LoneHymn

Hearing her share her good news fills me with a quiet, genuine happiness. I’m proud not just of her promotion but of the small role I played in guiding her there. Watching her face glow, her eyes lighting up with excitement, her voice carrying that mix of relief and pride... it’s a moment I wish I could pause and live in a little longer. It reminds me that I’ve done something right, that I can still be a source of strength for someone else.

But beneath that joy, something unsettled stirs within me.

While I smile and celebrate her, my body begins telling a different story. My chest tightens, the air feels heavier, almost like it’s refusing to move. There’s a rush inside me like my blood is racing in all directions at once. Small twitches, restless energy, an uncomfortable awareness of every heartbeat. I know this feeling too well. It creeps in quietly then suddenly takes over.

Maybe this is part of my mid life crisis... this constant questioning, this internal tug-of-war between who I am and who I’m becoming.

Anxiety doesn’t care if it’s a happy moment. It doesn’t wait for permission. It tries to interrupt, to poison the moment, to pull me away from what matters. And I find myself fighting holding onto joy with one hand while pushing back the darkness with the other.

I hate the negative thoughts, the ones that don’t belong but still feel so loud. Yet even in this, I remind myself I was present. I listened. I supported. I made a difference in someone’s life today.

At 46 years old, I never expected to feel this way. Being the youngest in the family was supposed to mean protection, guidance and a little more room to grow. But when my father passed away, everything changed quietly. There was no meeting, no announcement... just a silent transfer of weight and somehow it landed on me.

At 46, I became what felt like the head of the Bakri family. Not because anyone officially said it but through expectations, subtle dependence and the way decisions slowly started circling back to me.

I put everyone first. I absorbed tension before it became conflict. I chose peace over ego, responsibility over rest. I told myself this is what a man does. This is what strength looks like.

But strength when carried alone for too long, becomes heavy. No one really asks how the youngest is coping... especially at 46. Maybe because I look composed. Maybe because I rarely complain. Maybe because I have trained myself to normalize pressure. I became the steady one, the dependable one, the problem solver. Yet inside I am tired.

And now, my own children are growing fast. They are discovering the world and forming their own problems, each one unique and needing guidance in very specific ways. Suddenly, the weight I carry is multiplied... the Bakri family and now my children’s individual struggles. I cannot handle them all in the same way... each requires patience, understanding and a tailored approach. Their challenges are different from each other and guiding them demands both creativity and emotional energy I sometimes feel I no longer have.

Somewhere along the journey, I stopped choosing myself. I forgot what it felt like to pause without guilt, to breathe without responsibility pressing on my shoulders. I set aside my own needs, my own quiet moments of joy and even my own dreams, believing that my role was to be the anchor, the problem solver, the constant presence everyone could rely on. I used to have a five digit salary and a great career. I had dreams of continuing my service, building something of my own, contributing in ways I was proud of. But now, I take jobs that don’t require me to solve anyone’s problems. Anything else would only multiply my burdens. Every additional responsibility feels like piling weight on an already overloaded heart. This role has already sucked me dry emotionally.

Even the way I present myself... dressing simply, wearing slippers, speaking plainly, thinking practically has become a tool for survival. Everything I do, every word I say, every decision I make is measured and calculated to keep life manageable. Survival has become the framework of my appearance, communication and mindset.

Some days I feel like “kain lusuh” a worn-out cloth. Still useful, still called upon but slowly thinning and fraying. Functional but no longer fresh. Stretched by years of carrying expectations and responsibilities without pause.

Even the youngest deserves support.

Dalam Diam: Tired, Yet Still Standing

Listening to “Dalam Diam” feels different when you are simply tired of everything.

There comes a point in life where exhaustion is not just physical. It is emotional. Mental. Spiritual. You wake up already drained. You smile when you have to. You function because you must. But inside, there is a quiet heaviness that never fully goes away.

That is what this song feels like to me.

It speaks to the version of a person who keeps going, not because they are strong but because stopping is not an option. The world sees movement, productivity, responsibility. What it does not see is the fatigue that sits deep in the chest. The overthinking at night. The constant replay of worries. The silent question: “How much longer can I carry this?”

Dalam diam, you battle expectations. Dalam diam, you swallow frustration. Dalam diam, you convince yourself that tomorrow will be lighter.

The song reminds me that being tired does not mean being weak. It means you have been carrying too much for too long without rest. It means you have been surviving quietly.

Sometimes, the bravest thing a person does is continue showing up when their heart feels heavy. No dramatic announcements. No breakdown in public. Just quiet endurance.

Maybe that is the real meaning of strength... not loud victories but surviving the storms no one else knows you are fighting.

I did not wake up one day and decide to become distant. It happened slowly, almost quietly. A delayed reply here. A cancelled plan there. Conversations that once felt effortless began to feel like obligations. I kept telling myself it was temporary. People get busy. People get tired. People change.

But so do feelings.

There is a particular loneliness in being the only one who notices the shift. You feel it in the pauses. In the way enthusiasm fades. In the way effort becomes something you are expected to supply on behalf of both sides. I tried to compensate at first. I tried to be more understanding, more patient, more present. I believed if I held on tighter, it would not slip away.

Instead, I only exhausted myself.

So I stopped trying to rescue what was no longer reaching back for me.

Now, I match energy... not because it makes me feel powerful but because it is the only way to protect what little strength I have left. If someone gives warmth, I will offer mine. If they pull away, I allow the distance to exist. When there is nothing... no effort, no care, no intention... I let my silence answer.

There is sadness in becoming this measured. I used to be softer, quicker to forgive, eager to maintain connection. Now, I pause. I observe. I give only what is given.

It is not that I care less. It is that I cannot afford to care alone.

Sometimes I wonder if I should stop writing.

Every time I open LoveHymm and read my old entries, the memories crawl back into my chest. The words I once poured out so bravely now sit there like open wounds. They remind me of who I was, what I lost, what I endured. And it hurts. It makes me question whether healing means silence.

But if I stop writing where will all this go?

The anger. The confusion. The loneliness that echoes louder at night. I don’t have someone sitting across from me asking how I truly feel. I don’t have a voice replying, “I understand.” What I have is a blank page. A blinking cursor. A space that does not judge me.

LoveHymm has become more than a blog. It is my witness. It holds the versions of me that survived days I thought would break me. It absorbs my rage without arguing back. It lets me be honest in ways I cannot always be with the world.

Yes, reading my past makes me sad. But maybe that sadness is proof that I felt deeply. That I lived honestly. That I did not bury my emotions just to appear strong.

Maybe I don’t need to stop writing.

Maybe I need to keep writing... not to stay in the past but to slowly write myself forward.

For now, it’s just me and these words.

The day started like any other. Alarm, work, responsibilities. No countdown. No excitement. Just another date on the calendar that quietly carried my name.

I don’t like surprises. I don’t expect grand celebrations. I’ve never been the person who needs a room full of people singing loudly or posting long birthday wishes online. My kind of birthday is simple... I just want to spend it with someone special. A normal day. Coffee somewhere quiet. A simple meal. Sitting side by side, talking about nothing and everything. That’s enough for me.

I don’t even need presents. But I would appreciate it if someone chose to get me one. Not because I asked. Not because I reminded them. But because they remembered. Because they wanted to make the effort.

Instead, I spent my hours working. And when the night came, I was alone in my vehicle, parked under the same sky that has seen me through so many other ordinary days. There’s something about sitting alone on your birthday that makes you question your place in someone’s life.

What hurts isn’t the absence of a celebration. It’s the uncertainty. I’ve always said I don’t like being asked repeatedly. It’s either yes or no. When someone keeps hesitating, keeps giving unsure answers, it slowly tells me everything I need to know. So this time, I decided for you. Based on your unsure attitude towards me, the answer is no.

When you finally asked me at night, my mood had already settled. What’s the point? When you can’t even remember the day without being reminded, what are we really celebrating?

So I chose silence. I chose space. I chose to report to work early in the morning instead of waiting for something that felt unsure.

There comes a moment when you realize that not every battle needs noise. Not every hurt needs an announcement. Sometimes, the most powerful move you can make is a silent strike... a quiet decision to protect your own feelings.

Silence is not weakness. It is self-respect in its purest form. It is choosing peace over proving a point. It is stepping back instead of reacting, breathing instead of breaking and guarding your heart without building walls of anger. A silent strike is not about punishing others it is about preserving yourself.

We often feel pressured to explain, defend, or justify our emotions. But growth teaches us that not everyone deserves access to our vulnerability. Protecting your energy is an act of maturity. Walking away without drama is strength. Loving yourself enough to withdraw from what drains you is courage.

When you ask me to decide, it sometimes makes me feel like I am a troublesome person. You already know what I want. My heart has never been unclear. When I say, “You decide,” it is not because I am confused or avoiding responsibility. It is because I respect you. In a relationship, decisions are not just about outcomes, they are about involvement. I choose to spend time with you because you matter to me because being with you is intentional not accidental. Even when it comes to simple things, like coming over to your house, I ask you to decide because I value your comfort and your space.

It hurts the most when the people closest to you judge you before you even get the chance to explain. Strangers can misunderstand me and I can brush it off but when it comes from those I love, it settles deeper in my chest. It feels like being sentenced before the trial even begins, like my voice doesn’t matter enough to be heard.

Yes, I can understand the dreams about marriage. They want to tie the knots, to build something permanent, something secure. I wanted it too... maybe even more than they did. I believed in the promise, in the forever, in the idea of growing old with someone who chooses you every single day. My intentions were never casual. My heart was never halfway.

But what happens when, instead of building a future together, they start building walls? What happens when protection replaces partnership? When fear becomes louder than faith? The same hands that once held you tightly slowly pull away, applying the hand brake on a relationship that was supposed to move forward.

And then the questions begin to echo inside me.

Where are they when I’m down? Where are they now when I’m navigating this midlife crisis, trying to make sense of who I am and where I’m going? Instead of standing beside me, they brush me off without a second thought as if my struggles are inconveniences, as if my silence means I don’t need support.

In the quiet moments when the world feels heavy and uncertain, I find comfort in one unshakable truth... my love for her. It is a love that steadies me when emotions become too loud, a warmth that wraps around my heart when everything else feels cold. She is my calm in the storm, my saviour in moments of doubt, my reminder that love can be both fragile and fierce, yet endlessly enduring.

When life tests my patience and strength, I think of her smile that pure, effortless light that cuts through my darkest thoughts. I remember her laughter, her words, the way she makes the world feel gentle again. Through her, I’ve learned that love isn’t just something we give, it’s something that saves us again and again.

Running 56 kilometers wasn’t about chasing a medal, a record or a finish line. It was about escaping something I couldn’t see but could always feel... anxiety. Every step was a conversation between my body and my mind, between the urge to stop and the desire to heal.

At first, the run was about distance. I wanted to see how far I could go, how much pain I could endure, how much my legs could carry me. But somewhere along the route, it became something else. It became therapy. With every stride, I could feel my thoughts untangling, my heart syncing with my breath and my worries fading with each exhale.

When I slowed down, anxiety caught up... whispering doubts, feeding fears, reminding me of everything I was trying to leave behind. But when I pushed forward, even when every muscle screamed to stop, I realized that running wasn’t about escaping anxiety, it was about facing it head-on. Every kilometer I conquered was a small victory against the voice that told me I couldn’t.

By the fourth hour, I was running not from fear but toward peace. My mind was quiet, my steps steady. The road beneath me became a mirror reflecting not the anxious person I once was but someone stronger, calmer and more in control. Running 56 kilometers didn’t cure my anxiety but it taught me something deeper that peace isn’t found in stillness but in movement. Sometimes, the best therapy isn’t talking it out... it’s sweating it out, mile after mile, until the noise in your head becomes the rhythm of your feet.

Last night, something inside me shifted. In the stillness when everything around me went quiet, I finally realised the truth I had been avoiding for years the real trigger that hits me the hardest... my father’s death. It came like a wave I didn’t see coming. The real anxiety that has been living quietly beneath my skin all this time finally hit me hard. It was the same ache that started seven years ago, on the day everything changed.

Even though his 7th death anniversary is only another month away, the pain still feels fresh sharp, familiar and unexplainable. I used to think I had accepted it, that I had learned to live with it. But last night proved otherwise. Grief doesn’t fade it just hides until silence brings it back to life.

I can still remember that day so vividly, the day I stood by his hospital bed. I wasn’t crying. I wasn’t speaking. I was just there, completely blank, with nothing to say and nothing to feel. It was like being trapped in a slow-motion nightmare. My body was present but my soul wasn’t. The world around me felt distant. The soft beeping of the monitors, the sterile smell of the room, the quiet footsteps of nurses. It all felt unreal. I was numb, lost in what I can only describe as a zombie land.

That was the moment everything inside me changed. The numbness became my shield. I moved on with life smiling when I had to, working, laughing, being “okay” but deep down something in me was frozen. I didn’t realise it then but that numbness was the start of my anxiety. It was grief that never had the space to breathe.

And last night, it came back... that same emptiness, that same racing heartbeat, that same quiet panic I felt standing beside his bed. The real anxiety that hit me wasn’t about fear of the future but fear of feeling again. Because to feel deeply is to risk breaking all over again.

I’ve carried that silence for seven years. A silence that taught me both strength and survival. My father’s death didn’t just take him away, it reshaped everything I believed about love, pain and time. I became stronger on the outside but inside, I learned to live with an ache that never completely fades.

My father wasn’t just a man, he was my compass. His strength was quiet, his love steady. He didn’t need many words to make an impact. And when he was gone, it felt like the world lost its balance. I kept moving because I had to but I never stopped missing that grounding presence.

Last night reminded me that grief isn’t just about sadness, it’s also about anxiety, confusion and the weight of unspoken emotions. It’s love with nowhere to go. It’s wanting to talk but not knowing how to start. It’s hearing a song or catching a familiar scent and suddenly feeling that same ache again.

But this time, instead of pushing it away, I let myself feel it. The pain, the anxiety, the longing... all of it. Because maybe that’s how healing really happens. Not by pretending you’re fine but by acknowledging that some parts of you still ache and that it’s okay.

As his 7th anniversary approaches, I realise that grief doesn’t mean weakness. It’s a reflection of love that was once whole and now lives in fragments within me. It’s what keeps his memory alive. His lessons... kindness, patience, resilience have become my compass now. His voice may be gone, but his strength lives through me every single day.

So when I say it hit me hard last night, I mean it in every sense. The grief, the numbness, the anxiety they all came rushing back, not to break me but to remind me that I still feel deeply. That love never truly dies.

Because grief is not the absence of healing. It’s the proof that love continues in silence, in pain, in every heartbeat that still remembers. And last night, for the first time in a long while, I allowed myself to feel it all.

For the past three days, I’ve been clearing out my stuff boxes that have been sitting untouched for years, shelves covered in dust, and drawers filled with papers, photos, and random things I once thought were too important to throw away. I told myself it was time to declutter to finally get rid of the unnecessary weight I’d been carrying around. I thought keeping myself busy would stop me from overthinking. I thought throwing away things would somehow throw away the heaviness inside me.

But it didn’t.

Instead the opposite happened. Every box I opened seemed to hold a piece of me I wasn’t ready to see again. A photo would pull me back into a moment I thought I’d forgotten. A letter, even one sentence long would make me feel the ache of someone’s absence. And as I sat surrounded by piles of memories, I realized I wasn’t just cleaning my room... I was reopening chapters of my life I had quietly buried.

The memories came back uninvited, like predators stalking me in my own home. I could feel them creeping closer, whispering words I didn’t want to hear, showing me faces and moments I tried so hard to leave behind. I didn’t know what triggered them exactly but once they came they wouldn’t stop. And the more I tried to busy myself, the louder they became.

So, I did the only thing I could think of... I ran after each day of decluttering.

At first, it was just a short jog, something to shake off the heaviness. But it quickly became something more. Running became my escape, my way of drowning out the noise inside my head. I wanted to run until my legs could no longer carry me, until my body was too exhausted to feel anything else. I wanted the pounding of my heart to be louder than the chaos in my mind.

The moment my feet hit the pavement, I could feel my body come alive. The first few steps were always the hardest... the stiffness, the burn in my lungs but then the rhythm took over. My heart pumped rapidly and for a while, it felt like I was fighting back. Every drop of sweat, every breathless gasp was proof that I was still here, still standing, still trying.

The pain in my legs became a distraction I could control. It was a pain I chose, unlike the kind that haunted me when the world grew silent. When my body screamed for me to stop, I whispered to myself, “Just a little more.” Because I knew that stopping meant hearing the noise again... the noise that reminded me of everything I’ve lost, everything I couldn’t change, everything I still carried deep inside.

Running became my therapy, even though I never called it that. It was a way to escape without really escaping. With every stride, I tried to outrun my thoughts, to leave them somewhere on the road behind me. I ran until the sky turned dark and the streetlights flickered on. I ran in silence, just listening to the sound of my own breathing. It became a strange kind of peace painful, yet comforting.

There were moments when I’d slow down, when fatigue took over and I’d think about how running mirrors life. No matter how far you go the past has a way of catching up. But still, you run. You keep going because stopping hurts even more. Each run became a reminder that I’m stronger than I think that even when my mind is drowning in noise, my body knows how to fight.

After every long run, I’d collapse into the ground, body sore, muscles trembling. The exhaustion was my only relief. The ache in my legs told me I’d pushed myself hard enough to quiet my mind, at least for a few hours. In that tired silence, I could finally sleep... not because I’d found peace but because I’d run far enough to escape it for one night.

Maybe one day, I’ll stop running from the past and start running toward something toward healing, peace or forgiveness. Maybe the miles I leave behind will slowly become the distance between who I was and who I’m becoming. But for now, I run. I run to survive.

Running doesn’t erase the pain. It doesn’t fix the broken parts of me. But it reminds me that I’m still capable of moving forward even when the weight of the past tries to pull me down. And sometimes that’s all I need to know that no matter how heavy the noise gets inside my head, my heart can still beat louder.

There are days when I tell myself don’t give a single damn about what people think of me for being “negative.” Because truth is they don’t know my story. They don’t know how terrifying it can be to wake up every day with anxiety sitting on your chest like a weight you can’t shake off.

People love to judge from a distance. They call you moody, dramatic or pessimistic because they only see the surface not the storm that’s raging inside. They don’t see the quiet battles, the overthinking, the sleepless nights or the constant tug-of-war between trying to be okay and not falling apart.

Anxiety isn’t just fear. It’s a thousand what ifs whispering in your head even when everything seems fine. It’s the voice that won’t let you rest, the pulse that races for no reason, the exhaustion that follows you everywhere. And yet people expect you to smile and “stay positive,” as if pretending fixes it.

So, I’ve learned something important, I don’t need to apologize for having bad days. I don’t need to explain why I cancel plans, stay quiet or need space. Because no one else is living in my body or walking in my shoes. If being real about my struggles makes me “negative,” then so be it. I’d rather be honest than fake positivity for other people’s comfort.

Lately, I’ve been holding myself back from writing about my anxiety. Every time I feel that familiar weight pressing on my chest, I tell myself, “Don’t write it down. Don’t make it real.”

It’s strange. I’ve always believed that writing helps that getting things out of my head and onto my useless oppo notes can free myself. But now, I catch myself avoiding it. Maybe I’m scared that if I start, everything I’ve been holding in will pour out and I won’t know how to stop it. Maybe I’m afraid of seeing my thoughts in black and white.. too raw, too honest, too heavy.

Some days, it feels easier to keep everything bottled up, to pretend I’m fine, to keep moving like nothing’s wrong. But that silence builds pressure. It’s like trying to keep the lid on a boiling pot... it works for a while but eventually something’s gotta give.

I know writing could help me make sense of this anxiety, maybe even calm it. But there’s this stubborn part of me that doesn’t want to admit I need it. Like if I don’t write it I can still control it. As if the words themselves would somehow give my fear more power.

But deep down, I know the truth, not writing about it doesn’t make it go away. It just keeps me stuck in my own head. Maybe one day soon, I’ll let it spill the late-night overthinking, the racing thoughts, the fear of not being enough. Maybe then, I’ll stop running from the pen and start facing what’s really going on inside.

Tonight, I made a conscious choice to embrace stillness and keep the door shut on negativity. The mind, like a restless sea, often drifts toward worries, regrets and “what-ifs.” But not tonight. I chose peace over overthinking, calm over chaos.

I off the lights, took a few deep breaths and let silence wrap around me like a warm blanket. No space for the past’s weight or the future’s unknowns... only the present moment mattered. In this moment, I let go of things beyond my control. I reminded myself that it’s okay not to have all the answers and even more okay to pause, breathe and just be.

Negative thoughts may knock as they often do but tonight I won’t let them in. Instead, I focus on gratitude... small wins, kind smiles, simple joys. I hold onto the quiet strength that comes from choosing peace when chaos is an option.

Tonight feels different. The usual swirl of thoughts has softened into stillness. And beside me, she sleeps peacefully, quietly like a sea of calmness I never knew I needed.

Her breathing is steady, her presence grounding. Just watching her reminds me to slow down, to let go of the noise that fills my head. There’s something healing about her calm, something that wraps around the room like a gentle tide.

In this moment, I don’t need answers. I don’t need to fix anything. I just need to be here with her, in this quiet night that asks for nothing but presence.