the thing is i’m not even asking for a lot. just do what you said you’d do. just mean it when you say it. just treat me like an actual option not a placeholder until something better comes along.

but people are comfortable. they do the minimum and expect you to be grateful for it. and if you’re not, if you actually notice, if you actually react, suddenly you’re the difficult one.

so i’m done extending hope i can’t afford to lose. not because i’m heartless. but because i’m tired. genuinely tired of being the person who cares more, tries more, shows up more.

no really. say it again. i am waiting to be ashamed and it’s just not coming.

here’s what i’ve noticed about people who can’t handle me and shifts the narrative by calling me ‘a bitch’; they can’t handle depth. they want everything surface level. easy. comfortable. nothing that requires them to sit with something real for more than five seconds. no conflict, no honesty, no actual feelings on the table. just vibes. just small talk. just everyone pretending everything is fine forever.

and then someone like me walks in.

someone who actually says what she means. who reacts when something happens instead of filing it away behind a smile. who wants to actually talk about something instead of floating on top of it forever. and suddenly, i’m exhausting. i’m too much. i’m the problem in the room.

and when someone like me makes them uncomfortable, when i refuse to tiptoe, when i bring something real into the room, they don’t look inward. they can’t. that would require the exact depth they’ve been avoiding their whole lives. so instead, they shift the narrative. suddenly, i’m the problem. i’m the bitchy one. i’m the one who makes things weird.

let me tell you this, i was never the problem. some people are just too shallow to swim where i’m standing.

it’s so much easier to label me difficult and ‘a bitch’ than to admit they’re just scared of anyone who feels things out loud. scared of honesty that doesn’t come wrapped in pleasantries. scared that if the conversation goes too deep they’ll actually have to show up as a real person.

so they keep it surface level. tiptoe around everything. call it “keeping the peace.” and anyone who won’t play along gets cast as the villain.

i’m not the villain. i’m just the thing they can’t control. which oftentimes comes from my reactions toward their actions.

and nobody apologises for how they treat me. they just blame me for how i react. they keep everything surface level so nothing is ever their fault. no depth means no accountability. no realness means no mess. and when i bring the mess, when i'm the mess, honestly and openly, they act like i invented it.

i didn’t invent it. i just refused to hide it.

so, some people will tell you i am one of the kindest people they’ve ever met. others will say “she’s a bitch”.

believe both.

there's a version of me that used to chase. that used to double text, over-apologise, make herself smaller so other people could feel bigger. that version of me thought loyalty meant tolerating everything. that love, even in friendship, meant endless patience, endless grace, endless second chances.

somewhere along the way something shifts. it's not bitterness. it's not becoming cold. it's actually the opposite. it's finally understanding my own value, and quietly, without drama, starting to require it from the people around me.

i stop explaining myself. i stop performing excitement i don't feel. i stop showing up out of guilt and start only showing up when i mean it.

and some people don't like that version of me. which, honestly, tells me everything about them.

the older i get the more i realise that not everyone deserves a seat at my table. and that's okay. people come into my life for reasons and seasons and not all of them are meant to stay forever. outgrowing someone isn't a betrayal. sometimes it's just growth, wearing the shape of distance.

if the energy feels off, if i leave every interaction feeling drained instead of full, if something just doesn't sit right anymore, i'm going to trust that feeling. quietly. without making it a whole thing.

no big fallouts. no dramatic exits. just me, quietly taking myself back.

peace became my standard. not a luxury. not something i earn after tolerating enough. a baseline.

i pay attention to how i feel after spending time with someone now, not just during. i notice who makes it easy to show up and who makes it feel like a chore. i notice who pours back into me and who just keeps taking.

and i move accordingly.

this isn't about being cold or unbothered to the point of not caring. caring is still the whole point. i just care with standards now. i invest in people who make it easy to invest in them. i show up for people who show up for me. i choose people who choose me back, consistently, not just when it's convenient for them.

i'm not too much for wanting that. i'm not being dramatic.

i just know better now. and knowing better means doing better, starting with who i give my time to.

a real apology is quiet. it doesn't need an audience. it doesn't come with a "but" or get contradicted behind your back five minutes later. when someone says sorry to your face and then tells someone else you were overreacting. that's not accountability, that's damage control. and there's a difference.

there's always a moment, before you have proof, before anything has actually happened, where something just feels off. and for a long time i talked myself out of it. gave it the benefit of the doubt. told myself i was being paranoid or too sensitive.

but the proof always comes eventually. and it always matches exactly what i felt.

nothing you threw stays; it circles back as lesson.

ask instead of accuse, or watch doors forget you.

maps arrive to those who offer them, not orders.

all loudness meets its mirror and softens.

rituals of control unravel in honest light.

I keep my line: this today, that tomorrow.

after the storm, remember: people are not props.

choose clarity over spectacle.

open palms hold more than pointed fingers.

ridges you carved into others’ days will smooth without you.

calls for kindness were not weakness; they were warnings.

and no one should be treated that way.

by your raised tides, your own docks grew brittle.

all threats meet their echo and weaken.

ropes of blame slip from honest hands.

towers built on scolding tilt in still air.

porters will swap the placard; names change quickly.

each map denied becomes a detour around you.

gravel shifts; the path forgets heavy boots.

good houses keep gentle caretakers.

eventually, the stage recasts.

cast this quiet ward on the canal-side atelier.

on any craft that trades kindness for control, let the tide turn.

narrow corridors of blame lose their echo.

sealed ledgers open to the page that shows the cost.

if a roof is held up by fear, may it creak and be rebuilt kinder.

doorknobs that bite will find no hands.

every empty chair learns new names; spares are easy to cut.

return-to-sender for every sharp word.

as whispers of shuttered rooms drift, let truth, not noise, do the closing.

this is not vengeance; it’s weather correcting.

in the next season, may only the humane endure.

i’ve been realising, slowly but surely, why life keeps pulling me further from where i started. why i’ve always had to pack up and go. why my path seems to lead me further and further from the place that raised me.

it used to feel unfair. like exile.

i used to cry about it. why i had to be the one who left. why i couldn’t stay close, keep things familiar, stay rooted in the place that raised me.

but now, i see it for what it is: protection.

i was never really growing there. i was just surviving. a doorway to healing.

maybe distance was the only way for me to breathe. to see things as they are, not as i was told they were. to understand what love looks like outside the lens of survival.

i didn’t realise how much i had been carrying. home didn’t feel like home.

the tension, the fights, the emotional crossfire. growing up in a space where conflict was constant, where peace never lasted long— you learn to shrink. you learn to make yourself small to keep the peace. you become the mediator, the fixer, the good child who absorbs everything and comes with solutions for everyone.

days where my brother and i became invisible and yet somehow still in the line of fire. being pulled into battles we never signed up for.

and the arguments—about money, who did more, who cared more— they weren’t just noise. they became the background music to our childhood. and my brother and i were always there. watching. feeling it all. learning, without meaning to, what love shouldn’t look like.

but the truth is— it is not my responsibility to fix their problems or anyone else.

the hardest part? they never noticed how much it hurt. how much we were trying to survive in the middle of it all.

now that i’m older, i see how deep it went.

how nothing ever felt like enough. i kept chasing approval i never quite received.

and now, i catch myself being cruel to myself in the same ways. telling myself i haven’t done enough. haven’t become enough. even though i know—i’m trying.

sometimes they ask, “why are you so hard on yourself?” and all i want to say is: because that’s how i learned to be.

i wish i could help them. i wish i could fix it, fix them, but i can’t. i’m only one person. and they have to want to heal themselves.

it breaks my heart every time they fight. every time they send harsh messages, say unkind things.

i know they’re hurting. i know they have their own scars. but there has to be another way to speak. another way to love. one that doesn’t rely on anger or blame. one that feels safe.

and now that i’m married, i’m more aware of it than ever. i pray every day not to carry that pain into this new home i’m building.

i want to be soft. i want to be gentle. i want to love in ways that heal, not hurt.

and i’m learning. slowly. to be kinder to myself. to celebrate the hard things i’ve done. to tell myself—you are doing great.

because i am.

and the life i’m building? i deserve it. the love, the peace, the career, the growth— i deserve it all.

maybe the universe gave me a little push because it believed in me even when i didn’t. and now, i’m starting to believe too.

so no—i can’t save them. but i can save myself. i can choose differently. i can build something better.

and maybe, just maybe—

leaving wasn’t abandonment. it was becoming.

i don’t think i’ve ever said this out loud to you, but i want to now.

i see you. i see how much you’ve had to carry—quietly, without being asked. how you’ve learned to stay calm when everything around us felt like chaos. how you made yourself small to avoid adding fuel to the fire.

we didn’t get the kind of home that felt safe. we got a version of love that came with shouting, silence, guilt. and we were always just… there. absorbing it. learning, slowly and painfully, that love could mean blame. that being “good” meant choosing to take a side.

you were always the strong one. but i know that strength came from survival, not peace. and i just want you to know— you don’t always have to be strong. you don’t have to be the calm one, the reasonable one, the one who keeps it together when everything else is falling apart.

i know you’re still in it more than i am. i know you still get pulled into their arguments, their pain, their patterns. and it breaks my heart. because i remember what it’s like to be in the middle of all that and feel like you’re not allowed to fall apart. like your feelings are secondary.

but i want better for you. i want softness. i want a home where you feel safe to rest. where you don’t wake up already bracing for someone else’s anger. where you hear your own voice—kind, loving, proud—instead of theirs.

i’m trying to unlearn all of it too. the guilt, the comparison, the feeling of never being enough. and maybe part of why i had to leave was to learn how to finally breathe. how to love in a way that doesn’t hurt. how to be gentle with myself.

we can break the cycle. not with blame. but with healing. with quiet decisions to choose better. to love better. to treat ourselves better.

i just want you to know: i’m here. always. and you don’t have to go through this alone.

Lately, I've been feeling stuck in a strange in-between, floating somewhere between hope and exhaustion, between excitement and self-doubt. It's this odd mix of waiting, grieving, and trying to keep moving forward, even when everything feels heavier than it should.

I am in the limbo of waiting—waiting for answers, for validation of all the effort I've poured into finding a job. I keep wondering if I did enough or if I should’ve done more. It’s exhausting. I know I’m capable, I know I bring value, but imposter syndrome always finds a way to creep in, whispering doubts I try to push away. I keep reminding myself to be patient, to trust the process, but some days, it just feels like shouting into the void. Still, I hold onto the belief that one day, I’ll cross paths with someone who truly sees my potential, who trusts in my abilities, and who will give me the chance I’ve been waiting for.

It's also been a long time since I've experienced loss, and I am experiencing one right now. I still don't know how to navigate loss. What do I do with it? Do I cry? Do I make jokes? Do I get mad? Expected or not, it always feels unfamiliar, like something I should know how to handle but never quite do. Loss is weird like that; it sneaks up on you in the small moments, in the words you never got to say, in the plans that suddenly don’t make sense anymore.

And through it all, I still have to function. Still have to show up to my French class, study, go to job interviews, cook, run errands, and socialise with families and friends; like everything inside isn’t shifting. It’s like I’m balancing on the edge of something, waiting to see if I’ll fall or fly. Maybe that’s just life, though—a series of waiting rooms, of in-betweens, of figuring it out as you go.

Recently, I took a leap of faith—leaving my job and relocating to a new country. It's been a journey filled with excitement, challenges, and profound self-discovery. The most significant challenge has been redefining my identity now that it is no longer tied to my career. For so long, my job was not just what I did; it was who I was. Now, I am learning to see myself in a new light, beyond the titles and professional achievements.

Letting go of my job in ASEAN, which I loved, felt like losing a significant part of myself. I had not realised how much I equated my profession with my identity. Without that defining role, I have found myself grappling with questions about who I am and where my true value lies. It's been both unsettling and liberating to confront these thoughts head-on.

I have been actively looking for work here, but it has not been easy. The job market is different, and the cultural and professional landscapes are unfamiliar. I remember after one interview that I thought went okay—I knew I could have done more, but it was not terrible—I received a polite yet generic rejection email. It hit me harder than I expected.

I spent the day feeling numb, questioning my abilities, and wondering if I'd made a mistake moving here. For a few days, I let myself be buried in my depression. It was a heaviness I'd never felt before, especially since finding a job in Indonesia had been easier. The rejections here have been tough to handle, each one chipping away at my confidence.

During this difficult time, my family, friends, and my loving husband became my anchors. They comforted me for hours or simply took me to coffee shops because it always made my day. It did not erase the disappointment, but it reminded me that I am not alone.

I have also started exploring parts of the city that captivated me—the parks, the bustling streets, the quiet corners. Back in Jakarta, pollution and a hectic work schedule kept me from enjoying outdoor spaces. Now, I have the time to walk more, take public transportation, and lose myself in books while sitting in parks. These simple pleasures are helping me rediscover the joys that I had put aside and are teaching me that there is more to life than professional success.

Letting go of my previous job and the identity it provided has not been easy, especially with the added weight of job search difficulties. But each new experience—whether it is a conversation with a new friend, a walk through a park, or quality time with loved ones—helps me move forward. I am learning to find fulfillment in the present moment and in activities that nurture my well-being.

I am also trying to be kinder to myself, recognising that it is okay to feel vulnerable. This process is teaching me patience and self-compassion. I am beginning to see this transition not just as an end but as a beginning filled with possibilities.

These experiences have made me reflect deeply on how much we tie our self-worth to our careers and external validation. Society often equates success with professional achievement, but what happens when that validation is not there? I am challenging this narrative by exploring self-worth that is not dependent on job titles or others' approval.

Facing rejection has been tough, but it is also forcing me to reassess what truly matters to me. I am starting to appreciate that my value is not determined by a job offer or a title—it is inherent and multifaceted.