every reason to break down. The one who still asked “jom makan ice cream!!” after getting a bad test result. The one who knew how to comfort others, even when I had to comfort myself too.

I didn’t write this to be poetic. Or dramatic. Or deep, even though I guess I ended up being all three without meaning to. I just wanted to remember. That’s it. To make sure some version of these moments exist outside my head.

Because time moves so fast. Faster than I ever feel ready for. And the weirdest part is… I didn’t even know these were the things I’d miss until they were already slipping into memory. Until I found myself craving the noise, the chaos, the random texts, the silent comforts, the late-night walks, the lunches I used to complain about, the people I assumed I’d always have around.

It wasn’t always happy. It wasn’t always easy. But it was mine. And it mattered. And maybe that’s enough to say that I was here. I lived it. I tried to hold it while it was happening. I tried to be present. I tried to be kind. I tried to love people the best way I knew how. And even when I wasn’t sure if I did it right… I still cherish it. All of it.

I don’t know what comes next. But I hope I keep finding things worth missing.

I didn’t even realise it was already July until someone said “nak masuk bulan tujuh dah,” and my brain just… paused. Like, how? How did we get here? I swear I was just writing new year resolutions I half-meant and now suddenly we’re halfway through the year, and I’m… somewhere in between “doing okay” and “mentally tired but pretending not to be.”

This year has been weird. Not horrible, but not great either. Just… heavy in places. Light in some. Fast in ways I couldn’t catch up with. Slow in ways that made everything feel ten times louder. There are still days I feel like I’m functioning on autopilot; waking up, showing up, getting things done, but deep down still feeling disconnected from everything, including myself.

I’m still struggling with studying. That hasn’t changed much. I try, I genuinely do, but some days my brain just refuses to cooperate. It’s hard not to beat myself up over it. I keep thinking I should’ve been more disciplined, more productive, more… together. Tapi end up baring my teeth at my laptop like it’s the enemy. Then feeling guilty. Then pretending I’m fine. Then repeat. And I think that’s something my 12-year-old self wouldn’t have believed. That the girl who always had answers, who was once praised for how clever she was, she’s just okay now. She’s just figuring things out. And somehow, I’m slowly grateful for it. Because being “the smart one” always came with pressure. Expectations. Eyes waiting to see what you’ll do next. Now, I’m just doing things for myself.

Another thing I’ve been silently dealing with is how I’m naturally shy.. I always have been… but somehow ended up taking on responsibilities that require me to be seen. To lead. To speak. To show up even when I feel like hiding. Being president was something I took with honour, yes, but also a lot of fear. I love the events, I love seeing things come to life, I love the warmth of it all but I still hate that my first thought walking into a room is, “What are people thinking about me?” I wish I was brave enough to not care. I wish I walked in like I belonged. But most of the time, I walk in quietly, hoping no one’s judging the way I talk, or stand, or exist. It’s exhausting, that overthinking. That constant battle between wanting to be present and wanting to disappear.

There are days I wish ibu was still here so badly, I don’t know what to do with myself. Not for anything huge, just for those moments where I want to hear her voice. Where I want her to ask if I’ve eaten. Where I want to tell her something completely unimportant just to hear her laugh. I miss calling her. I miss ordering her GrabFood when I was far away. I miss feeling like someone was always rooting for me, even on the days I wasn’t doing anything worth rooting for. Sometimes I wonder what she’d think of me now. I wonder if she’d say she’s proud. I wonder if she’d tell me to rest, even when I haven’t done much. I think grief changes shape, but it never fully leaves. It just shows up differently, in empty phone calls, in familiar meals, in silences that used to feel full. It sits in me quietly now, but it’s still there. Especially in moments I wish I could share with her.

I thought I’d be someone else by now, maybe more confident, more stable, less emotionally swayed. But if I’m being honest, I’ve fallen back into a few habits I promised I wouldn’t. Saying yes too easily. Carrying responsibilities I don’t even like. Bottling things up because “tak nak menyusahkan orang.” And yet, I also feel like I’ve grown. Not loudly. Just in small, personal ways. Like how I don’t panic being alone anymore. How silence doesn’t scare me like it used to. How I no longer refresh my messages to see if someone’s thinking of me. I just let people be. I let myself be. And that felt like a kind of freedom I didn’t know I needed.

Halfway through 2025, and I’m not in my best shape. But I’m softer now. Less desperate to prove something. More okay with not having the answers. More patient with myself. I still get mad over the things I chose, still overthink my decisions, still care too much about things I shouldn’t but I recover faster. I forgive myself quicker. I’ve started expecting less from people, not out of coldness, but because I finally understand that not everyone is meant to stay. Not everyone will get it. And that’s okay. I rest anyway.

If the next half of the year feels anything like this, I just want to meet it with gentleness. I want to laugh more. To worry less. To care deeply, but not cling. To love things fully, even if they’re temporary. And most of all, I want to keep becoming someone I actually enjoy being around even when no one else is watching.

Because I’m not who I was at the start of this year. And that version of me… would be relieved to know we made it this far.

Hiiiiii it’s been a whileeee! I’m finally home and had a moment to just sit and reflect after what felt like a week-long mental marathon. I dah habis my first test (yay me!), though I’ve got another two waiting me next week, but for once, my brain isn’t doing backflips across five different tabs at the same time. I’ve been wanting to write something for so long, but every time I opened a draft, I’d just sit there like, “Ehhh maybe not, this sounds too random… sape jee kesah?” So into the drafts it went, along with my overthinking.

But this time? Oh, life really showed up with the content. Enough drama, plot twists, and emotional roller coasters to finally convince me to write it all out. So here I am, typing away, hoping I actually click ‘post’ this time and not just ghost my own blog again. 

Last weekend was honestly one of the most exhausting-yet-somehow-fulfilling weekends I’ve had in a long time. It felt like everything decided to happen all at once, mentally, physically, emotionally, spiritually… even my social battery was blinking red. I had Parlimen Mahasiswa, and at the exact same time, my club was running KPO which a program I’d been looking forward to and planning for ages. And of course… both had to fall on the same date. Because why not kan??

I was seriously torn. On one hand, Parlimen felt like something I had to commit to, and on the other, KPO was my little baby. In the end, I told them to go ahead without me. Not gonna lie, it wasn’t easy. Felt like choosing between two children (okay maybe that’s dramatic, but still). But sometimes, you just have to make the tough call and trust your team can handle things without you. And deep down, I was just hoping they wouldn’t throw a party celebrating my absence haha.

Attending Parlimen was… an experience. A full-on emotional cardio. People often assume I’m this super outgoing, confident person because of my roles. But the truth is, I’m actually introverted, just with an extroverted heart. Hahaha pelik, I know. Like, I love being around people, the buzz of a big crowd, the random conversations, the chaos of it all, but only if I’m not the one holding the mic or being called to “bahas.” I thrive in silence.

Throughout the sessions, I mostly sat quietly, people-watching (which I actually love, by the way), jotting down my thoughts on each motion that was debated and just soaking in the energy of the room. I didn’t speak up, not because I had nothing to say, but because I still haven’t unlocked the version of me who’s brave enough to stand and speak in front of a sea of people. Maybe one day hoho.

The ironic part? I actually had a lot to say. Like, when I got back to the homestay, I was this close to crying because I was dying to rant to everyone about what went down during the sessions. But since everything was confidential, I just had to sit there, quietly eating my food, telling them, “I ada banyak nak cerita tapi I tak boleh.” In the end, I just wrote everything in my Notes like a sad little diary entry. Haih… leadership, kan. Sometimes you have so much in your head, but nowhere to let it out.

What tested me the most though? The waiting. So. Much. Waiting. For VIPs, speeches, protocols. As someone who constantly feels like they’re in survival mode, it was hard to sit still knowing how much time was slipping by. I kept thinking, “Can we skip to the part where we actually talk about students?” But I guess this is part of learning how things work. I mean the slow, painfully formal part of leadership they don’t warn you about.

But despite everything, I genuinely loved meeting new people. Especially when I finally got to talk to other FSKM presidents, it opened my eyes. That’s when it hit me how little I actually know about the struggles students outside my circle face. I’ve always been so focused on my friends and my team that I forgot there’s a whole campus out there with different stories. That was a humbling moment for me. A reminder of why I took on this role in the first place.

Throughout Parlimen, I kept checking my phone for updates from my MTs. I missed them lol. I imagined all of them cooking and laughing and taking selfies while I sat in my baju formal waiting for another speaker. I kept wondering if they were doing okay without me or maybe even happier without me (haha kidding… kind of). By the time Parlimen ended around 4 something, the bus from Seremban only arrived close to 6.30. That wait made me more tired than the whole event, I swear. I was so restless. We arrived back at college around 7.30, and without even fully breathing, I packed and rushed straight to the KPO homestay.

And when I got there… it felt like coming home. They had already set up the BBQ, nasi goreng was ready, and everyone looked so happy. I stood there watching them for a bit, just soaking in the warmth of their bond. I love what they’ve built. The sense of family. The inside jokes. The comfort. I sounded like a proud mom, but truly, it filled my heart seeing how well they held the space even when I wasn’t there.

That night, it was finally my turn to speak as president. I missed the morning session (because life was lifing), so I treated the night slot like it was my TED Talk debut. I shared everything I had kept in which the hopes I had for us, the things I’ve learned the hard way, and what I think we can actually do better (without sounding like a walking quote board).

Then came the curhat session! Basically our group therapy, but with an official name. And honestly, people really opened up. They started sharing why they actually joined this club, what they’ve been struggling with, what they wished we did better. Some things stung a bit, but weirdly, I wasn’t offended at all. I kind of expected it… because let’s be real, I was clueless when I first started. Half the time I didn’t even believe I got this position in the first place. I walked away feeling less like “the president” and more like someone who’s growing with them, not just leading them.

I absolutely loved hearing everyone’s stories that night like genuinely sat there with my heart full and my face doing that awkward proud-mom smile. It turns out so many of us joined this club for the same reason: to break out of our little shy bubbles, to prove to ourselves that we can do scary things like speak up, take charge, or even just make new friends without overthinking every word.

Hearing that made me feel a little less weird for being a work-in-progress. Like maybe we’re all just quietly battling the same fears, and this club isn’t just a place for “leaders” but for becoming one, in our own time, in our own way. It felt like we’re all somewhere in the middle of becoming who we’re meant to be which awkward, brave, hopeful, and trying anyway.

The next morning, we went hiking at Kepayang Hills. Safe to say I was at the very back of the group the whole time, almost dying on the way up. But it was so worth it. Laughing, panting, making it to the top together, it felt like one of those movie moments. Shoutout to the guys who stayed behind to make sure all the girls reached the top safely. That kind of gentleness stays with you.

Just when I finally felt a bit relaxed and thought everything was going well, boom, something unexpected happened. The internet decided to humble me. Comments started rolling in. Some people didn’t like the way the trip or the homestay was portrayed online. Some said it looked inappropriate. And just like that, my heart dropped from Kepayang peak straight into a pit of “what did I do wrong?”

I wasn’t even directly approached, but as president, I felt it. The invisible weight. The silent disappointment. It wasn’t anger that hit me, it was that sharp sting of being misunderstood, of knowing your intentions were good, but they just didn’t land right. And so, I took responsibility. Quietly. Fully. Because that’s what leadership is too, kan? It’s not just about giving speeches or planning events, it’s also about standing still in the storm, owning up, and learning from it.

I told myself that maybe the feedback came from a place of care, even if it didn’t sound gentle. That maybe, people wanted us to do better. And if that’s the case, I want to be someone who listens even when it hurts.

After everything, the physical exhaustion, the emotional weight, the back-and-forth between responsibilities, and the quiet panic of upcoming tests… I feel… drained. Like someone took my battery out, gave it a quick rinse, and forgot to put it back in. But beneath that exhaustion, I also feel a little more grown. Like my brain did a stretch it wasn’t ready for but somehow made it through.

This weekend taught me a lot. Not just how to survive on limited sleep and way too much adrenaline, but how to handle emotions I usually try to ignore. I learned that crying isn’t a sign of weakness, it just means you’ve hit your emotional data limit for the day. I learned that not everyone will understand your intentions, and that’s okay. Leadership isn’t about being right all the time. It’s about listening, adjusting, and sometimes, just breathing through it.

Honestly, I’m still figuring it all out. I didn’t come out of this weekend as some enlightened version of myself who drinks green drink and has her whole life together. I’m just someone who tried. Who showed up. Who felt deeply and kept going anyway.

This first weekend of May wasn’t perfect. It was messy, overwhelming, and full of unexpected turns. But it gave me stories I’ll remember, and lessons I didn’t know I needed. So I’m writing it all down, not just to keep track of what happened, but to remember the girl who lived through it. The version of me who still smiled after crying. Who still led with kindness even when she was tired. Who still believed that this chaotic, unfiltered, and all is part of the journey.

And to whoever else is here, if your week was messy too, if you’re juggling more than anyone knows, if you’re tired in a way you can’t even explain, you’re not alone. I pun penat huhuu. Growth isn’t always pretty. Sometimes it looks like eye bags, unread messages, and small wins no one sees but you.

But we’re getting there, even though I’m still not ready for May, haha!

I don’t always know how to put my feelings into words. Sometimes, I try to write something meaningful, but it ends up sounding too formal, too detached from what I really feel. But today, I just want to be honest. No overthinking. No filtering. Just me.

Lately, I’ve been feeling like I’m carrying too much. Like I’m constantly holding my breath, waiting for a moment where I can finally let it all out. But that moment never really comes, does it? Because life doesn’t pause for you to catch up. It keeps moving, and you either keep up with it or get left behind.

And then, there’s the exhaustion. Not just from responsibilities, but from everything. The need to always be the one who gives in, the one who adjusts, the one who understands. I love my family and friends, but sometimes, I feel like I’m screaming in my head, wanting them to see me, to understand me the way I try so hard to understand them. But I end up swallowing my words, telling myself it’s not worth it, that maybe I’m just being too sensitive.

I keep telling myself to let things go. That people won’t always understand, that I shouldn’t expect too much, that I should just be okay with it. But how do you just be okay with it when the weight of it sits so heavily on your chest? When you’re the one constantly making space for others, but no one seems to notice that you need space too? I wonder if it’s selfish to want someone to reach out first, to ask how I’m really doing without me having to explain.

I carry these thoughts around, but I don’t always show them. People see me as independent, capable, someone who has it together. And maybe I do, sometimes. But what they don’t see is how scared I get when faced with new challenges. How I hesitate before stepping into something unfamiliar, afraid that I’ll mess up, that I’ll look foolish. How I crave reassurance but feel guilty for needing it. Because what if I’m too much? What if people get tired of me seeking comfort? So instead, I convince myself that I don’t need it. That I can handle it alone.

But the truth is, I don’t always want to handle it alone. I want to be seen. I want to be understood. I want to know that even if I don’t say anything, someone will still notice when I’m struggling. I don’t want to have to explain why I’m quiet, why I look tired, why I suddenly feel distant. I want someone to just know. But people aren’t mind readers, and I can’t expect them to be. So I sit with these feelings, unsure of what to do with them, unsure if they even matter.

I think a lot about patience. About how everything in life, no matter how overwhelming, eventually settles. But waiting for that moment, for things to get better, for the weight to lift is exhausting in itself. And sometimes, I wonder if I’m just fooling myself into believing that things will get better, or if I’m just making excuses to keep going. Maybe the version of me right now doesn’t have all the answers, and maybe she feels like she’s not enough sometimes. But I hope the future me looks back and sees that she was enough all along.

Maybe things don’t have to be as complicated as I make them out to be. Maybe I don’t have to carry everything on my own. Maybe it’s okay to want to be understood, to want to be cared for in the way I care for others. Maybe I don’t always have to be the one who adjusts.

Tonight, after the rain had just passed, I found myself standing by the court, watching my friends play badminton and basketball. The air felt fresh, as if the world had been cleansed, and I couldn’t help but wonder how life has a way of taking you to places you’d never imagined, and sometimes never wanted to go.

As I stood there, unable to sit still, I realised something, I am quite happy with how I’m living my life now, how I see the world, and how I’ve learned to accept the things that happen to me. For the first time in a long while, I could say I’m content with where I am. Life has always been a tough teacher, delivering lessons in the hardest ways. It doesn’t sugarcoat its lessons, nor does it give you time to prepare for them.

It has been almost 60 days since Ibu left me. I still find that number hard to believe. Two months without her feels like a lifetime, yet it also feels like no time at all. At first, I thought I’d never smile again. The grief felt endless, the void impossible to fill. But somehow, here I am, laughing a lot more than I expected, and smiling has become my way of getting through the days, even when my heart feels heavy. Still, I can’t deny how much certain events this year have affected me on a deeply personal level, in ways most people wouldn’t notice.

Sometimes, it feels as though my life is slowly drifting away from what I want, what I expected, and perhaps even what others expect from me. It’s unsettling. There are moments when I wish I could disappear, start fresh, and rewrite my story as if I’d been given a second chance. I imagine a new life, a blank slate where the world feels right again. But then I ask myself: could I really face all that life throws at me without Ibu here, watching over me? Her absence feels so different from anything I’ve ever experienced.  

Growing up, I always pushed myself to the limit, striving to achieve as much as I could all for Ibu. Everything I did, every goal I chased, was for her. She was my motivation, my reason to keep going. But now that she’s gone, I’m beginning to question whether my vision still aligns with what I truly want. Maybe it’s time to start doing things for myself instead of for others, to see how life might change when I live for my own happiness. Maybe I need to let go of the pressure to meet expectations that aren’t mine.

Despite everything, I am grateful. Grateful for the challenges I’ve faced, for the lessons I’ve learned, and for the resilience I didn’t know I had. I wish I could truly see the moments that have shaped me, but for now, I’ll hold onto the belief that they’re there, even if I can’t quite grasp them yet. I’ve realised that life doesn’t wait for you to be ready. It moves forward, and you either let it pull you along or you choose to walk with it.

The rain tonight seemed like a metaphor for my life. It came, it washed over everything, and then it left, leaving the world glistening and new. Maybe that’s how I need to see my own journey. I hope that, in time, my heart will feel the same. For now, I’ll keep going, grateful for the past, hopeful for the future, and ready to embrace whatever the next chapter holds.

Life hasn’t been easy, and it probably never will be. Tonight, after the rain, I’m holding onto the hope that brighter days are ahead.