LoneHymn

Some lessons are repeated because they were never truly learned. I gave chances, explained my feelings, and hoped things would change. But when the same actions keep bringing the same pain, there comes a moment when words lose their purpose. This time, I won't argue, explain or defend myself. Not because I have nothing to say but because silence says everything that words no longer can.

There was a time when I thought anger was the most dangerous emotion. Raised voices, harsh words and visible frustration seemed like the moments that caused the most damage. But over time, I discovered something far more unsettling. The scariest part of me isn't my anger... it's my silence.

Silence isn't always peace. Sometimes, it's the moment when emotions have gone beyond words. It's when disappointment outweighs frustration, when trust has been chipped away one piece at a time and when explaining no longer feels worth the effort.

When I go quiet, it's often because something inside me has finally given up. Not on life, but on trying to make someone understand, on fighting battles that never change, or on holding onto what no longer holds me.

People often fear an outburst because it's visible. Yet silence is unpredictable. It doesn't demand attention or seek sympathy. It simply observes, reflects, and slowly changes everything from within. By the time someone notices it, the distance may already be impossible to close.

There comes a point where silence is no longer a punishment or a game. It becomes protection. I'm tired. Tired of repeating the same words, having the same conversations, and hoping that this time something will be different.

It isn't another explanation that I need. It isn't another argument. It isn't another promise that things will get better.

What I long for is a sincere "I'm sorry." Not the kind that's spoken just to end a fight, but one that carries understanding and accountability. More than that, I want to see change. Because apologies without action are just words, and words lose their meaning when they are never followed by effort.

Every time I opened my heart, I believed I was creating a chance to understand each other. Instead, my feelings were dismissed as nagging, complaining, or making a big deal out of nothing. Somehow, expressing my hurt always became my fault. Instead of being heard, I found myself defending why I was hurt in the first place.

After a while, you stop talking... not because you have nothing to say, but because you've learned that your voice changes nothing.

Silence isn't the absence of feelings. It's the result of feelings that have been ignored for too long.

People think the quiet person has given up. In reality, they're simply exhausted. They've spent countless moments trying to explain, hoping to be understood, only to be met with excuses, defensiveness, or blame.

So yes, I stay silent now.

Not because I don't care, but because I care enough to protect what's left of my peace. I've realized that I can't force someone to understand what they refuse to see. I can't keep carrying conversations that only leave me feeling smaller each time.

If my thoughts and feelings are only seen as noise, then my silence will speak for me.

I was ready to move forward. Not because everything was perfect, but because I believed what we had was worth fighting for. I was willing to leave the past behind, work through the challenges, and build something stronger together. My heart was already taking the next step.

But just as I was ready to move, you pulled the handbrake.

Instead of feeling that we were walking toward the same future, I found myself standing still while you questioned whether we should even continue. Your doubts may have come from a place only you truly understand, and I don't fault you for having fears. But from where I stand, it hurt more than I can explain.

When someone chooses you, they hope to feel chosen in return. Instead, I felt like I was being measured, questioned, and left waiting to see if I was enough. That feeling doesn't just create uncertainty—it creates pain. It makes me wonder if everything I've given, everything I've shown, and everything I've sacrificed was ever truly seen or valued.

I understand that relationships require honesty, and asking difficult questions isn't wrong. But timing matters. When one person is opening the door to a future together while the other is reaching for the brakes, it leaves both people emotionally stranded.

I still care deeply. I still believe love deserves patience and understanding. But I also know that love cannot grow where one person is constantly wondering if they're truly wanted.

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.