What Would I Do If I Weren’t Afraid of Failure?

If I weren’t afraid of failure, I would live with a boldness that feels almost unfamiliar—like stepping into a version of myself I’ve always sensed was there, but kept on a leash. I would stop negotiating with fear, stop shrinking my dreams into “reasonable” sizes, and stop asking for permission to be fully who I am. Failure, for most of my life, hasn’t just meant getting something wrong; it has meant disappointing people, wasting time, proving the doubters right, and—most painfully—letting down the people I love. If that fear disappeared, even for a moment, my life would expand in ways I can barely contain.

If I weren’t afraid of failure, I would speak my truth without rehearsing it a hundred times first. I would say what I feel when I feel it, not days later when the moment has passed. I would stop softening my words to make them easier to swallow and trust that honesty, even when uncomfortable, is an act of respect. I’ve learned to read rooms well—sometimes too well—and I often adjust myself accordingly. Without fear, I would let my voice take up space. I would trust that being misunderstood is not the same as being wrong.

I would pursue my ideas with relentless confidence. I have never lacked ideas—only the certainty that they deserve to exist in the world. If failure didn’t loom so large, I would launch the project before it was “perfect,” share the thought before it was polished, and believe that momentum matters more than flawlessness. I would stop waiting for validation and start acting from conviction. I would trust my instincts, because experience has already shown me that they are rarely wrong.

If I weren’t afraid of failure, I would dream without limits. I wouldn’t ask myself whether something is realistic; I would ask whether it sets my soul on fire. I would stop confusing safety with fulfillment. I would aim higher than what feels comfortable and stop downplaying my ambitions to seem humble or sensible. I would let myself want big things—deep impact, lasting legacy, meaningful change—without immediately listing all the reasons it might not work.

I would love more bravely. Fear of failure doesn’t only show up in careers and goals; it lives quietly in relationships too. If I weren’t afraid of getting hurt, misunderstood, or left behind, I would open my heart wider. I would stop guarding myself with emotional caution tape. I would trust that even if something ends, it doesn’t mean it failed. Some relationships are meant to teach, shape, and refine us—not last forever. Without fear, I would choose vulnerability over control every time.

If I weren’t afraid of failure, I would stop carrying guilt for paths I didn’t take sooner. I would forgive myself for the years I spent hesitating. I would understand that survival required caution at certain points in my life, and that courage looks different in different seasons. I would stop asking, “Why didn’t I do this earlier?” and instead say, “I’m ready now.” Fear has a way of turning hindsight into a weapon; without it, hindsight becomes wisdom.

I would trust God more fully—not in a passive, “whatever happens” way, but in an active, courageous obedience. If I weren’t afraid of failure, I would stop seeing setbacks as signs I misheard Him. I would understand that faith doesn’t guarantee smooth roads; it guarantees purpose. I would take steps even when the outcome is unclear, believing that obedience matters more than results. I would stop asking for certainty and start asking for courage.

If I weren’t afraid of failure, I would redefine what failure even means. I would stop seeing it as proof of inadequacy and start seeing it as evidence of effort. I would teach my children—through my actions, not just my words—that trying and stumbling is infinitely braver than never starting. I would model resilience instead of perfection. I would let them see me take risks, recover from mistakes, and keep going anyway.

I would also rest differently. Fear of failure has a way of turning rest into guilt and productivity into worth. Without that fear, I would allow myself to pause without feeling lazy, to say no without over-explaining, and to trust that my value is not tied to constant output. I would understand that a life well-lived includes stillness, reflection, and margin—not just achievements.

If I weren’t afraid of failure, I would stop waiting for signs that I’m “allowed” to begin. I would stop interpreting resistance as a stop sign and start seeing it as part of the process. I would understand that courage is not the absence of fear, but the decision that something else matters more. And what matters more, to me, is living honestly, loving deeply, and leaving the world better than I found it.

The truth is, fear of failure has never actually protected me from pain. It has only delayed growth. If I weren’t afraid of failure, I would choose expansion over comfort, purpose over approval, and faith over certainty. And maybe the real question isn’t what I would do if I weren’t afraid of failure—but what I’m slowly learning to do anyway, despite it.

A Year That Changed the Shape of My Heart

 

As I look back more closely at 2025, I realize that this year didn’t just teach me lessons — it introduced me to parts of myself I didn’t know existed.

One of the deepest losses came in a form I never expected. Losing my feathered baby, Quando, broke something in me. I didn’t realize how much space he occupied in my heart until he was gone. Before this, I had never had a pet long enough — or been old enough — to truly understand attachment, responsibility, and unconditional companionship. Quando wasn’t “just a bird.” He was presence. He was routine. He was comfort in the quiet moments. His absence was loud, and the grief surprised me with its intensity. Through him, I learned that love is never measured by size or lifespan, and grief is never something to be minimized. Loving deeply means risking loss — and I would still choose that love every time.

And yet, in the midst of loss, 2025 also gave me restoration.

Towards the end of the year, God surprised us with something I never thought I’d witness again — the healing of a once-broken family. After nearly five years of silence, my uncle B returned into our lives. We attended his wedding, and then Christmas together, and suddenly it felt like time folded in on itself. Laughter flowed the way it used to. Familiar rhythms returned. It felt like yesterday, not years ago. That reunion reminded me that time doesn’t erase love — it simply waits. Reconciliation doesn’t always come quickly, but when it does, it feels like grace. I learned that sometimes healing doesn’t arrive with explanations, just with open doors and willing hearts.

This same spirit of peace followed me into another long-overdue reconciliation — making peace with my father. That wasn’t a dramatic moment either. It was quiet, honest, and real. There were no perfect words, just mutual understanding and acceptance of what was, instead of what should have been. 2025 taught me that peace doesn’t mean rewriting the past; it means choosing not to let it control the future.

Faith took on flesh this year when I stepped out of my comfort zone and joined my first church mission to Vietnam. That experience was nothing short of an eye-opener. I arrived thinking I was going to help, but I left realizing how much I had received instead. The people I met, the humility I witnessed, and the friendships formed shifted something inside me. It reminded me that the world is far bigger than my own struggles — and yet deeply connected. Through that mission, I made new friends who felt familiar in the soul, bonded not by convenience but by shared purpose. 2025 taught me that growth often begins the moment we say yes to something that scares us.

This year also marked a turning point in how I see myself.

For the first time, I stood my ground with my stepbrother — someone who once bullied me and made me feel small. I didn’t raise my voice. I didn’t seek revenge. I simply showed him who I am now. Calm. Grounded. Unshakeable. That moment wasn’t about proving anything to him — it was about reclaiming my power for myself. 2025 taught me that healing doesn’t always look like forgiveness; sometimes it looks like boundaries and self-respect.

Another unexpected gift came when I travelled alone to Malaysia to spend time with long-lost relatives — the Massangs — celebrating Father Pat’s 40th year as a priest. As an introvert, the idea terrified me. Staying with people who were family by blood but strangers in practice felt overwhelming. I was nervous the entire journey there. But what I found was warmth, acceptance, and comfort. They treated me with such kindness that I felt instantly at home. I laughed easily. I relaxed fully. I belonged. When it was time to leave, I was genuinely sad. That experience taught me that sometimes the places we fear the most are the ones where we heal the deepest.

Loss returned once more toward the end of the year — sudden and heartbreaking. I lost an online friend I had grown close to through conversations filled with humour and connection. We had plans to meet on December 27. He passed away on December 17. His last message to me was sent before I left for Malaysia, and when I returned, ready to reply, I learned he was gone. That loss was a brutal reminder of how fragile life truly is. It taught me — painfully — that time is not guaranteed, and procrastination costs more than we realize. Say the things. Make the plans. Show up when you can.

Yet even in that grief, light found its way in.

Through him, I gained new friends — his partner Sam and his brother Graham. And in what I can only describe as divine timing, I had been part of planning a Christmas surprise for Sam. When I learned of his passing, I reached out and asked if I could fulfill his last wish for her. She said yes. Being able to give her that closure — to ensure she never had to wonder what his surprise would have been — felt like an honour. In that moment, I understood that love doesn’t end with death; it continues through acts of kindness, through memory, through intention. I felt blessed to be a small part of something meaningful in the midst of loss.

Looking at all of this now, I see 2025 for what it truly was — a year of endings and beginnings braided together. A year that taught me grief is not weakness, reconciliation is sacred, faith requires courage, and love is always worth the risk.

So as I step into 2026, I do so changed.

I step forward softer, but stronger. More discerning. More present. More aware that life is fleeting, relationships are precious, and peace is something we actively choose every single day.

Goodbye, 2025 — for the lessons, the losses, and the love.

Hello, 2026 — I walk into you with an open heart, steady faith, and a soul that has learned how to survive, heal, and still believe.

Movie Recommendation: Home by Christmas (2006)

 

Home by Christmas (2006)

There are some films that entertain loudly, and then there are films that speak softly—and Home by Christmas (2006) belongs firmly in the second category. It is the kind of movie that doesn’t announce its importance or rely on spectacle to be remembered. Instead, it quietly settles into your heart, unfolding with patience and sincerity, and stays with you long after it ends. I absolutely loved Home by Christmas because it understands something deeply human: that “home” is not always a physical place, but an emotional one—shaped by love, forgiveness, loss, and the courage to return.

At its core, Home by Christmas is about estrangement and reconciliation, but it approaches these themes with gentleness rather than melodrama. The story feels lived-in, almost familiar, as though it could belong to someone you know—or perhaps even to yourself. It doesn’t rely on dramatic twists or exaggerated conflict. Instead, it focuses on the quiet ache of distance between people who once loved each other deeply, and the fragile hope that maybe, just maybe, things can still be mended.

Christmas, as a setting, is used thoughtfully rather than sentimentally. The film recognises what many of us feel during the holidays: that festive lights and cheerful music can intensify unresolved emotions. Christmas has a way of amplifying longing—longing for connection, for understanding, for a version of family that feels whole again. Home by Christmas leans into that truth without forcing it, allowing the season to act as a backdrop rather than a gimmick.

For me, Linda Hamilton is the heart and soul of this film. She has been my all-time favourite actress for as long as I can remember, and watching her in this role reminded me exactly why. There is a quiet strength in her performance that feels incredibly authentic. She brings a sense of emotional honesty that can’t be manufactured. Instead of big speeches or overt displays of emotion, she relies on subtlety—on pauses, glances, and restraint. Her vulnerability feels earned, not performed.

What makes Linda Hamilton especially compelling here is the way she balances resilience with tenderness. Her character carries the weight of past decisions, regrets, and emotional scars, yet there is no bitterness in her portrayal—only realism. She embodies the idea that strength doesn’t always look loud or forceful. Sometimes, strength is simply continuing to show up, even when it hurts. Watching her navigate this emotional terrain is deeply moving, and it elevates the entire film.

The relationships in Home by Christmas are imperfect, messy, and unresolved in ways that feel true to life. The film doesn’t pretend that time alone heals all wounds, nor does it offer easy resolutions. Instead, it honours the reality that reconciliation requires vulnerability, humility, and effort from everyone involved. I appreciated that the film allows its characters to sit with discomfort, to confront past mistakes without immediately fixing them. Healing, here, is a process—not a magical Christmas miracle.

Another strength of the film is its pacing. It takes its time, trusting the audience to feel rather than be told what to feel. There’s a quiet confidence in the storytelling that feels increasingly rare. The film understands that emotional depth doesn’t need to be rushed, and that sometimes the most powerful moments are the smallest ones—an awkward conversation, a shared memory, a moment of hesitation before forgiveness is offered.

What stayed with me most after watching Home by Christmas was its underlying message of hope. Not a loud, unrealistic hope, but a gentle one. The film suggests that even after years of silence, love doesn’t simply disappear—it waits. It may change shape, soften, or ache, but it remains. And sometimes, all it takes is the courage to return, to speak, to listen.

Home by Christmas isn’t flashy, dramatic, or overly sentimental—and that is exactly why it works. It feels like a warm, familiar blanket: comforting, honest, and quietly profound. For me, it was a beautiful and emotional experience, made unforgettable by Linda Hamilton’s presence. If you’re looking for a Christmas movie with depth, soul, and genuine heart—one that understands the complexity of family and the power of second chances—this film is absolutely worth your time.

In what ways have you overcome challenges in the past, and how can that inspire you now?

Challenges have been a constant presence in my life, but so has resilience. Looking back, I realize that I have never truly avoided hardship; instead, I have learned how to move through it. Every difficult season has shaped me into someone stronger, more compassionate, and more grounded, and remembering this now reminds me that I am capable of facing whatever lies ahead.

One of the greatest challenges I have faced is loss. I have lost people who were central to my sense of safety, encouragement, and identity—people who believed in me when I struggled to believe in myself. Grief has a way of dismantling the familiar, leaving behind silence where there was once laughter and reassurance. For a long time, I felt as though part of me had been taken with them. Yet, even in that pain, I chose not to let grief harden my heart. Instead, I honoured those I lost by continuing forward, carrying their words, values, and love with me. That choice—to keep going despite heartbreak—taught me that endurance is not about being unbroken, but about continuing to show up even when you are hurting.

Another challenge I have overcome is learning to trust myself. There were moments when I doubted my abilities, questioned my decisions, and felt overshadowed by expectations placed upon me. Building confidence did not happen overnight; it came through persistence, small victories, and the willingness to start again after setbacks. Whether it was pursuing creative projects, building something meaningful from the ground up, or stepping into leadership when I felt unqualified, I learned that courage often appears only after action. Each time I pushed through uncertainty, I proved to myself that I was more capable than I had believed.

I have also faced the challenge of reinvention. Life circumstances forced me to adapt, to redefine success, and to realign my priorities. Instead of resisting change, I learned to embrace it. I discovered that growth often requires letting go of old versions of ourselves. This process was uncomfortable, but it taught me flexibility, humility, and faith in the unseen. I learned that starting over is not failure—it is an act of hope.

These past challenges inspire me now because they remind me of my track record. I have survived moments I once thought would break me. I have rebuilt after loss, found clarity after confusion, and strength after exhaustion. When I feel uncertain about the future, I look back and see evidence of resilience, not weakness.

Today, I draw inspiration from my own history. I know that challenges are not signals to stop, but invitations to grow. The lessons I have learned—perseverance, self-belief, adaptability, and compassion—continue to guide me forward. If I have overcome so much before, then I can trust myself to rise again, no matter what comes next.

Want to Change Your Life in 2026?

Every year, as the calendar turns, we’re invited into the same familiar conversation: This is the year everything will change. We promise ourselves we’ll be better, stronger, calmer, more disciplined, more successful. And yet, more often than not, the year ends looking suspiciously like the one before it. For a long time, I thought change required some dramatic reinvention—new habits overnight, a new version of myself that somehow arrived fully formed on January 1st. What I’ve learned, through grief, faith, failure, growth, and grace, is that real change doesn’t begin with grand declarations. It begins with honesty.

If you truly want to change your life in 2026, the first thing you must be willing to do is tell yourself the truth—without cruelty, but without excuses. For me, that truth came quietly, not in a moment of triumph, but in moments of stillness. Early mornings, when the world hadn’t woken up yet. Long walks with my thoughts. Church pews that invited reflection rather than distraction. I realised that my life didn’t need fixing—it needed aligning. Aligning with my values, my faith, my boundaries, and the person I know I’m meant to be.

Change doesn’t start with doing more. It starts with letting go. Letting go of habits that keep you busy but unfulfilled. Letting go of relationships that drain rather than nourish. Letting go of the need to prove yourself to people who will never be satisfied anyway. One of the hardest lessons I’ve learned is that loyalty to others should never come at the cost of betrayal to yourself. In 2026, if you want your life to look different, you must be brave enough to choose yourself—not selfishly, but truthfully.

I used to believe that discipline was about punishment—pushing harder, being stricter, denying myself joy until I’d “earned” it. Now I see discipline differently. Discipline is devotion. It’s waking up early not because you hate your body, but because you respect it. It’s choosing nourishing food not for punishment, but for energy. It’s moving your body because you’re grateful it carries you through life. When I committed to early mornings and consistent routines, my life didn’t just become healthier—it became quieter, clearer, and more intentional. Change followed naturally, not forcefully.

Grief has also been one of my greatest teachers. Losing people who shaped my life cracked me open in ways I never expected. It taught me how fragile time is, how precious ordinary moments are, and how deeply love marks us long after someone is gone. If 2026 is going to be different, it cannot be lived on autopilot. You must show up while people are still here. Say the words now. Take the photos. Have the coffee. Forgive sooner. Love louder. Tomorrow is never promised, and once you truly understand that, you stop postponing the life you want to live.

Faith has played a profound role in my own transformation. Returning to Church didn’t suddenly make life easier, but it gave me something far more valuable—perspective. It reminded me that I don’t have to carry everything alone, that surrender is not weakness, and that peace is found not in control, but in trust. If you want to change your life in 2026, ask yourself what you’re placing your faith in. Is it external validation? Productivity? Approval? Or is it something deeper and steadier that holds you when everything else falls away?

Another uncomfortable truth: you cannot change your life while clinging to the version of yourself that kept you safe but stuck. At some point, survival must give way to growth. That might mean disappointing people. It might mean being misunderstood. It might mean outgrowing spaces that once felt like home. Growth is rarely loud or glamorous—it’s often lonely and deeply internal. But it’s also where freedom lives. In 2026, choose growth even when it costs  you comfort.

Change also requires patience. We live in a world obsessed with instant results, but the most meaningful transformations happen slowly, quietly, and consistently. You don’t wake up one day suddenly healed, disciplined, or confident. You become those things by showing up again and again, even on the days you feel tired, unmotivated, or unsure. I’ve learned to stop asking, How fast can I get there? and start asking, Can I stay committed even when no one is watching?

Perhaps the most important shift I’ve made is redefining success. Success is no longer about how much I do or how much I achieve. It’s about how aligned my life feels. It’s about integrity—living in a way that matches my values. It’s about peace—being able to sit with myself without needing distraction. It’s about impact—knowing that the way I live encourages others to live more honestly too. If you want 2026 to change your life, redefine what success means to you before the world does it for you.

So, if you’re asking yourself whether 2026 can be different, my answer is this: yes—but only if you are willing to be different first. Different in how you speak to yourself. Different in what you tolerate. Different in how you spend your time, your energy, and your love. You don’t need a new year to become someone new. You need courage, consistency, and compassion for yourself.

Change isn’t a destination waiting for you in 2026. It’s a choice you make daily, starting now. And if you’re willing to make that choice—not perfectly, but faithfully—your life won’t just change. It will finally feel like yours.

Movie Recommendation: Isabel’s Garden (2024)

 

Isabel’s Garden (2024)

Isabel’s Garden (2024), directed by Kit Rich, is a quietly powerful film that unfolds with gentleness and emotional sincerity. Rather than relying on dramatic twists or heightened spectacle, the film invites viewers into an intimate space where grief, healing, and connection grow slowly—much like the garden at the heart of the story. It is a film that does not demand attention but earns it, lingering in the mind long after the final scene.

The story follows Maya, portrayed with remarkable restraint and depth by Karen David, as she navigates life after the sudden death of her husband. Maya is not only grieving her loss but also attempting to build a relationship with Isabel, her late husband’s daughter. What makes Maya’s journey so compelling is its honesty. She is not written as a flawless caregiver or a perfectly resilient widow; instead, she is visibly carrying pain, uncertainty, and emotional fatigue. David’s performance captures this beautifully, allowing viewers to feel the heaviness Maya bears without ever overstating it.

The evolving relationship between Maya and Isabel is the emotional core of the film. Initially marked by distance and discomfort, their bond develops through shared routines, unspoken understanding, and moments of quiet vulnerability. The garden they tend together becomes a poignant metaphor for healing—representing patience, care, and the courage to nurture something new even when the soil has been disturbed by loss. This symbolism feels organic rather than contrived, reinforcing the film’s overall sense of emotional authenticity.

Visually, Isabel’s Garden is understated yet striking. The cinematography uses natural light and soft framing to mirror the emotional states of its characters, drawing viewers gently into their world. One of the film’s most unexpected and touching elements is the inclusion of animated sequences inspired by a beloved book series. These scenes act as windows into Maya’s inner life, adding warmth and imagination while deepening the emotional texture of the story.

Jayne Taini’s performance as Grace, the thoughtful neighbor, provides an additional layer of calm and wisdom. Grace serves as a quiet anchor in the narrative—someone who understands that support does not always mean offering solutions. Her presence reinforces the film’s message that healing often comes from being seen and gently accompanied rather than fixed.

While the pacing of Isabel’s Garden is undeniably slow, this deliberate rhythm allows the story room to breathe. The film trusts its audience to sit with discomfort, silence, and emotional nuance, making the experience more reflective than passive.

I would wholeheartedly recommend Isabel’s Garden to viewers who appreciate tender, character-driven storytelling. It is not a loud or flashy film, but it is an honest one—offering a quiet reminder that even through grief and pain, it is still possible to grow something meaningful and beautiful.

What are your strengths, and how can you leverage them for success?

For a long time, I thought strengths were loud, obvious things — confidence that never wavered, boldness without fear, success without detours. But life has taught me that real strengths are often quieter, forged through loss, persistence, humility, and the choice to keep going even when it would be easier to stop. When I look honestly at my strengths today, they are deeply tied to my experiences, my values, and the way I show up for the people and work I care about.

One of my greatest strengths is resilience. Not the dramatic, headline-worthy kind, but the steady resilience that gets built through repeated setbacks, grief, and reinvention. I’ve experienced loss that reshaped me, moments that emptied me, and seasons where I questioned everything I thought I knew about myself. Yet each time, I found a way to stand back up — not unchanged, but wiser. This resilience allows me to face uncertainty with less fear. I don’t panic as easily when things don’t go to plan, because I know I can adapt. To leverage this strength for success, I lean into challenges rather than avoiding them. I take calculated risks, knowing that even if something fails, it will teach me something valuable. Resilience gives me staying power, and success often belongs to those who simply don’t quit.

Another strength is my ability to connect deeply with people. I listen well. I notice what others miss. I care — genuinely. Whether it’s in family, friendships, faith communities, or business, I value relationships over transactions. This strength has helped me build trust, loyalty, and meaningful collaborations. People feel seen and heard around me, and that creates strong foundations for anything I’m involved in. To leverage this, I choose people-centered leadership. I build networks slowly but intentionally, nurture long-term relationships, and prioritize empathy even in professional settings. Success, I’ve learned, is rarely a solo effort — it grows faster and lasts longer when built with others.

I also have a strong sense of purpose. I don’t do well with work or projects that feel empty or disconnected from meaning. Whether it’s writing, creating, building something new, or sharing ideas, I need to know that it serves a bigger picture. This sense of purpose keeps me grounded when external validation fades. It helps me make decisions that align with my values rather than chasing quick wins. To leverage this strength, I anchor my goals in “why” before “how.” When my actions are aligned with my beliefs — faith, integrity, contribution, and growth — I stay motivated even when progress is slow. Purpose gives direction to effort, and direction turns effort into impact.

Creativity is another strength that runs through everything I do. It shows up in how I communicate, how I problem-solve, and how I reimagine what’s possible. Creativity isn’t just about artistic expression; it’s about seeing options where others see limits. It allows me to pivot, innovate, and bring originality into crowded spaces. To leverage this strength, I give myself permission to think differently and trust my instincts. I don’t force myself into rigid molds that don’t fit. Instead, I design paths that play to my natural way of thinking. Creativity becomes most powerful when it’s paired with consistency, so I’ve learned to balance inspiration with discipline.

I also possess self-awareness — a strength that took time and humility to develop. I know my flaws. I know my triggers. I know where I need boundaries and where I need growth. This awareness helps me course-correct faster and avoid repeating the same mistakes. It allows me to receive feedback without crumbling and to own my missteps without shame. To leverage self-awareness, I reflect often. I ask myself hard questions. I stay open to learning, even when it’s uncomfortable. Success isn’t about perfection; it’s about evolution, and self-awareness is the compass that keeps me moving in the right direction.

Finally, one of my quiet but powerful strengths is faith — not as a performance, but as an anchor. Faith reminds me that I don’t have to control everything, that timing matters, and that setbacks are not the end of the story. It gives me peace in uncertainty and courage in action. To leverage this strength, I practice trust alongside effort. I do the work, but I also let go of outcomes I can’t control. That balance keeps me steady, hopeful, and focused.

Leveraging strengths isn’t about pushing harder; it’s about aligning smarter. When I lead with resilience, connection, purpose, creativity, self-awareness, and faith, success stops being a destination and becomes a way of living. These strengths don’t just help me achieve goals — they help me build a life that feels whole, meaningful, and true to who I am.