Don’t Lose Yourself

 

In a world that praises kindness, celebrates harmony, and encourages empathy, it’s easy to fall into the trap of people-pleasing. We grow up being told to be considerate, to compromise, to avoid conflict where possible. These lessons, while rooted in good intentions, can slowly chip away at the core of who we are—especially when taken to the extreme. Many of us don’t realize we’ve lost ourselves until we’re already standing in the ruins of our own boundaries, our own identity, wondering how we got there.

People-pleasing can masquerade as virtue. It’s the willingness to help, to support, to show up. It feels good to be liked, to be needed, to be the one others can rely on. But beneath the surface, people-pleasing can be a slow erosion of the self. When every decision we make is filtered through the question, “Will they be upset?” or “What will they think of me?” we begin to live a life of reaction, not intention. Our needs are suppressed. Our desires are diluted. Our truth is silenced.

Losing yourself doesn’t happen all at once. It’s not a dramatic moment of surrender, but a series of small choices made over time. You cancel plans you were looking forward to because someone else asked for your time. You bite your tongue when something upsets you, convincing yourself it’s not worth the argument. You say yes when you desperately want to say no. Over time, these actions compound. You start forgetting what it is you actually want. You start questioning whether your needs matter at all.

Conflict is uncomfortable, yes. But it’s a necessary side effect of standing up for what you need. When we constantly avoid conflict, we’re often avoiding our own truth. We’re saying, “Your comfort is more important than my honesty.” But honesty—especially with ourselves—is essential to any meaningful, healthy relationship. Without it, we become actors in someone else’s script, performing a version of ourselves that keeps the peace but slowly breaks our spirit.

Many people-pleasers are not born that way—they are shaped. Perhaps you grew up in a household where love felt conditional, dependent on your ability to be “good,” quiet, agreeable. Perhaps you learned early on that causing trouble, speaking out, or expressing frustration led to punishment, withdrawal, or disapproval. These patterns of survival often follow us into adulthood, where we continue to perform roles that were once necessary but are now detrimental.

But here’s the hard truth: You cannot keep everyone happy. And trying to do so will only leave you exhausted and resentful. People will have expectations of you that you cannot meet. They will misunderstand you. They will be disappointed in your choices. That is part of life. And it’s not your job to prevent all discomfort—especially at the cost of your own well-being.

Reclaiming yourself means learning how to tolerate the discomfort of disappointing others. It means reminding yourself that you are allowed to take up space, to have needs, to say no. It means redefining what kindness looks like. Kindness is not self-sacrifice. It is not silence in the face of mistreatment. It is not carrying the emotional weight of others while neglecting your own. True kindness includes kindness to yourself.

Saying no is not a betrayal. Expressing your needs is not selfish. Wanting time alone, setting boundaries, changing your mind—these are not moral failings. They are signs that you are listening to yourself, valuing your own humanity. And yes, it might be awkward. It might be met with pushback. People who have benefitted from your lack of boundaries are not always thrilled when you start enforcing them. But their discomfort is not your burden to carry. You are not responsible for managing everyone’s emotions.

Often, people-pleasers fear being seen as difficult or unkind. But there is nothing kind about living a lie. There is nothing noble in being so accommodating that you lose your own voice. People may praise you for being “so easygoing,” “so helpful,” “so nice”—but if these compliments are built on a foundation of self-abandonment, they are hollow. You deserve more than performative praise. You deserve authenticity, connection, and relationships where you don’t have to shrink yourself to fit.

The journey back to yourself is not a straight path. It takes time to unlearn the habits of self-erasure. It starts with small, courageous acts. You pause before saying yes. You check in with yourself: Do I really want this? You speak up when something doesn’t sit right. You challenge the automatic urge to fix, to please, to accommodate. You learn to sit with the anxiety of being misunderstood—and you remind yourself that your worth is not dependent on being agreeable.

One powerful tool in this process is self-reflection. Journaling, therapy, or even mindful moments of stillness can help you reconnect with your inner voice. Who are you beneath the expectations? What do you value? What makes you come alive? These questions can be confronting, especially if you’ve spent years tuning out your own desires. But the more you ask them, the clearer your answers will become.

Another essential part of this journey is learning to identify healthy relationships. The people who truly love you will not punish you for setting boundaries. They will respect your honesty. They will understand when you need space or when you say no. If someone’s affection is conditional on your compliance, it’s not love—it’s control. Surround yourself with those who allow you to be your full, authentic self.

Reclaiming yourself also means forgiving yourself for the times you didn’t speak up. The times you stayed quiet. The times you said yes when you meant no. You were doing your best with what you had. Survival strategies are not signs of weakness—they are evidence of resilience. But now, you have the chance to grow beyond them. To thrive, not just survive.

It’s not about swinging to the opposite extreme and becoming selfish or indifferent. It’s about balance. About understanding that your needs are just as valid as anyone else’s. About recognizing that self-care is not a luxury—it’s a necessity. When you honor yourself, you show others how to treat you. You model what healthy self-respect looks like.

“Don’t lose yourself” is more than just a warning—it’s a call to courage. The courage to stand firm when it’s easier to bend. The courage to speak truth when silence is safer. The courage to be disliked, misunderstood, or criticized—and to still hold your ground. Because the alternative is a life of quiet desperation, of smiling through gritted teeth, of slowly disappearing.

You were not born to be everyone’s solution. You were not put on this earth to fulfill every expectation, to absorb every burden, to exist only in service to others. Your life is your own. Your voice matters. Your needs matter. And the world doesn’t need a version of you that’s been diluted to keep the peace—it needs the real you. Whole. Honest. Unapologetic.

So don’t lose yourself. In the rush to please, to fix, to appease—pause. Breathe. Come back to yourself. You are not too much. You are not too needy. You are not wrong for wanting space, clarity, respect. You are worthy—just as you are. And the people who truly love you will never ask you to be anything less.

The Power of Presence: 'Freedom Writers' (2007)

 

#DebraAndValerieMovieRecommendation

Freedom Writers (2007) is more than a movie—it’s an emotional journey that invites you to sit with the pain, resilience, and transformation of young people who have been pushed to the margins. When I watched it, I wasn’t just absorbing a story; I was feeling it. I saw parts of myself, my community, and people I’ve loved in those characters. It reminded me of the deep, often invisible battles people fight every day and how a single act of belief can radically alter the course of a life.

At its core, Freedom Writers is about a teacher, Erin Gruwell—portrayed brilliantly by Hilary Swank—who walks into a racially divided, broken classroom and refuses to give up on her students. But what struck me wasn’t just her passion for teaching. It was her unwavering presence. Erin showed up day after day, not just to instruct, but to see her students, to hear them, and to fight for them when no one else would. That resonated with me deeply because I’ve come to understand, both personally and through others, that presence can be more powerful than any grand gesture. Just knowing someone is in your corner, that they won’t walk away when things get ugly—that can be everything.

There’s a quiet sort of heroism in what Erin does. She doesn’t walk into the classroom with the answers. In fact, she makes mistakes, faces resistance, and sacrifices a lot. But she keeps going. That persistence reminded me of people in my own life—mentors, friends, even strangers—who saw something in me when I didn’t see it in myself. They stayed. They listened. They reminded me that I mattered, not through words alone, but through consistent, compassionate action. Watching Erin do the same brought those memories flooding back.

What hit me the hardest were the students’ journal entries. Their stories weren’t dramatized for effect—they were raw, painful, and authentic. They spoke of violence, abuse, racism, and abandonment. And yet, through writing, they found something none of them expected: release. Identity. Healing. It was incredible to witness their transformation, to watch them go from guarded and angry to open and hopeful. Their journey reminded me of how important it is to have a space to speak your truth. So many people, especially those who grow up in difficult environments, are taught to stay silent. To be tough. But in those journals, these students finally let the truth out—and it changed everything.

There was one particular scene that stuck with me—when Erin introduces her students to The Diary of Anne Frank. Suddenly, these teenagers, who believed they were alone in their suffering, found a connection to someone from a completely different time and place. That moment spoke volumes about the universal power of storytelling. It breaks down barriers. It builds empathy. It teaches us that no matter how different we may seem, pain and hope are part of the human experience. As someone who writes and reflects often, I felt deeply affirmed by that message.

Still, I wouldn’t be honest if I didn’t acknowledge the film’s flaws. While I admire the real-life Erin Gruwell and the tireless work she did, the film leans heavily on the “white savior” trope—where a white teacher steps in to rescue students of color. Though it’s based on true events, this narrative structure can feel imbalanced, especially when the students' agency is underplayed. These young people weren’t just rescued—they were resilient, intelligent, and capable of change long before Erin arrived. I found myself wanting to see more of them, their inner lives and choices, outside the classroom. The film would’ve been stronger if it had centered their growth a little more equally alongside Erin’s journey.

Despite this, Freedom Writers left a lasting impression on me. It challenged me to think about how I show up for others, especially those who feel unseen. It made me reflect on whether I’ve given people the space to tell their stories—or whether I’ve ever inadvertently dismissed them. It made me want to do better, to listen more, and to recognize the quiet power that empathy holds.

Perhaps what I love most about this film is its unshakable belief in change. Not dramatic, overnight change—but slow, persistent, sometimes painful transformation that comes from being seen, heard, and supported. The students didn’t become perfect. Their lives weren’t magically fixed. But they began to believe in themselves. And that belief created ripples that no test score ever could.

In the end, Freedom Writers reminded me that we don’t need to be perfect to make a difference. We just need to care enough to try. We need to stay when it’s easier to walk away. We need to hand someone a pen and say, “Your story matters.” That lesson will stay with me long after the credits have rolled.

Messy Faith, Honest Heart: My Catholic Story

 

Faith, for many, flows like a gentle river—clear, steady, always moving forward. For me, faith has been more like a stormy ocean, its tides rising and crashing without warning, sometimes dragging me under. My Catholic story is not one of constant light and unwavering devotion. It is a story born out of grief, sculpted by loss, and redeemed by unexpected grace. It is a story of a messy faith held together by an honest heart.

I didn’t walk away from the Church in a single moment. It wasn’t a dramatic exit or a conscious decision to renounce God. It was a slow unraveling, a gradual quieting of belief as life dealt me blow after blow. I turned away from the Church during one of the most vulnerable and painful seasons of my life—when I was trying to conceive and found myself enduring miscarriage after miscarriage. But my grief didn’t stop there. I was also suffering the loss of people I deeply loved—friends, mentors, family members who had shaped my world and now were no longer in it.

Each loss left a hole in my heart, and I began to feel like I was living in a world governed by randomness and cruelty, not divine love. I had grown up in the Church, taught to believe in a God who was good, merciful, and ever-present. But where was He now? Where was He when I watched people I love die too young? Where was He when I clutched my belly in hope, only to lose that hope again and again?

The heartbreak of miscarriage is difficult to describe. It's invisible to the world but catastrophic to the soul. Each time I saw two lines on a pregnancy test, I felt a cautious flicker of joy, followed almost immediately by fear. Each time, I prayed with everything in me. And each time, I was left shattered—empty womb, aching heart. I questioned everything. What kind of God would deny a woman the chance to love a child? Why were babies being given to those who abused, neglected, or abandoned them, while I, who would have given everything, was left with nothing?

Then there were the stories on the news—children abandoned, harmed, killed. These weren’t distant headlines. They felt like personal attacks. I remember lying awake at night with silent tears, choking on anger. I felt betrayed by the very faith I had once clung to. The God I once spoke to daily became someone I no longer recognized. I didn’t just stop going to church—I stopped talking to God altogether. In my silence, I thought maybe I could erase Him. But He was still there, quietly watching, waiting, letting me grieve.

For years, I carried this rage. I didn’t feel safe in my faith anymore. Going back to church felt impossible. It wasn’t just the rituals that felt meaningless—it was the entire idea of trusting in something divine. I had loved deeply, I had believed passionately, and I had been met with loss after loss. I felt abandoned.

But in the midst of this spiritual wilderness, there was someone who never gave up on me. My best friend who remained by my side. He never preached to me or tried to fix my broken theology. He didn’t throw Bible verses at my pain or suggest that I “pray more.” He simply stayed. He saw me—raw, angry, unfiltered—and loved me anyway.

It was this quiet, unwavering presence that began to shift something in me. He invited me to church several times, and I always declined. But one day, for reasons I still don’t fully understand, I said yes. Maybe I was just tired—tired of carrying the bitterness, tired of being alone in my pain. Maybe a part of me missed the familiarity of the Church—the incense, the hymns, the sanctuary that once gave me peace. Or maybe God, in His patient mercy, had been gently leading me all along.

Walking into church that day was one of the hardest things I’d ever done. I felt like an imposter, like someone who didn’t belong. I kept my head low, my heart guarded. But something about being in that space stirred an ache I had long buried. It wasn’t comfort I felt—it was confrontation. I was being confronted with everything I had lost, everything I had denied. And yet, there was also something else. Something deeper. A whisper I couldn’t ignore.

That whisper grew louder when my friend encouraged me to go to confession. I laughed at first. I hadn’t been in over ten years. I had forgotten how to say the Act of Contrition. What would I even confess? That I had shouted at God? That I had cursed Him? That I had called Him cruel? But my friend simply said, “Just be honest.”

Those words haunted me—in the best way. And so, with trembling hands and a racing heart, I entered the confessional at Our Lady of Perpetual Succour (OLPS). The priest there—Father Kenny—did not look at me with judgment or disappointment. He listened. And when I said I had forgotten how to begin, he smiled gently. I poured out everything. My losses. My anger. My silence. My abandonment of faith. And what I received in return was not condemnation. It was compassion.

Father Kenny did not try to offer easy answers. He didn’t quote Scripture or speak in riddles. He acknowledged my pain. He told me it was okay to be angry. He told me God could take it. And he welcomed me home. That moment changed everything. It was the start of something new—a return, not to the person I used to be, but to a faith that could hold both pain and promise.

In the months that followed, my faith grew in unexpected ways. I began praying again. Not polished, poetic prayers—just raw conversations. Sometimes I was still angry. Sometimes I was numb. But I was showing up. And in those quiet moments, I began to feel something I hadn’t in years: peace. Not the absence of struggle, but the presence of something greater than my grief.

I returned to Mass more consistently. I began to see the Eucharist not as a routine, but as a sacred meeting place. Scripture came alive in ways it never had before. I started journaling—writing prayers, questions, even letters to the children I had lost. Slowly, trust returned. Not blind trust, but honest trust—the kind that says, “I don’t understand, but I’m here.”

And then, something extraordinary happened: I began to give back. I started serving in small ways—helping with parish events, assisting with outreach. It felt right. It felt like healing. And now, I’m preparing for my first church mission trip. Me—the woman who once vowed never to step into a church again. I’m going, not because I have it all figured out, but because I want to share what I’ve found. I want others to know that it’s okay to fall apart, that God is still there, even in the ruins.

One of the most meaningful parts of this renewed faith journey has been the Saturdays I spend with my mum and granny. At first, taking Granny to church felt like a chore—something I “should” do. A way to force myself into the habit of Mass. But something shifted. I realized I didn’t need the push. I wanted to be there. On the Saturdays I have to miss, I feel a void—like I’ve skipped a meal my soul needed.

Those Saturday evenings have become sacred. Not just for the Mass, but for the moments before and after. Sitting in the pew beside two of the women who shaped my life. Talking. Laughing. These are memories I will carry with me forever. The Church, once a place of pain, has become a space of connection and love.

My journey back to faith hasn’t erased my past. The grief of my miscarriages, the loss of those I loved, still lives within me. But now, that grief has somewhere to go. It doesn’t sit stagnant. It moves. It breathes. It reaches upward. I believe God holds those memories with me—that He honors them, redeems them, and somehow uses them to shape the person I am becoming.

There’s a quote I once read: “Faith doesn’t mean everything will be okay. It means you’re not alone when it’s not.” That’s what I’ve come to believe. Catholicism is not about perfection. It’s not about having unshakable belief or constant joy. It’s about returning. Over and over again. It’s about bringing our whole selves—mess and all—to the altar and saying, “Here I am.”

So this is my Catholic story. A story of loss and love. Of absence and return. Of anger and healing. A story of a messy faith, held by an honest heart. I don’t claim to be the perfect Catholic. I still wrestle with questions. I still mourn. But I show up. I pray. I love. I trust. And most importantly—I believe again.

Each day, I walk a little closer to the God I once thought had abandoned me. I now know He was always there. Waiting. Watching. Loving. And that, to me, is the greatest miracle of all.

A Secret Promise (2011): A Movie That Promised More Than It Delivered

 

#DebrasMovieRecommendation

You know those movies that have a great trailer, an intriguing premise, or even just a catchy poster, and you think, “Alright, this could be something special”? 'A Secret Promise' was one of those for me. I went into it hoping for a feel-good rom-com with a life lesson baked into its formula — something in the spirit of 'The Princess Diaries' meets 'Undercover Boss', or even 'Trading Places' with a modern twist. Sadly, what we got was a film that felt more like a rough first draft of a great idea than a fully baked story.

The movie’s premise has real potential: a wealthy, disillusioned CEO decides to step away from his extravagant lifestyle to reconnect with the “real world.” It’s a tale as old as capitalism itself — the privileged man who learns the value of love, humility, and human connection once the trappings of wealth are stripped away. In theory, this kind of transformation arc should tug at your heartstrings, bring out a few laughs, and leave you with that warm fuzzy feeling. Unfortunately, ' Secret Promise' struggles to hit those notes with anything resembling finesse.

Let’s give credit where it’s due — the heart of the movie is in the right place. There are brief, fleeting moments that brush up against sincerity, moments where you can almost see what the film was trying to be. The theme of learning to value people over possessions, to see beyond surface-level success, is one that resonates universally. There’s a soft charm in watching a man stumble his way out of his comfort zone in search of deeper meaning. A couple of scenes — blink and you’ll miss them — come close to delivering on that promise.

But it’s everything around those moments that falls flat. The script leans heavily on tired tropes and paper-thin character development. The protagonist — this supposed corporate genius — ends up bumbling through the world with a kind of wide-eyed cluelessness that doesn’t track. It’s one thing to be out of touch with working-class realities, but it’s another to suddenly lose all sense of basic logic and street smarts the moment you leave a penthouse. The portrayal of his “common man” struggles feels cartoonish, even patronizing. You half expect him to gasp in horror at the idea of public transport or faint at the sight of a coin-operated laundry machine.

Then there’s the romance. Ah yes — every transformation movie needs a love story, and here it’s as paint-by-numbers as it gets. The love interest, though likable in theory, is written more like a plot obligation than an actual human being. She exists to react, inspire, scold, and then forgive — all without much depth. Their chemistry feels rushed and forced, built more on cliché dialogue and dramatic music cues than any genuine emotional connection. Valerie and I spent more time laughing at their overly rehearsed arguments and “deep” conversations than actually rooting for them.

The film is riddled with “movie logic” moments — characters behaving unrealistically just to serve the plot, abrupt tonal shifts, and montages that are meant to signify growth but mostly signify padding. It’s as though the writers had a checklist of classic redemption arc beats and copied them into the script without asking whether they made sense for these characters or this story. Everything unfolds so predictably you could honestly play a drinking game based on the tropes: cue the “humbling job,” the “wise stranger,” the “moment of clarity,” and of course, the big reveal followed by the tearful reconciliation.

Yet, strangely enough, I didn’t hate watching it. In fact, I kind of enjoyed it — just not in the way the filmmakers probably intended. There’s a certain kind of pleasure in watching a film that tries so earnestly to be meaningful but ends up being unintentionally funny. I turned it into a shared experience, poking fun at awkward line deliveries, guessing the next plot point, and occasionally pausing to unpack how differently this movie could’ve played out with a better script and some character depth. Sometimes it’s not about the quality of the movie, but the quality of the company you’re watching it with. And this time it was with my mother.

And to be fair, 'A Secret Promise' isn’t malicious or cynical. It doesn’t set out to deceive or offend. It just… doesn’t quite land. There’s an innocence in how it tries to inspire, to be heartwarming and deep — kind of like someone who bakes you a cake that collapses in the oven, but you still appreciate the effort because they meant well. The film never fully dives into the emotional or philosophical possibilities of its premise. It dips its toes, then retreats back to shallow waters. And that’s the real disappointment — it could’ve been more.

In the right context, this movie has its place. If you’re looking for a light background watch while folding laundry, replying to emails, or doodling in your journal, it’s harmless. If you’re in the mood to riff on a film with a friend, this one’s great material. It’s cinematic comfort food — the kind that doesn’t nourish much but can still make you feel something, even if that something is mostly amusement or nostalgia for better movies in the same genre.

So no, 'A Secret Promise' won’t be winning any awards or topping anyone’s all-time favorites list. But it’s not without a little charm. You can tell that somewhere beneath the clunky dialogue and predictable structure, there was a genuine attempt at heart. And for that — for trying, for showing up with good intentions — we offer it a mildly generous 4 out of 10.

Final thought: not every movie has to be brilliant to be enjoyed. Sometimes a little cringe, a little laughter, and a lot of shared commentary can turn a forgettable film into a memorable night. And that’s exactly what this one gave us.

** Also released under the title "The Homeless Billionaire" **

After 30 Years: Finally Seeing the Phantom in Singapore

 

After 30 Years: Finally Seeing the Phantom in Singapore

It took thirty years—three decades of waiting, hoping, and holding on to the dream. I had first fallen in love with The Phantom of the Opera as a teenager. There was something in the music, the mystery, and the melancholy that called to me, something timeless and dramatic that felt like it was written just for the kind of heart I had. The haunting melody of “The Music of the Night” stayed with me through the years, tucked somewhere deep in my soul, waiting patiently. I dreamed of seeing it live, of being surrounded by the velvet darkness of a grand theatre, watching the story unfold with that iconic chandelier above me. But life, as it often does, got in the way. Responsibilities, children, careers, and reality took centre stage, and my phantom dream waited quietly in the wings.

Then, out of nowhere, my daughter surprised me with tickets to see The Phantom of the Opera live in Singapore. After thirty years, I was finally going to see the story that had lived in my imagination come to life on stage. The moment was made even more special by the fact that it was her gift to me—her way of honouring something I had loved long before she was born. There was something poetic about it, really: that the next generation would be the one to bring my dream full circle.

Walking into the theatre, I felt like that teenager again—heart pounding, wide-eyed, filled with excitement and wonder. The orchestra began to play, and the overture sent shivers down my spine. I could feel the anticipation in the room, a shared breathlessness that united everyone present in that moment. And when the curtains rose and the story began, I was completely captivated.

The musical itself is nothing short of a masterpiece. Set in the grandeur of the Paris Opera House in the 19th century, the story follows Christine Daaé, a young soprano who is unknowingly being tutored by the mysterious Phantom who lives in the catacombs beneath the theatre. The Phantom is a brilliant but tormented man, disfigured and hidden from the world, who becomes obsessed with Christine. His love for her is intense, dark, and consuming. Christine, torn between the Phantom and her childhood friend and love, Raoul, is caught in a web of music, power, beauty, and fear.

Watching the story unfold live was an emotional experience. I had always known the plot, the songs, the characters. But seeing it performed in real time—feeling the Phantom’s anguish, Christine’s confusion, and Raoul’s determination—made everything so much more vivid and real. The actors were phenomenal. Christine’s voice was like crystal—pure and soaring—while the Phantom carried the weight of heartbreak and madness with every line he sang. His presence on stage was magnetic. I couldn't take my eyes off him. I didn’t want to.

And then, of course, came that moment—the one I had waited decades for. The chandelier scene. It’s one of the most iconic in musical theatre, and for good reason. As the Phantom makes his presence known in the opera house, chaos erupts, and the enormous chandelier begins to swing and crash to the stage in a shower of sparks and light. I knew it was coming, but nothing prepared me for the rush of adrenaline, the gasp that left my lips, or the goosebumps that erupted across my arms. Sitting in the audience, holding my daughter’s hand, I was absolutely spellbound. It was theatrical magic at its finest—timing, lighting, sound, music, and emotion colliding into a moment that will live in my memory forever.

I kept glancing at my daughter during the show, my heart swelling with gratitude. She knew me so well. She knew how much this meant to me. And I knew this was more than just a night out—it was a gift of the deepest kind. A shared experience that connected us not just as mother and daughter, but as women, as dreamers, as lovers of stories.

Somewhere in the midst of all this emotion, I found myself laughing inwardly. Because truly, if I’m being honest, I’ve always had a bit of a soft spot for men like the Phantom. Strange, broken, misunderstood—those are the ones who always got to me. There’s something intoxicating about mystery, about darkness, about brilliance laced with pain. Whether it was the Beast before he turned into the prince, the brooding vampire over the sweet human boy, or the tortured genius lurking beneath the opera house—I always fell for the ones hiding behind masks, the ones who weren’t conventionally “safe.” I suppose it’s part of my makeup. Something in me has always believed that love could see through scars, that beauty can live inside the beast.

Of course, the Phantom is a complex character—deeply flawed, even dangerous. His obsession leads him to commit terrible acts. And yet, despite his actions, he is not without sympathy. His pain, his longing, his genius—they all make him human. And in a strange, uncomfortable way, I saw parts of myself in him. The desire to be loved for who we are, the fear of rejection, the ache of isolation—all of it resonated. It’s what makes *The Phantom of the Opera* so timeless. It isn’t just about love; it’s about longing, acceptance, and the shadows we all carry.

As the final scene unfolded—Christine placing the Phantom’s ring in his palm, choosing compassion over fear, and then walking away—I felt tears prick at my eyes. There was such sorrow in his solitude, but also such grace in her kindness. It wasn’t a happy ending, not in the traditional sense. But it was powerful, poignant, and beautiful in its own way.

When the cast took their final bows and the audience rose to its feet in thunderous applause, I stood too, clapping until my palms tingled. I wasn’t just applauding the performance—I was applauding the journey. My journey. The one that began thirty years ago with a song on a cassette tape, and ended with me, standing beside my daughter in a theatre in Singapore, heart full and soul singing.

Seeing The Phantom of the Opera live was more than I ever imagined it could be. It brought closure to a dream, opened new doors of emotion, and gave me a moment I will cherish forever. It reminded me that some things are worth the wait. That theatre has the power to heal, to transport, to awaken the forgotten parts of ourselves. That sometimes, our daughters will hand us the dreams we once let go of. And that even now, after all these years, I’m still a little bit in love with the strange men in shadows, the broken ones who sing from the dark.

So thank you, Phantom, for waiting for me. And thank you, my dearest daughter, for bringing me home to him.

A Birthday to Remember: Family, Lani, and the Magic of Phantom

 

Birthdays, especially as we grow older, become less about the celebration and more about reflection—of where we’ve been, what we’ve endured, and who we’ve become. As I turned 46 this year, I found myself in a place I didn’t quite expect. Emotionally tired, guarded, and not entirely enthusiastic about celebrating. It’s difficult to feign joy when your mental well-being has long gone unnoticed. So, I kept telling myself there was no point.

And yet, sometimes the heart chooses kindness even when it aches. 

That morning, we kept things simple. Ed, the kids, Mum, and I gathered to cut the birthday cake. It wasn’t extravagant or loud—it was just us, and that was enough. Knowing that the afternoon would be swept away with plans Lani and I had made, it felt right to share that quiet moment together. I was glad we did. These small rituals, no matter how understated, still carry weight. They ground us in family, in history, in presence.

Afterwards, the five of us headed out for lunch at Lazada One. We chose GoPizza, a Korean pizza place I’d been wanting to try again. The food didn’t disappoint—rich, flavorful, comforting. But what stood out the most was the server. She ran the floor alone, managing everything with a big, genuine smile. It was like watching grace in action. She reminded me how far a joyful spirit can carry you. She had every reason to be frazzled, but instead she chose gratitude, and it showed. That moment touched something in me—a reminder that no matter what we carry inside, we can choose joy, even in the smallest acts.

But the real highlight of the day—the part that made this birthday unforgettable—was the “date” I had with my daughter, Lani.

After lunch, we went home to get ready. Lani did my makeup, and we both got dressed up in character: me as Christine, her as the Phantom. There was something whimsical and healing about it. I haven’t felt that sense of playfulness in a long time. And to do it with my daughter, who I once feared had grown distant from me, made it all the more special. We were two women, mother and daughter, dressing up not just for a show—but for each other.

Our first stop was the ArtScience Museum at Marina Bay Sands. We visited the Iris Van Herpen exhibition—futuristic, ethereal, and completely mesmerizing. It was the perfect warm-up to a night steeped in art and creativity. From there, we headed to TWG for tea. It was my first time there, and honestly, I was stunned at how expensive everything was. But Lani insisted. She told me she wanted to spoil me. She’s working now, and this was her gift—a little luxury she wanted to share. I sipped my tea, ate my scones, and marveled not at the price, but at the gesture. She was proud to do this for me, and I was deeply touched that she cared enough to make me feel cherished.

And then… it was time.

We made our way to the Sands Theatre for The Phantom of the Opera. Thirty years. That’s how long I had waited to see this production. The story, the music, the spectacle—it had always enchanted me. To say I was excited would be an understatement. We took our photos, stopped by the merchandise booth (Lani insisted I pick something out—I chose a tote bag), and then we walked in.

Three rows from the front. I couldn’t believe it.

As we sat down and took in the grandeur of the stage, something shifted in me. I reached for Lani’s hand, and we held on tight as the opening chords filled the theatre. And then… the chandelier. It rose above us in all its glory, casting golden light over the audience like a dream being brought to life. I felt my breath catch.

The show was everything I hoped for and more. The costumes, the haunting music, the performances—it was truly magical. Sitting beside my daughter, both of us enraptured, was a memory etched forever in my heart. There were moments when I felt tears prickling at the corners of my eyes. Not just because I was finally seeing Phantom, but because of who I was sharing it with. The joy, the awe, the connection—we weren’t just watching a show. We were sharing a sacred experience.

I had once feared that Lani saw me as disappointment. I worried that my mistakes, my struggles, had clouded her love for me. But in that theatre, I saw her heart—and I felt mine begin to heal. She didn’t just treat me to the show. She held space for me. She reminded me, without saying a word, that love remains. That bonds don’t break so easily. That daughters grow up and learn to see for themselves.

After the show, we made our way to Le Noir bar. We ordered their signature Phantom of the Opera cocktail and sat there, talking and laughing like old friends. The conversation took unexpected turns. We shared truths, confessions, memories, pain. She told me things I hadn’t known she’d carried, and I did the same. There was a beautiful vulnerability between us, and for the first time in a long time, I felt seen by her—not as a mother who failed in some ways, but as a woman who tried, who loved deeply, and who was still standing.

We stayed at the bar until well past midnight, finally making our way home around 1:30 in the morning. We were tired, but happy. We made a promise—to do something like this again, once a month. Just us. A tradition of connection, healing, and joy.

This birthday was unlike any I’ve had in recent years. It started with family—messy, imperfect, but present. It continued with my daughter—grown, strong, and surprisingly tender. And it ended with a dream fulfilled—The Phantom of the Opera, seen through the eyes of someone who had waited half a lifetime.

I’ll never forget the way that day made me feel. Not because of the food or the gifts, but because I was reminded that love can surprise you, that joy can still bloom, and that sometimes, the most extraordinary moments come when we least expect them.

My heart is full.

Pride and Humanity: Why I Stand with the LGBTQ+ Community

 

Every June, as cities around the world are awash in rainbows, we are reminded of the beauty, diversity, and resilience of the LGBTQ+ community. Pride Month is not just a celebration of identities—it is a commemoration of struggle, a call for equality, and a vibrant declaration of love in all its forms. For me, Pride is deeply personal. I am a lifelong supporter of the LGBTQ+ community. My love and loyalty to this community go beyond social awareness or political correctness. It stems from lived experience, friendships that shaped my youth, and a firm belief in justice, authenticity, and human dignity.

I often reflect on how my support for the LGBTQ+ community began—not in a grand or political moment, but in everyday interactions. As a teenager growing up, most of my closest friends were gay. I didn’t understand the depth of their struggles then, but I instinctively knew this: they were some of the most honest, kind, and loyal people I had ever met. Their friendship wasn’t performative. It was real, deep, and dependable. They had my back without hesitation, and I always had theirs.

Back then, I didn’t even know what LGBTQ+ meant. We didn’t have the vocabulary or platforms we have now. But I knew that my friends were “different” in the eyes of others. I witnessed how people whispered, how teachers and adults looked at them with discomfort or disapproval. I saw the silent pain behind their laughter. And yet, they still showed up in life with humour, colour, creativity, and most of all, loyalty. That’s when I decided, even as a child, that I would always stand by them.

As I grew older, that commitment only deepened. I began to understand the weight of what they were carrying—the closet, the bullying, the rejection from family, the fear of being who they were. I couldn’t believe how society could be so cruel. And even today, I still struggle to understand why. What is so threatening about someone loving differently? What is so offensive about someone expressing their gender in a way that feels authentic to them? How does another person’s life—when lived honestly and fully—affect yours?

This is the question I find myself asking over and over again: How is their life affecting yours? The answer, of course, is that it doesn’t. And yet, the resistance remains. LGBTQ+ people are still fighting for basic human rights in many parts of the world. They are still ostracized in homes, schools, churches, and workplaces. Hate crimes still exist. Laws are still being proposed to limit their freedom. It breaks my heart to see that in 2025, we still have to say, “Love is love” like it’s a radical idea.

Supporting the LGBTQ+ community is not about being “woke.” It’s about being human. It’s about recognising that behind every letter in that acronym is a person with hopes, dreams, fears, and a need for love and acceptance. It's about seeing them not as an agenda, but as people who bleed, cry, and celebrate like the rest of us.

One of the most common myths I’ve heard is that being LGBTQ+ is a choice. But I can tell you from knowing my friends all these years—it’s not a choice. What is a choice is how we treat them. Do we choose compassion or condemnation? Do we choose inclusion or isolation? These are choices we are all responsible for.

People sometimes ask me why I care so much. Why do I take it personally? The answer is simple: because it is personal. Because some of the people I love the most in this world are gay, lesbian, bisexual, transgender, queer, or questioning. I’ve cried with them through heartbreak. I’ve celebrated with them during milestones. I’ve watched them fall in love, get married, adopt children, or sometimes choose to live alone—and every one of their lives has been a testament to resilience and truth.

And yet, so many of them have had to fight for what should be basic: the right to exist freely. To walk down the street without fear. To hold hands in public. To tick a gender box that reflects who they are. These are things straight, cisgender people take for granted every day. Imagine living a life where your truth is debated, legislated, and invalidated. That is the reality for many LGBTQ+ individuals.

What truly amazes me is their strength. The strength to come out in a world that still doesn’t fully accept them. The strength to live authentically, even when it's dangerous. The strength to forgive those who have hurt them. The strength to create art, communities, movements, and joy even when they’ve been told they don’t belong. That kind of courage? It deserves celebration—not just during Pride Month, but every single day.

I stand with the LGBTQ+ community because they have taught me what love looks like in its rawest and most powerful form. They’ve shown me that chosen families can be just as strong, if not stronger, than blood families. They’ve shown me that it’s okay to be different, to break the mold, to step outside the boxes society tries to shove us into. And they’ve taught me the value of being loyal to yourself—because you cannot pour from an empty cup.

Some of my happiest memories are from nights spent laughing with my gay friends over music, food, and deep conversations. Their creativity and wit light up every room. They’re often the first to check in on me when I’m down, and the last to judge me when I mess up. It baffles me that a world so dependent on connection and love would try to dim their light.

What’s more concerning is that the discrimination doesn’t just come from strangers. It often comes from the very people meant to protect and nurture us—parents, siblings, religious institutions, governments. And the pain of being rejected by your own community is like no other. That’s why I believe allies are not just important; they’re essential. It’s not enough to be quietly supportive. We must be loudly loving. We must advocate, defend, and show up, especially when it’s uncomfortable.

I’m also aware that being an ally means constantly learning. I don’t have all the answers, and I’m not perfect. But I am always willing to listen, to amplify voices, and to call out injustice when I see it. I believe that privilege should be used to open doors for those who have had them slammed in their faces.

Pride Month is a time to celebrate, yes. But it’s also a time to remember. We remember the Stonewall riots. We remember the activists who paved the way. We remember the friends we lost to AIDS, to suicide, to hate. And we honour them by continuing the fight—not just for tolerance, but for equality, dignity, and full recognition of every beautiful shade of the human spectrum.

To those in the LGBTQ+ community who may be reading this, know this: You are loved. You are needed. You are a masterpiece, not a mistake. Your existence is a gift to this world. And while society may still be catching up, there are many of us who see you, who cherish you, and who will never stop fighting for your right to live freely and fully.

So, this Pride Month, I wear the rainbow not as a trend, but as a promise. A promise to continue advocating, listening, and standing beside you. A promise to raise the next generation to be more accepting and aware. A promise to honour the friendships that shaped me and the courage that continues to inspire me.

Love is love. Humanity is humanity. And pride—true pride—is not just about who you are. It’s about being brave enough to live that truth out loud, even when the world tries to silence you. That kind of pride is contagious. That kind of pride changes hearts. And that is the kind of pride I celebrate, today and always.

Grieving: A Journey Through Loss and Healing

 

Grieving: A Journey Through Loss and Healing

Grief is the price we pay for love. It is a universal human experience, yet intensely personal and deeply individual. No two people grieve in the same way, just as no two relationships are ever identical. Whether we lose a parent, a child, a friend, a partner, or even a pet, the pain of that loss is real, raw, and often beyond words. Grief is not something to "get over" — it is something we learn to live with, something that shapes who we are from the moment of loss onwards.

At its core, grief is the emotional response to loss. It can be triggered by death, but it can also emerge from the end of a relationship, the loss of a job, a home, or even a sense of identity. But in its most profound and debilitating form, grief is often linked to death — the permanent absence of someone we loved and still love. In those moments, time seems to stand still. Life as we know it fractures. The person we were before the loss is no longer the person we become after. Something breaks — and for a while, or perhaps forever, it remains broken.

In the immediate aftermath of loss, we often enter a fog. This numbness can serve as a kind of emotional anesthesia, shielding us from the full impact of what has happened. The days blur into nights. Tasks become mechanical. We might forget to eat, or struggle to sleep. Everything feels surreal. For some, there are tears; for others, a cold stillness. There’s no right or wrong way to grieve — no formula, no timeline.

Elisabeth Kübler-Ross famously outlined five stages of grief: denial, anger, bargaining, depression, and acceptance. While these stages offer a helpful framework, grief is rarely linear. We do not graduate neatly from one stage to the next. Instead, grief can loop and spiral. We might feel acceptance one day and rage the next. We may bargain with God in the morning and feel hopeless by nightfall. The human heart doesn’t follow a schedule, and mourning has no expiry date.

One of the most misunderstood aspects of grief is how long it lasts. Well-meaning people might urge us to "move on" or "be strong" after a few months. But the truth is, grief never fully disappears. We carry it with us — not as a wound that constantly bleeds, but as a scar that tells a story. Over time, the pain may become less sharp, but it never vanishes. Certain dates — birthdays, anniversaries, holidays — can bring everything back with a vengeance. A familiar scent, a song on the radio, a photo tucked away in a drawer can crack the facade of normalcy and transport us back to the moment of loss.

Grieving is not weakness. It is not a failure of character. It is not something to hide or be ashamed of. In a culture that prizes productivity and positivity, grieving can feel inconvenient, even taboo. People don’t always know what to say or how to act around someone who is mourning. Sometimes, friends disappear because they don’t know how to show up. Sometimes, silence surrounds us when what we need most is compassion and understanding. That isolation can make grief even heavier.

It is important to make space for grief — not just in private, but in public life. Rituals like funerals and memorials give us a container to hold our sorrow. They allow us to come together, to share stories, to cry without judgment. But the real grieving often begins after the rituals end, when everyone else goes back to their lives and we are left to pick up the shattered pieces of ours. That’s when support is most needed. That’s when love, in the form of presence and patience, becomes a lifeline.

For many, grief is not just emotional but physical. It can manifest as fatigue, tightness in the chest, digestive issues, or even chronic pain. It affects our appetite, our memory, our ability to concentrate. It rewires our brain and shifts our internal compass. Some people lose faith; others find it. Some become quieter; others more expressive. Grief transforms us. And while it may feel like we are being pulled under, drowning in sorrow, eventually we begin to resurface — not as who we were, but as someone altered by the depth of our loss.

Healing from grief doesn’t mean forgetting. It doesn’t mean pretending everything is fine. It means finding ways to carry the love and the memory of the person we’ve lost into our new reality. It means allowing ourselves to feel joy again, even if it comes wrapped in guilt. It means honouring the person we’ve lost not by ceasing to miss them, but by continuing to live in a way that would make them proud.

One of the most powerful aspects of grieving is its capacity to deepen empathy. When we’ve walked through the valley of loss, we understand others in pain more profoundly. We recognize the silent signals, the ache behind the eyes, the long pauses in conversation. Grief can open us up to the pain of others and foster connections rooted in vulnerability and truth. It can make us kinder, more present, more attuned to what really matters.

Grief can also be a catalyst for change. Many people who have lost someone dear to them go on to create foundations, write books, advocate for causes, or start support groups. In this way, grief becomes a bridge — a way to transform personal pain into collective healing. These acts of legacy honour those who have died while offering comfort and meaning to the living.

It’s essential, too, to speak about grief with children and young people. They are not immune to loss, and shielding them from its reality can do more harm than good. Children need honest, age-appropriate conversations about death, and they need space to express their emotions. Whether it’s the death of a grandparent, a pet, or even a classmate, their grief is valid. Listening without judgment, allowing them to cry, draw, talk, or simply sit in silence is one of the greatest gifts we can offer.

Faith and spirituality often play a significant role in how people navigate grief. For some, belief in an afterlife provides comfort. For others, prayer or meditation offers solace. Some turn to their religious community for support; others find meaning in nature, art, or human connection. Grief has a way of shaking our foundations — and in that shaking, we sometimes rediscover our core values, or we build new ones.

There are also those who grieve in silence — who feel they cannot talk about their loss because it is stigmatized or misunderstood. This includes those who lose loved ones to suicide, overdose, or estrangement. Their grief is compounded by judgment, shame, or societal discomfort. That is why we must broaden our understanding of grief and create inclusive spaces where all types of loss are acknowledged and respected.

Ultimately, grief is love’s echo. We grieve because we have loved deeply. And in the wreckage of loss, we find reminders of that love in the most unexpected places: a sunrise, a scent, a phrase once said, a shared song. These moments become sacred. They connect us to the person who is no longer here in body but lives on in memory and spirit.

Grieving is not a task to complete; it is a path we walk. Sometimes, we move forward with strength. Other times, we stumble or sit down and cry. That’s okay. There is no "right" way to grieve. There is only your way. And that path, as winding and painful as it may be, eventually leads us toward light. Not a blinding, forgetful light, but a gentle one — the kind that flickers at first, then steadies with time. The kind that illuminates the love we carry, the lessons we’ve learned, and the resilience that slowly, quietly, grows in the wake of loss.

So if you are grieving, know this: you are not alone. Your pain is real. Your journey is valid. Let your grief breathe. Let it cry. Let it speak. And when you are ready, let it teach you how to live again — not as if the person you lost never existed, but because they did. Because love endures, even in the face of death. Because grieving, though painful, is proof that we once had something — someone — worth mourning.

Mental Health and Suicide in Our Youth: A Personal Reflection and a Call to Action

 

I never imagined I would write about this, at least not so soon. The wounds are still fresh, and the memories are still raw. For a long time, I chose silence over sharing, partly because I didn’t have the words to express what we had gone through, and partly because the heartbreak was too overwhelming to articulate. But time has a way of giving pain some space to settle, and today, I’m ready to speak — not only for myself but for countless others who may be suffering in silence. This is a story about my daughter, her best friend Dhar, and a tragedy that has changed us forever. More importantly, it is a story about mental health, suicide, and the urgent need for awareness, compassion, and action in our communities.

In October last year, my daughter lost her best friend to suicide. Dhar wasn’t just another name or face in a yearbook — he was like family. He was a regular presence in our home, often laughing in the kitchen with us, lounging on the couch, or brainstorming school projects with my daughter. His energy filled the room. He was bright, warm, and had a spark that made people gravitate toward him. So, when news of his passing reached us, it didn’t just shatter my daughter — it left our entire household reeling. There are no words to adequately describe the heaviness of losing someone so young, so deeply woven into your life.

What followed was one of the darkest times I’ve ever experienced as a parent. My daughter, once full of life and light, spiraled into a deep depression. It was like watching a candle flicker in a windstorm, unsure whether it would hold on or be snuffed out. I could see her struggling to make sense of what had happened, questioning everything, including her own existence. The grief was unbearable. She was grieving the loss of her best friend, and I was grieving the version of my child that seemed to be slipping away. I barely slept during those weeks. I would wake in the middle of the night just to check that she was still breathing, still here. I was terrified that her pain might pull her into the same abyss that had taken Dhar.

After many sleepless nights and countless conversations, I finally found a therapist who could see her. Getting her to agree wasn’t easy, but thankfully, after a few sessions, I saw some light returning to her eyes. Therapy began to help, even if just a little. My mother and I took her to visit Dhar’s grave so she could say goodbye — or at least, try to. Standing in that cemetery, watching my daughter fall apart, is a moment etched into my soul. As a parent, you want nothing more than to take your child’s pain away. But grief doesn’t work that way. Sometimes, the best you can do is just stand there and hold them as they cry.

This experience opened my eyes to something we often don’t talk about enough: the mental health crisis in our youth. Suicide is now one of the leading causes of death among young people worldwide. And yet, the stigma around mental illness persists. We teach our children to look both ways before crossing the road, to say no to drugs, and to be cautious around strangers. But we don’t teach them enough about managing emotions, asking for help, or recognizing signs of mental distress in themselves and others. And we, as adults, aren’t always equipped to recognize those signs either.

There were no obvious red flags with Dhar. That’s the part that still haunts me. He smiled, he laughed, he texted funny memes. But something was clearly going on beneath the surface. That’s the cruel thing about mental illness — it can be invisible, masked by a smile or hidden behind a joke. That’s why we, as parents, friends, and community members, need to pay closer attention. We need to look for subtle changes: withdrawal from activities, sudden mood shifts, changes in sleep or eating patterns, or even offhand comments that hint at hopelessness or despair.

Prevention starts with conversation. It starts with creating spaces where young people feel safe to speak, without fear of judgment or ridicule. We must normalize talking about mental health the same way we talk about physical health. Just as we don’t shame someone for having diabetes or a broken bone, we must not shame someone for struggling with anxiety, depression, or suicidal thoughts.

As parents, our role is critical. We must be present, not just physically but emotionally. We must listen — really listen — without always rushing to give advice or fix things. Sometimes, our children just need to be heard. We must also model healthy emotional habits. It’s okay to show vulnerability, to admit when we’re having a hard day. When kids see that, they learn that emotions are human, not something to be hidden.

Community support is equally vital. Schools need to have trained counselors, not just for academic guidance but for emotional well-being. Teachers should be trained to recognize signs of mental health struggles. Peers should be educated on how to support one another — to know when to speak up, when to offer help, and when to seek adult intervention. Churches, community centers, sports teams — all of these can play a role in creating a culture of care and openness.

And yes, the government must do more. We need policies that prioritize mental health funding, that make therapy affordable and accessible, that train professionals in trauma-informed care, and that destigmatize mental illness through nationwide awareness campaigns. Mental illness need not always end in suicide. But without timely support, it can. Conversely, a person who appears mentally healthy may be silently suffering — smiling on the outside, yet dying inside. We must understand that anyone can be vulnerable, and the risk doesn’t always announce itself.

On a personal note, I’ve found unexpected solace in the work of Dan Reynolds, lead singer of Imagine Dragons. He has been open about his struggles with depression and is a passionate advocate for mental health awareness. His honesty has helped reduce stigma and encouraged others, including myself and my daughter, to speak more openly about these issues. There’s a certain comfort in knowing that even those in the limelight, those we admire, face similar battles and choose to keep going.

Dhar’s death broke us. But in time, it also opened our hearts to the importance of mental health awareness. It made us more compassionate, more observant, and more determined to speak out. My daughter is still healing — healing is never linear — but she is here, and that is everything. Every conversation we have, every laugh we share, every tear we wipe away is a reminder that life is worth fighting for.

If you're reading this and you’re struggling, please know that you are not alone. There is help. There is hope. And if you're a parent, check in with your kids — even the ones who seem fine. If you're a friend, ask the tough questions and be brave enough to sit with someone in their pain. We don’t always have to fix things. Sometimes, just being there can be enough.

Suicide is preventable. Mental health is manageable. But only if we care enough to act, to listen, and to love each other fiercely — especially when the world gets dark.

Marked with Grace: A Reflection on International Birthmarks Awareness Day

 

Today marks International Birthmark Awareness Day, and for the first time in a long while, I feel inspired to write—truly write—about something that has always been a part of me: my birthmark.

For as long as I can remember, this mark on my face has been more than just a patch of pigmentation. It has been a quiet witness to every chapter of my life. Though it’s always been there, only recently have I felt compelled to truly reflect on what it has meant to me. This past week, in particular, brought about a series of moments that nudged my heart to share my journey.

My birthmark has undeniably shaped the woman I am today. Has it influenced me? Absolutely. But contrary to what some might assume, it hasn’t done so in a negative way. On the contrary, it's gifted me with lessons that I cherish deeply—lessons about self-worth, empathy, and the kind of beauty that transcends appearances.

Over the years, I’ve developed an instinctive connection with people who are perceived as “different.” I’m not easily shocked by appearances, behaviors, or stories that veer from the norm. In fact, I often feel drawn to those who carry their own unique battles. And while I can’t always walk in their shoes, I understand what it feels like to be seen through a lens of curiosity or misunderstanding. That understanding has formed the foundation of my compassion.

If I could offer anything to the people I meet, I hope it’s a sense of acceptance and love—the kind that reminds you that your worth has never been tied to what’s on the surface.

Among family and friends, there’s been a long-standing, lighthearted theory that my birthmark might be the wellspring of my creativity. And I must admit, there’s a lovely poetry to that idea. I’ve always had a desire to do things differently, to create, to imagine, to build something meaningful out of ordinary moments. Perhaps there’s something mystical about a mark that nourishes not just skin, but also soul and imagination.

What surprises people is that I never really struggled with feelings of ugliness. I was never made to feel repulsive, never bullied. I’ve been blessed with good friends—genuine people—through every phase of life. That’s not to say I haven’t encountered ignorance or stares, but I’ve never let them fester into pain. And I believe that strength came from the way I was raised.

My parents never made a fuss about my birthmark. There were no hushed conversations about how to "handle" it, no attempts to shield me from the world. I was simply me. They let me grow and shine in my own time, allowed me to develop confidence naturally, and stood by my side without overprotecting. Looking back, I know their calm acceptance was a gift. Because of them, I walked into the world believing there was nothing wrong with me—and that made all the difference.

Would I still be kind and empathetic without my birthmark? I’d like to think so. But this mark has amplified those traits. It’s taught me the kind of humility that isn’t loud or performative, but grounded. It’s shown me how important it is to embrace others for who they are. It’s reinforced the truth that self-love isn’t vanity—it’s survival. It’s made me more “me.”

Now, at 45 (soon to be 46), I feel like I can truly say I know myself. I’ve lived, loved, lost, struggled, succeeded. Maybe I don’t have all the answers, but I’ve danced with life enough to understand its rhythm. And here’s what this journey—with my birthmark as a quiet companion—has taught me:

1. Beauty is everywhere. I’ve learned to find beauty in people, in moments, in imperfections. Not everyone may earn that title, of course—some people test our grace—but I’ve grown to appreciate that beauty often comes wrapped in the unexpected.

2. Compassion isn’t weakness. It's strength. I understand what it means to feel out of place, to be seen as different. That awareness has made me more attuned to the silent struggles of others. I don’t pity; I empathize.

3. Confidence changes everything. Once I truly accepted myself, everything else shifted. It gave me the courage to dream, to lead, to connect, to heal. It allowed me to stand tall—not because I’m flawless, but because I’m whole.

4. Humility keeps you grounded. I don’t walk around thinking I’m better than anyone. I know what it feels like to be misunderstood, and I carry that understanding into every conversation and connection.

5. Authentic relationships matter. I never concealed my birthmark growing up. As a result, the people in my life—friends, partners, colleagues—have always loved the real me. And that’s priceless. Even now, when I occasionally wear makeup for work or events, it’s never to hide. I wear it like I wear clothes—an accessory, not a disguise.

This mark has helped me filter the world. It has been my personal truth detector, my measure for sincerity. If you can see me for who I am—beyond skin—you’re welcome in my world. If not, keep walking.

Earlier this week, something beautiful happened. I was washing my face before bed when I noticed that, as I’ve lost some weight, my birthmark appeared darker and more vivid. Instead of feeling bothered, I paused, smiled, and went to bed with a full heart.

For those unfamiliar, birthmarks are skin markings that appear at birth or shortly after. They come in many colors and forms—flat, raised, faint, prominent. There are two main types: vascular birthmarks (linked to blood vessels) and pigmented birthmarks (caused by extra pigment in the skin). Mine is a pigmented type known as a Mongolian spot, which usually appears as a bluish patch. They’re more common in darker-skinned individuals, and typically found on the lower back or buttocks—not often on the face, and especially not on someone fair-skinned like me. But I suppose my birthmark likes being different too.

One thing to know is that Mongolian spots are sometimes mistaken for bruises, which can lead to misconceptions. I’ve had my fair share of curious glances and awkward questions: “What happened to your face?” “Is it permanent?” And while I’ve never been bullied, I know many others with visible differences have faced worse.

Some people with birthmarks choose to cover them up. Others wear them like medals. And both choices are valid. There’s no one-size-fits-all approach to loving your appearance. What matters is that, underneath it all, you love yourself.

It’s okay if you’re not there yet. It’s okay if you struggle. It’s okay if your relationship with your birthmark—or any visible difference—is complicated. What’s not okay is letting the world convince you that you’re less because of it.

To anyone reading this who has a birthmark, or any visible difference: know that you’re not alone. You are seen, you are worthy, and you are beautiful in your own right. Your happiness is your choice. Don’t let fear write your story. Don’t let society’s obsession with sameness dull your shine.

And if you’re a parent to a child with a birthmark—don’t panic. Love them, support them, and remind them often that they are enough, just as they are. Your calm, confident love will shape their world more than you know.

I’ve always said that everyone has flaws—mine just happens to be visible. But honestly? I wouldn’t call it a flaw. I’d call it a gift. A gentle reminder that I was made with intention, with uniqueness, and with grace.

You don’t have to love your birthmark immediately. That love can take time. But never forget: your mark doesn’t define you—your heart, your spirit, and how you treat others, that’s what matters most.

So on this International Birthmarks Awareness Day, I stand proudly. Marked by pigment, yes—but more so, marked by compassion, wisdom, and an unshakeable sense of self.

Love yourself first. The rest will follow.

Called to Serve: Preparing for My Mission Trip to Vietnam

 Sunday’s Mission Formation Session #2 filled my heart in ways I never expected. As I sat in that room, surrounded by familiar and new faces, I realized just how powerfully God was already moving among us. Our Vietnam team, though the smallest group with just fifteen members, felt larger than life. There was a palpable energy in the air — an overflow of love, laughter, ideas, and giving hearts that left me deeply grateful. Choosing Vietnam as my mission destination was not only the right decision; it was a divine appointment. Even before setting foot on a plane, beautiful friendships are already beginning to blossom, and the blessing of being part of something much greater than myself is unmistakable.

Reflecting on that Sunday, I am struck by how God uses ordinary moments to weave extraordinary beginnings. None of us knew exactly what to expect when we first signed up for this mission trip. Some of us are seasoned travelers, others are embarking on their first overseas mission, but we all share a singular purpose: to serve with open hearts and willing spirits. Despite our different backgrounds, ages, and experiences, we have been knit together in the common hope of making a difference. Formation Session #2 was a vivid reminder that it is not the size of the group that matters, but the depth of its love and commitment.

From the very start, laughter has been the soundtrack of our preparations. It breaks the ice, eases the nerves, and creates a sense of family. The room is always filled with chatter and excitement, and yet underneath all the energy lies a deep reverence for the task ahead. We are eager, yes, but we are also prayerful, recognizing that what we are about to do is sacred work. Serving others in a foreign country requires humility, flexibility, and a heart ready to be broken and remade. I am under no illusion that this trip will be easy. Language barriers, cultural differences, unfamiliar surroundings — all of these will stretch us. But it is precisely in the stretching that growth happens. It is in the unknown that faith is tested and strengthened.

I have often heard it said that mission work is as much about being changed as it is about changing others. As I prepare for Vietnam, I find that sentiment ringing truer than ever. God is already changing me. Through every planning meeting, every prayer shared, every story told by past missionaries, I feel my heart expanding. I am learning to let go of control, to embrace the beauty of stepping into someone else's world, and to see Christ in every face I encounter. I am learning that mission is not about bringing my ideas of how things should be, but about listening, learning, and loving with no agenda other than to be present.

The friendships forming within our team are a testament to the spirit of this mission. Already, we are more than just fellow travelers; we are companions on a spiritual journey. Trust and camaraderie are building rapidly, rooted in shared purpose and mutual encouragement. In these new friends, I see reflections of God’s kindness and creativity. Each person brings unique gifts — some have a knack for organization, others for storytelling or music, some for comforting and encouraging — and together, we form a beautiful mosaic. It amazes me how quickly bonds can form when hearts are aligned in service. I have no doubt that the experiences we are about to share will forge lifelong friendships, tested and strengthened by the challenges and joys of mission work.

Choosing Vietnam was not a random decision. It was something I prayed about deeply. I wanted to go where I felt called, even if that meant stepping far outside my comfort zone. Vietnam, with its rich culture, complex history, and vibrant people, beckoned to me in a way that was hard to explain. I knew very little about the country beyond what history books taught, but I felt a tug on my heart — a divine invitation to learn, to love, and to serve. Now, as the trip draws closer, that tug has become a steady pull, reassuring me that I am exactly where I am meant to be.

Our team has spent countless hours preparing — spiritually, mentally, and practically. We have prayed over our mission, studied Vietnamese culture, learned basic phrases, and brainstormed ways to connect with the communities we will serve. We have packed and repacked supply lists, coordinated logistics, and fundraised tirelessly. Yet, amidst all the planning, we are keenly aware that the most important preparation is internal. We are preparing our hearts to be vessels of Christ’s love, ready to pour ourselves out fully without expectation of return.

One of the themes that has emerged throughout our formation sessions is the idea of being present. True mission work is not about rushing in to "fix" things or imposing our own ways. It is about meeting people where they are, walking alongside them, and sharing life together, even if just for a short time. It is about seeing the image of God in every person we encounter and allowing ourselves to be taught and blessed by them. I am humbled by this perspective, knowing that while I may go to serve, I will also be served — by the hospitality, wisdom, and resilience of those we meet.

I find myself thinking often about the faces we will see in Vietnam: the children we will play with, the families we will support, the elders whose stories we may hear. I wonder about their hopes, their struggles, their dreams. I wonder what lessons they will teach me about faith, perseverance, and community. I wonder how God will show up in unexpected moments, in the quiet conversations, the shared meals, the laughter, and even in the tears. I am both nervous and excited, knowing that mission trips rarely go according to plan, but always go according to God’s plan.

Already, I am grateful for the many ways this trip is shaping my faith. Preparing for Vietnam has deepened my reliance on prayer, strengthened my commitment to service, and widened my perspective on the global Church. It has reminded me that faith is not meant to be a comfortable, private affair, but a dynamic, outward expression of God’s love for the world. It has reminded me that the Body of Christ is beautifully diverse, spanning languages, cultures, and continents, and that every act of love, no matter how small, echoes into eternity.

As the departure date approaches, my prayers grow more fervent. I pray for the people of Vietnam, that they may feel the love of Christ through our presence. I pray for my team, that we may serve with humility, joy, and perseverance. I pray for safety, health, and open doors. Most of all, I pray that we remain attentive to the Holy Spirit, willing to be led wherever and however God chooses.

In many ways, this mission trip feels like a beginning rather than a culmination. I sense that Vietnam is just the first chapter in a larger story that God is writing in my life — a story of surrender, of stepping out in faith, of embracing the unknown with trust. I am excited to see how this journey will unfold, not only during the days we spend abroad but in the months and years that follow. I hope to return not only with memories and photos but with a renewed heart, a deeper faith, and a greater commitment to living a life of mission wherever I am planted.

Sunday’s Mission Formation Session #2 was a beautiful glimpse of what is to come. It reminded me that the greatest adventures often start with simple yeses — yes to God’s call, yes to stepping outside of comfort zones, yes to being part of something bigger than ourselves. I am filled with anticipation, gratitude, and hope as I look forward to Vietnam. I know there will be challenges. I know there will be moments of exhaustion and maybe even doubt. But I also know that God is faithful. I know that He has called each of us by name and that He will equip us for every good work.

As I continue to prepare, I hold tightly to the promise that when we offer our small loaves and fishes, God multiplies them beyond what we can imagine. I am bringing what I have — my time, my heart, my willingness — and trusting that it is enough. I cannot wait to see what God has in store, not only for the people we will serve but for each one of us who has said yes to this incredible journey.

25 Years of Love: Our Silver Anniversary Story

 

Looking back on the past 25 years, it’s hard not to be overwhelmed with emotion. What a long way we have come. From the uncertain early days of young love to the solid, enduring bond we now share, our story has been nothing short of a fairy tale—complete with magical beginnings, trials and triumphs, and most importantly, a love that has stood the test of time.

Ours isn’t the kind of story you often hear, but it’s the one that shaped our lives forever. We met online, in a time when that wasn’t quite the norm. There were no dating apps or swipe-rights—just simple messages exchanged between two curious hearts, oceans apart. I was only 18 then, just a girl really, but something about Ed’s presence—even from behind a screen—felt safe, genuine, and exciting.

When you’re young and in love, logic tends to take a backseat, and I’m so grateful it did. Because I made a decision that would change my life—I traveled thousands of miles to meet him. My heart still remembers the nervous excitement of that first flight, the anticipation, the uncertainty, and the hope. And when I saw him waiting for me, everything just clicked. It was as if the universe had been guiding me to this moment all along.

It didn’t take long for Ed to know what he wanted. On that very visit to the USA, he proposed. It wasn’t extravagant, but it was real, honest, and beautiful. I said yes without hesitation. From that moment on, we chose each other. We chose to build a life together, even though we had no idea how tough the road ahead would be.

We started with so little. We were young, in love, and broke. We lived paycheck to paycheck, stretching every dollar and doing what we could to survive. I remember our pasta and chicken days so clearly—not because of how hard they were, but because they showed me what love and partnership really mean. We made those cheap meals into feasts, not because of the food, but because we had each other. We shared dreams and hopes over simple dinners, and somehow, it was always enough.

There were moments when things felt overwhelming—bills piling up, responsibilities growing, and no guarantee of how we’d get through the week. But we always managed to find a way. We didn’t have riches in the beginning, but we were rich in love, resilience, and a commitment that never wavered. And slowly, with grit and grace, things began to change. We worked hard, supported one another, and little by little, we built a life. We climbed from rags to a version of riches—not just in material terms, but in the richness of experience, growth, and joy.

In time, our love story expanded with the arrival of our children—two of the greatest gifts we’ve ever received. Watching them grow has been the most beautiful journey within our journey. From their first steps to their first words, school days to teenage years, and now, watching them evolve into incredible young adults—it has been a privilege. They are kind, thoughtful, intelligent, and so full of promise. I see pieces of both of us in them, and I also see the unique individuals they are becoming. Knowing we’ve raised them with love, stability, and intention is one of our proudest accomplishments.

Through the years, our love has evolved too. It’s grown deeper, wiser, and more comfortable—like a well-worn sweater that fits just right. We’ve faced ups and downs—some days filled with laughter, others with tears. But never once did we stop choosing each other. That, I think, is the secret. We never walked away. We never gave up. We made the decision every day to stand by each other, even when it was hard.

For our 25th anniversary, we always imagined a grand celebration—something lavish and memorable. After all, not many couples make it to 25 years with the kind of story we have. We pictured a big party, surrounded by family and friends, music, dancing, the works. But as the date drew closer, we found ourselves leaning toward something quieter, something more intimate and meaningful.

In the end, we celebrated just the two of us. And honestly, it was perfect. We went on a romantic sunset dinner in a cable car, suspended in the sky with breathtaking views below us and the golden sun melting into the horizon. There we were, toasting with champagne, reminiscing, laughing, and simply soaking in the moment. It was elegant, peaceful, and filled with the kind of magic that only comes from truly shared memories. That evening was a beautiful reminder of who we are—a team, a love story that doesn’t need an audience to shine.

Sitting in that cable car, with the world stretching out beneath us, I thought about everything we’ve been through. The late-night talks, the tears, the tight hugs during hard times, the belly laughs, the parenting wins and fails, the shared dreams and quiet mornings over coffee. I thought about how far we’ve come—not just in distance, but in growth. The girl who flew halfway across the world at 18 could never have imagined this life, but she would be proud. So proud.

There’s something extraordinary about making it to 25 years. It’s not just a number—it’s a reflection of every choice, every effort, every moment of grace. It’s about surviving the hard seasons, celebrating the good ones, and holding each other through it all. And we did that. We are still doing that.

To Ed—thank you for loving me all these years. Thank you for being patient when I was not, for being strong when I felt weak, and for never letting go of my hand, even when the road got rough. You’ve been my best friend, my greatest supporter, my partner in everything. I am who I am because I had you beside me, believing in me, building a life with me.

As we step into this new chapter beyond 25, I carry with me all the memories we’ve created, and all the love we’ve nurtured. I also carry excitement—because I know our story isn’t over. There’s still so much more to see, do, learn, and enjoy together. We’ll travel more, dream bigger, and continue growing—both individually and as a couple.

Marriage isn’t perfect. It’s not always easy. But when it’s rooted in real love, trust, friendship, and mutual respect—it’s the most powerful bond there is. And that’s what we have. A connection that was forged not just by fate, but by every choice we made to stay, to love, to grow.

Twenty-five years ago, we began a journey not knowing where it would take us. Today, I can confidently say it has taken us to the most beautiful places—both literally and figuratively. And I wouldn’t change a thing.

Here’s to our 25 years—silver on the calendar, but golden in memories. And here’s to many more. Because no matter how many years pass, you will always be my person, my home, my heart.

The Death of Pope Francis: A Personal Journey Through Grief, Gratitude, and Hope

 

The death of Pope Francis has stirred a profound grief in my soul—a sorrow I struggle to articulate in words but feel deeply in every part of my being. As I reflect on his life, his legacy, and the light he brought to our often troubled world, I find myself overwhelmed by both the sadness of his passing and the immense gratitude for the life he lived so humbly and generously. 

For many around the globe, Pope Francis was more than a religious figurehead—he was a symbol of compassion, humility, and courage. But for me, he was something even deeper: a spiritual shepherd who seemed to understand the pain and beauty of the human condition, who reached out to the lost, the poor, and the broken with open arms, and who led not with power or prestige but with an open heart.

I can still vividly remember the moment I heard the news of his passing. My heart sank. I felt a chill, a sense of disbelief and loss. Pope Francis had always felt like a comforting presence in the world—a voice of calm in chaos, a bridge in moments of division, and a gentle reminder that above all else, love wins. The idea that such a light could be extinguished from our earthly world left me in tears. I was saddened beyond measure, and it felt like losing a beloved grandfather, mentor, and spiritual guide all at once.

One of the things I will miss the most is his humility. In a world that often rewards ego and ambition, Pope Francis stood as a testament to the power of humility. From the moment he stepped onto the balcony at the Vatican and bowed to the people for their blessing before giving his own, I knew he was different. He refused the opulent papal apartments and chose to live in a modest guesthouse. He rode in a simple Ford Focus instead of the traditional papal limousine. His actions, small as they may seem to some, spoke volumes. They weren’t just gestures—they were reflections of his soul.

But beyond his humble lifestyle was a heart so full of kindness and love that it moved millions. He embraced the marginalized with tenderness, washed the feet of prisoners and refugees, opened the doors of the Church to those who had long felt excluded, and continually preached about mercy over judgment. I remember how he once said, “Who am I to judge?” in response to questions about the LGBTQ+ community. That moment alone showed me a leader willing to shatter norms in favor of love and inclusivity. That was Pope Francis—always choosing love.

His kindness wasn’t just words—it was action. He stood up for the poor, the forgotten, and the voiceless. He called out greed and environmental destruction, challenged global leaders to think beyond politics and power, and reminded us all that the true Church is one that serves. His heart beat for humanity in all its forms, and his love transcended barriers—of language, nationality, and even faith.

I feel deeply blessed that I had the opportunity to attend the Papal Mass celebrated by Pope Francis in Singapore last September. That experience, in hindsight, feels even more precious now. To be in his presence, to hear his voice echo through the crowd, and to see his gentle smile with my own eyes—it was surreal. There was a stillness in the air that day, a kind of spiritual calm that enveloped everyone present. His words were simple yet powerful, his gaze was kind, and his blessing felt like a direct touch from Heaven. I remember closing my eyes during the final blessing, tears rolling down my cheeks, as I whispered a silent prayer of thanks for being able to witness such grace.

That day is now a cherished memory—one I will hold close for the rest of my life. At the time, I did not realize it would be the last time I would ever see him in person. But now, knowing that, I treasure it even more. That Mass was not just a religious event; it was a sacred encounter with a man whose life was a living Gospel.

As I mourn, I also pray with all my heart that the next Pope will carry on the incredible legacy left behind by Pope Francis. I hope and pray that whoever steps into the role next will do so with the same humility, gentleness, and wisdom. The world needs a spiritual leader who listens, who heals, and who dares to love radically as Pope Francis did. His shoes are large to fill—not just in size, but in spirit. But I have hope that God will raise another servant-leader, one molded in the image of Christ, much like Francis was.

Pope Francis was not perfect, nor did he claim to be. But in his imperfections, he reminded us of our own humanity. He apologized when necessary, admitted faults, and welcomed criticism with grace. He knew he was just a man, but one chosen to do the work of the divine. And he did that work with quiet strength and enduring love.

I find comfort in believing that he is now with the Lord he served so faithfully. I imagine him reunited with saints and angels, continuing to pray for us as we journey on without him. My heart finds peace in the thought that Heaven has welcomed him with open arms: “Well done, good and faithful servant.” I am sure those words were spoken to him the moment he entered into eternity.

His death has left me more aware of the fragility of life, and also more convicted in my faith. Pope Francis once said, “Let us not allow ourselves to be robbed of hope.” And so, in his honor, I will choose hope over despair, light over darkness, and love over fear. I will try to live more humbly, more compassionately, more like he did.

Though the world mourns, I find that mourning deeply personal. He wasn’t just the Pope—he was *my* Pope. The one who taught me that faith can be kind, that leadership can be gentle, and that love can be revolutionary. I will miss him immensely. I will miss his warm smile, his thoughtful homilies, his compassionate gaze, and the way he always reminded us to pray for him—his humility so profound that he, the Pope, would ask the people for prayer.

Now, I find myself doing just that—praying for him. Praying that his soul is at peace, that his legacy continues to ripple through the Church and the world, and that his example lives on in each of us who were touched by his life.

In many ways, the best way we can honor him is not just with words, but with action. To be kind. To forgive. To serve. To include. To care. To speak up for the voiceless. To stand with the poor. To love without judgment. These were the values he championed, and they must now become the torch we carry forward.

Pope Francis may be gone from this earth, but his spirit lives on. In our churches. In our hearts. In every act of kindness we offer. And every time we choose humility over pride, service over self, and compassion over convenience, we keep his memory alive.

As I sit with my grief, I also sit with immense gratitude. I am grateful for the years we had him. I am grateful for his courage and clarity, his compassion and conviction. And I am especially grateful that, by divine grace, I was able to witness his holy presence at the Papal Mass in Singapore. That moment will forever be etched in the pages of my life story.

In this time of mourning, I hold fast to the words he himself gave us: “You have to dare to dream. Don’t be afraid to dream of a more just world, to ask for change.” Pope Francis dreamed such a world into being with every act of love. Now, it is up to us to keep dreaming, keep building, and keep loving—just as he did.

May his soul rest in peace, and may the love he shared continue to shine through us all.