What positive changes can you make in your daily habits?

 

When I think about the question, “What positive changes can you make in your daily habits?” it feels less like a classroom assignment and more like a mirror being held up to me. It’s an invitation to pause, take a step back, and ask myself: How am I really living? Not just in the big moments—the celebrations, the struggles, the milestones—but in the small, seemingly insignificant hours that actually shape the bulk of my life. Habits are the quiet architects of who we are becoming. They’re the things I repeat so often that, eventually, they become me. And that is both a humbling and empowering thought.

Over the years, I’ve noticed that many of the positive changes I want to make in my life often start with the tiniest, most ordinary shifts. I’ve learned that it’s not about reinventing myself overnight, but about choosing to be a little kinder to myself, a little more disciplined, and a little more intentional every single day. And so, when I think about positive changes to my daily habits, a few stand out—changes that I know will ripple into every corner of my life if I commit to them with honesty and consistency.

The first habit I want to embrace more fully is the art of waking up early with purpose. I already wake up relatively early, but sometimes I fall into the trap of starting my mornings passively—scrolling through my phone, checking notifications, letting the outside world rush in before I even center myself. On those days, I feel like I’m being pulled along by the current instead of swimming in the direction I want to go. But when I’ve had mornings where I start slowly, grounded in silence or prayer, everything feels different. There’s a clarity and calmness that sets the tone for the day. A positive change I want to commit to is protecting that sacred space in the morning: waking up, breathing deeply, saying a prayer of gratitude, and moving my body before I allow the noise of the world to enter. I know from experience that the way I start my day often determines how I live it.

Another habit that I want to refine is the way I nourish myself. For almost eight years, juicing has been part of my journey, and it has transformed how I view food and health. But as with any long-term practice, it’s easy to become complacent. Sometimes, I let convenience win. Sometimes, I slip into old patterns—snacking mindlessly, choosing something quick over something wholesome. I don’t judge myself for these moments anymore; instead, I see them as reminders of how important intentionality is. The positive change I can make is to return, with fresh commitment, to the joy of creating food that truly fuels me. To treat each meal not just as a task, but as a form of self-respect. To savour the colors of fruits and vegetables, to cook with love, to remember that food is both fuel and medicine.

Movement, too, is a habit that I want to hold closer. I’ve noticed that when I skip exercise, my body feels heavy, my energy dips, and even my mood suffers. But when I move—whether it’s a walk at the stadium with my mum, a run in good shoes, or simply stretching at home—I feel alive. I’m reminded that this body is not just a vessel; it’s the gift through which I get to experience life. And so, a positive change I want to make is to prioritize movement daily, not as punishment, not as a chore, but as a joyful reminder that I am here, breathing, living. Even if it’s just 20 minutes, those 20 minutes matter.

Another area where I crave change is in how I manage my attention. The truth is, the digital world can be both a blessing and a curse. It connects me with others, it gives me platforms to share my work and my heart, but it also steals time in subtle ways. I’ve had days where I look up from my phone and realize I’ve lost precious hours to scrolling, comparing, consuming instead of creating. The positive change here is obvious: I need to guard my attention like the precious resource it is. Setting boundaries with technology—like keeping my phone away during meals, limiting social media time, and making space for offline presence—is not about restriction, but about freedom. It’s about reclaiming the hours of my day for things that truly matter: conversations with my family, quiet time with my thoughts, reading books that nourish me, or simply being still without needing to fill the silence.

On a deeper level, one habit I know I need to nurture daily is gratitude. Life is fleeting, and I’ve experienced enough loss to know that nothing should be taken for granted. I’ve lost people I love dearly, people who shaped me, people who saw me for who I was. Their absence has left an ache that never fully disappears, but it has also left me with a sharper awareness of how precious each day is. Gratitude, then, becomes more than a practice—it becomes a survival tool, a lifeline. Writing down three things I’m thankful for each night, or whispering a thank you when I wake up, is a habit I want to make unshakable. It shifts my perspective. It reminds me that even on hard days, beauty is still present. And that awareness can transform how I show up in every part of my life.

I also want to cultivate the habit of being kinder to myself. This may sound simple, but for me, it’s one of the hardest. I can be my own harshest critic, replaying mistakes, judging myself for not being enough, comparing myself to others. But what I’ve come to realize is that this inner voice shapes my outer world. If I want to live with more joy, more courage, more peace, I have to start by speaking to myself the way I would to someone I love. The positive change here is to notice when that harsh voice rises, to pause, and to choose gentleness instead. To say, It’s okay. You’re learning. You’re growing. You’re human.

Lastly, the habit of presence is one that I feel called to lean into. Life moves quickly. Children grow up, parents age, seasons change. I don’t want to live my life so busy planning for tomorrow that I miss the beauty of today. Presence, for me, means putting down the distractions and looking into the eyes of the person in front of me. It means listening with my whole heart, laughing without rushing, sitting in silence without needing to escape it. Presence is the habit that anchors me to what truly matters: love, connection, being here, now.

When I gather all these habits together—intentional mornings, nourishing food, joyful movement, guarded attention, gratitude, self-kindness, and presence—I see not a perfect life, but a more intentional one. And perhaps that is the heart of all positive change: not perfection, but intention. Not living without flaws, but living with awareness.

The truth is, habits shape us quietly. They are the brushstrokes painting the portrait of our lives. The positive changes I want to make are not grand, dramatic gestures, but daily choices—choices that, over time, will mold me into a version of myself that is more peaceful, more alive, more grateful, and more present. And if I can commit to those choices one day at a time, then slowly, without even realizing it, I will be living the life I’ve always hoped for.

A Minute on a Good Death

 

Death is such a strange thing to think about, let alone to write about. We spend so much of our lives trying to avoid it—not just physically by eating the right foods, exercising, or getting regular checkups, but emotionally too, by pushing it out of our minds, keeping it at arm’s length as if ignoring it will somehow make it less inevitable. But when I stop and really think about it, I know that the way I leave this world will be just as important to me as the way I have lived in it. I have often thought about what a “good death” means to me, and the truth is, I don’t think it has as much to do with the exact moment of dying as it does with the way the moments leading up to it are lived. Still, when I picture my final minutes, I find myself returning to the same vision over and over again—one that looks nothing like a hospital room with sterile white walls, harsh fluorescent lights, or the constant beeping of machines.

I want to die at sunset.

Not just any sunset, but one of those that feels like the whole sky has been dipped in gold and rose, with streaks of deep orange and tender pink bleeding into one another. The kind of sunset that feels like a slow exhale from the world itself, as if even the day is saying, “It’s time to rest now.” I want to be lying somewhere comfortable—preferably in my own bed, the one that has held my weight and my dreams for so many years. I want my windows open so I can feel the wind against my skin, not the artificial air of an air-conditioned room, but the kind of breeze that carries scents of flowers. I want to hear the sound of rustling leaves outside. Nature has always had a way of making me feel at peace, as if reminding me that life has always been part of a greater rhythm.

Most importantly, I want to be surrounded by the people I love. Not in a frantic, grief-heavy way, but in a soft, grounded way—like the way we sit together during an ordinary afternoon, sipping tea or talking about nothing in particular. I don’t want them to feel burdened with the logistics of my departure. I want my affairs to be in order long before that day comes. My will written, my debts cleared, my keepsakes handed down with love. I want there to be nothing for them to “handle” except being there. Their only job should be to simply hold my hand, share memories, maybe even laugh with me. I want my final moments to be ones where everyone present can be fully there—not thinking about funeral arrangements, paperwork, or unanswered questions.

It’s not that I fear hospitals or dislike doctors—they’ve saved my life before, and I’m grateful for that—but a hospital death feels too clinical for me. There’s a sense of disconnect in those rooms. Even when loved ones gather, they’re often just visitors in a space that doesn’t belong to them, always at the mercy of schedules, interruptions, and the constant reminder that other patients, other emergencies, and other lives are happening just beyond the curtain. I’ve seen people pass in those rooms, and while it can still be peaceful, it’s not the peace I long for. I want to die at home. I want to feel like I’m leaving from a place that knows me—where the walls have heard my laughter, where the floors have felt my footsteps, where the very air seems to remember me.

Over the years, one of the most striking things I’ve learned is how deeply the definition of a “good death” varies from person to person. For some, a good death is one that’s quick, painless, and comes without warning. For others, it’s about having time to say goodbye, to make peace, to tie up loose ends. Some people want music playing in their final hours, others want silence. Some want religious rituals, prayers, and blessings, while others want nothing more than the quiet company of those they love. There is no single definition because there is no single way to live—and death, in many ways, mirrors life.

For me, a peaceful death would be one where I am still myself until the end. I want my mind to be clear enough to recognize the faces around me, to tell them I love them, to remember the moments we’ve shared. I don’t want to be so medicated that I’m lost in a fog, but I also don’t want to be in unbearable pain. I hope for a balance—enough comfort to let go without struggling, enough awareness to savour the final drops of life.

If I could choose, my final moments would be filled with gratitude. Gratitude for my children, who have been my greatest joy and my most profound teachers. Gratitude for my family and friends who have walked through life’s storms with me. Gratitude for the places I’ve seen, the sunsets I’ve chased, the meals I’ve shared. Gratitude for the mistakes that shaped me, the heartbreaks that deepened me, the laughter that healed me. Gratitude for my faith, which has been my anchor in dark waters. I want to leave this world knowing that I loved deeply, forgave freely, and lived authentically.

I imagine that as the light outside my window fades into the purples and indigos of early night, I’ll take one last deep breath and let it out slowly, like a final sigh of relief. I imagine the faces around me might blur a little as my eyes grow heavy. I hope they won’t cry too much—though I know they will—because I want them to feel, deep in their bones, that I am at peace. I want them to know that I have no regrets that matter, no lingering bitterness, no sense of unfinished business. I want them to feel that this was the right time, the right way.

Of course, the truth is, death rarely goes exactly as we picture it. We can’t control every detail. Accidents happen, illnesses surprise us, and sometimes the people we love most can’t be there when the end comes. But perhaps the value in imagining a “good death” isn’t in guaranteeing it—it’s in shaping the way we live now. Thinking about how I want to die reminds me to live more in alignment with those values today. If I want to die surrounded by love, then I need to cultivate that love now. If I want my affairs in order, then I should start putting them in order now. If I want peace, then I should stop carrying grudges or putting off forgiveness.

I have learned that the greatest gift you can give your loved ones is not your presence in life, but your clarity in death. So many families are left scrambling, guessing at what the person would have wanted, arguing over decisions, weighed down by the stress of not knowing. That’s why I’m determined to be open with my family about my wishes—not because I’m morbid, but because I love them too much to leave them in the dark.

In the end, a good death, for me, is one that reflects the life I tried to live: honest, intentional, connected. I don’t want to leave in chaos. I want my final chapter to be one that brings comfort to those who read it, even as they close the book.

So, when I think about my “minute on a good death,” I think about sunset. I think about the way the light softens, the way the sky tells you it’s time to rest without fear or resistance. I think about the wind against my skin and the rustle of leaves. I think about the warmth of my children’s hands in mine and my mother’s familiar voice. I think about closing my eyes and feeling, in the very last heartbeat, that I am exactly where I am meant to be.

That, to me, is peace. And that, to me, is a good death.

Movie Recommendation: The Lost Valentine (2011)

 

#DebraAndValerieMovieRecommendation

The Lost Valentine (2011)

Some movies slip quietly into your life, catch you off guard, and leave a permanent mark on your heart. The Lost Valentine (2011) is one of those rare films. It’s the kind of story you don’t just watch—you experience. From the moment the opening scene began, I felt that unmistakable tug, the one that tells you this is more than just entertainment. This is a journey you’re about to take, one that will stir something deep within you.

I went into it expecting a sweet romance. I came out with so much more—a lump in my throat, tears on my cheeks, and a heart that felt both heavy with sorrow and light with inspiration. The Lost Valentine isn’t simply a love story. It’s a living, breathing testament to the kind of loyalty, hope, and devotion that is becoming all too rare in our fast-moving world.

Betty White’s performance as Caroline Thomas was extraordinary. I’ve always admired Betty for her warmth and wit, but here, she gives us something different—something stripped down and vulnerable. She plays a woman whose love story was cut short by war, yet whose devotion never wavered. Year after year, she returns to the train station where she last saw her husband, still believing in her heart that love is worth waiting for. It’s not a loud performance. There’s no unnecessary drama, no overacting. Instead, Betty White gives us the quiet, unshakable dignity of a woman whose soul still holds on to a promise made decades ago.

There’s one scene in particular that stayed with me—Caroline sitting on that bench at the train station, her eyes scanning the tracks like she’s done countless times before. There’s no bitterness, no resentment in her gaze. Just hope. Pure, stubborn, enduring hope. I don’t know why, but that hit me harder than I expected. I think it’s because hope like that is so rare. In life, we’re often taught to “move on” or “let go” when something feels lost. But Caroline’s story reminds us that some loves don’t fade with time. They remain etched into our being, no matter how many years pass.

The film’s structure—moving back and forth between the present and the past—makes the story even more powerful. Through flashbacks, we see Caroline as a young woman, deeply in love, filled with dreams for her future. We witness the joy of their early marriage, the heartbreaking goodbye at the train station when her husband is deployed, and the devastating silence that follows. These scenes made me think about how quickly life can change, how one moment can become the dividing line between “before” and “after.”

It’s impossible to watch this film without thinking of the people you’ve loved and lost. For me, it brought to mind faces and voices I can no longer see or hear. It made me think of conversations left unfinished, hugs I wish I could have given, and the irreplaceable comfort of knowing someone is still in the world. It’s a bittersweet kind of ache—the longing for what once was, mixed with gratitude for having experienced it at all.

There’s also a quiet bravery in The Lost Valentine—the bravery of those who wait, who endure loss without letting it turn them bitter, and who hold on to love even when it hurts. Caroline’s story isn’t about getting a happy ending in the traditional sense. It’s about keeping love alive in your heart, even when life has taken away the person you love most.

Watching this movie also made me reflect on promises—how lightly we sometimes make them, and how easily we can break them when life gets in the way. Caroline’s promise to her husband was different. It was a vow she carried with her every single day, even when others might have told her to move forward. There’s something profoundly beautiful about keeping a promise that no one else is keeping you accountable for, a promise that exists only between you and your heart.

One of the most moving things about this film is that it doesn’t try to rush or modernize love. It reminds us of an era when relationships were built on patience, trust, and sacrifice. It’s not about constant texting, instant updates, or swiping right—it’s about writing letters, waiting months for a reply, and holding on to the memory of someone’s voice until you can hear it again. That kind of love requires a strength we don’t often have to practice today.

As the story unfolded, I found myself thinking about how fleeting life is. Time with loved ones feels infinite when we’re young, but the truth is, it’s so fragile. We don’t always get the luxury of long goodbyes or perfectly tied-up endings. Sometimes life gives us sudden changes, unexpected losses, and long stretches of waiting with no certainty of what’s to come. This movie captures that reality without losing sight of the beauty that can exist in the midst of it.

By the time the final scenes arrived, my tears were streaming freely. They weren’t just for Caroline and her husband—they were for every love story cut short, for every person who has waited without getting the reunion they hoped for, and for every quiet act of devotion the world never sees.

But even in its sadness, The Lost Valentine left me with an incredible sense of warmth. It’s strange, isn’t it? How a story can break your heart but still make you feel grateful? I think it’s because this film doesn’t just focus on loss—it focuses on the legacy of love. The idea that love, when true, doesn’t fade. It shapes us, stays with us, and gives us the courage to live with an open heart, even when that heart has been broken.

In my own life, I’ve seen how love endures beyond death. I’ve felt it in moments when I think of someone who’s gone and feel an unexpected comfort wash over me, as if they’re still watching over me. I’ve seen it in stories shared by others, in the way their voices soften when they speak of the ones they’ve loved. This movie reminded me of those truths—and of the responsibility we have to cherish the people we love while we still can.

When I think of The Lost Valentine, I think of a story that isn’t afraid to be gentle. In a world that often prizes speed and convenience, it dares to slow down and linger on the things that truly matter: the vows we make, the patience we keep, and the hope we carry even when the world tells us to let go.

I’ll always treasure this film, not just because it made me cry, but because it made me feel so deeply. It reminded me that some love stories don’t end when the last page is turned or the credits roll. They continue to live in the hearts of those who carry them. They become part of who we are.

And maybe that’s the greatest gift this movie gives us—the reminder that true love doesn’t need a perfect ending to be beautiful. Sometimes, the act of loving faithfully is the happy ending itself.

How do you handle moments of self-doubt and insecurity?

 

Self-doubt and insecurity have a sneaky way of creeping into life when you least expect it. For me, they often arrive quietly, disguised as innocent thoughts, until I realize they’ve been sitting in my head rearranging all the furniture. One moment, I’m excited about a project, a decision, or a relationship; the next, I’m questioning everything — my worth, my abilities, my choices. It’s not that I’ve invited them in, but they somehow find the spare key. Over the years, I’ve had to learn not just to “tolerate” these moments, but to actually work through them in a way that leaves me stronger on the other side.

I can’t pretend I handle self-doubt with saint-like composure every time. Sometimes it hits me like a tidal wave, pulling me under before I’ve had a chance to grab a life jacket. There are days I feel small, unqualified, and undeserving — and on those days, the temptation to shrink into the background is strong. But here’s what I’ve learned: if I only listen to those voices, they’ll keep me exactly where they want me — stuck. So, when insecurity comes knocking, I try to respond with honesty. I admit to myself that I’m feeling shaky instead of pretending I’m fine. It’s strange, but simply saying “Okay, I’m doubting myself right now” makes it less overwhelming. It’s like turning on the light in a dark room; the fear shrinks once you see it clearly.

One of the most important steps I take is to stop comparing myself to others. I know, easier said than done. Social media alone is like a buffet of comparison traps — perfectly curated lives, flawless careers, and people who seem to glide through challenges without a hair out of place. When I’m in a self-doubt spiral, that’s like pouring petrol on a fire. So I’ve made it a habit to take breaks from scrolling when I notice my confidence dipping. I remind myself that I’m seeing other people’s highlight reels, not the behind-the-scenes chaos. And honestly, I wouldn’t trade my “blooper reel” for someone else’s life — because even in my messy moments, my life is mine.

In moments of insecurity, I also go back to my “proof folder.” It’s not a literal folder (though it could be), but more a mental file of every time I’ve succeeded despite my doubts. Times I’ve been terrified to start something but did it anyway — and it turned out better than I imagined. Times someone believed in me when I couldn’t believe in myself. I think of the speeches I’ve given, the projects I’ve finished, the relationships I’ve nurtured. Those reminders act as an antidote to the voice in my head telling me “you can’t.” They whisper back, “Yes, you can — and here’s the evidence.”

Another thing I’ve realized is that self-doubt often disguises itself as humility. I used to think doubting myself meant I was being modest, not arrogant. But there’s a difference between humility and tearing yourself down. Humility is knowing you’re not better than anyone else; insecurity is convincing yourself you’re worse than everyone else. So, I’ve had to challenge that false modesty. When someone compliments me, I try to say “thank you” instead of brushing it off. Accepting kind words without self-deprecation has been surprisingly empowering.

I also lean heavily on my support system. I have people in my life — my mum, my children my closest friends — who know how to hold up a mirror when I forget who I am. They’re the ones who will text me, “You’ve got this,” without me even asking, or remind me of things I’ve overcome in the past. Sometimes it’s not about them giving me a pep talk; it’s about having someone listen while I pour out all the messy fears in my head. Saying those fears out loud to someone I trust often makes them sound a lot less convincing.

Faith plays a role too. For me, returning to prayer or quiet reflection during these moments helps re-center my thoughts. It’s a reminder that my worth doesn’t depend on my productivity, my achievements, or anyone else’s approval. There’s comfort in knowing that even when I feel lost in self-doubt, I am still seen, still loved, and still guided. That shift in perspective — from “I’m not enough” to “I am enough as I am” — has been one of the most healing changes in my mindset.

Practical action helps as well. Sometimes, the fastest way out of insecurity is to just start doing the thing I’m doubting myself over. Action has a way of silencing fear. When I procrastinate because I feel insecure, the self-doubt grows. But when I take even a small step forward, I gather evidence that I’m capable. If I’m nervous about a presentation, I practice it out loud. If I’m unsure I can run a certain distance, I put on my running shoes and try. Even if I don’t nail it perfectly, I almost always realize I was far more capable than I thought.

One more thing I’ve noticed — self-doubt has a pattern. It often strikes when I’m stepping into something new or challenging. That means, oddly enough, it’s a sign I’m growing. Comfort zones are cozy, but they don’t demand much from us, so self-doubt rarely visits there. The fact that I’m feeling insecure usually means I’m stretching myself. When I reframe it that way, the doubt feels less like an enemy and more like a signpost saying, “You’re on the edge of something important.”

Of course, there are days when no pep talk or mindset shift works instantly. On those days, I focus on small wins. I tidy my space, go for a walk, drink water, call someone who makes me laugh. Little actions that restore a sense of control can make a huge difference when my confidence is shaky. Self-doubt doesn’t disappear overnight, but it can be softened by gentle, consistent care for myself.

Insecurity is part of being human. I’ve stopped wishing it away entirely and instead started seeing it as a visitor I can learn from. It reminds me to check my perspective, to connect with the people who lift me up, and to remember the strengths I’ve proven time and again. Most importantly, it forces me to separate my worth from my worst thoughts.

So, how do I handle moments of self-doubt and insecurity? I face them with honesty, guard my mind from unhealthy comparisons, collect proof of my past resilience, lean on my people, ground myself in faith, take action, and celebrate small wins. I remind myself that doubt is often a sign of growth — and that I’ve been here before and found my way forward every single time.

And the beautiful thing is this: every time I walk through self-doubt and come out on the other side, I get a little stronger, a little braver, and a little more certain that no matter how loud the voices in my head get, I have the final say in who I am.

National Day — More Than Flags and Fireworks

 

Every August, the city starts to dress itself in red and white. Flags appear in windows, on cars, and in neat little rows along our streets. The supermarkets sell cupcakes topped with tiny paper flags, and there’s a buzz in the air about the parade, the aerial flypast, and, of course, the fireworks. And while I’ll admit that I’m just as prone as anyone to standing under the night sky, craning my neck to catch the burst of colour above Marina Bay, I know deep down that National Day is about something far more enduring than the glitter that fades within seconds.

For me, National Day has always been more about the feeling that settles in the chest when I think about who we are as a people. We are not perfect—no country is—but we are a people shaped by resilience, by shared effort, by the stubborn insistence on making things work even when the odds seem stacked against us. That, I think, is the heartbeat of National Day: it’s not just a date on the calendar or a televised parade; it’s a mirror that reflects our story back at us, the good and the hard, the celebrated and the unsung.

In a world that changes faster than we can fully process, it’s easy to lose hold of the threads that once bound us together. Technology has made the world smaller, but it has also made our own sense of identity feel a little more fragile. We scroll past global headlines, absorb countless opinions, and sometimes forget to pause and ask, What does being Singaporean mean to me? For me, it’s not just the major milestones—independence, economic growth, world-class infrastructure—it’s the quieter moments that still hold their ground in my memory. It’s the smell of satay smoke curling into the night air at East Coast Lagoon. It’s my mother insisting we take the last piece of ngoh hiang, because “no one should go home hungry.” It’s strangers offering tissue packets to one another in the kopitiam when someone’s spill sends coffee across the table.

I think often about how many of my own National Day memories are tied to food, not fireworks. Our little island may be small, but our hawker centres are like cathedrals of culture, each stall a keeper of tradition, each plate a story that has survived migration, hardship, and adaptation. Gathering over simple hawker fare—chicken rice, laksa, rojak—is as much a celebration of our shared story as any parade could be. In those moments, seated around tables with friends and family, there are no titles or ranks. There’s just the joy of eating together, the unspoken understanding that we belong to the same story.

National Day is also, for me, a moment to remember the values we were built on. Fairness. Dignity. Shared sacrifice. These weren’t just nice ideas printed in textbooks; they were lived realities for the generation that came before mine. My grandparents’ stories still echo in my mind: the years when there was less, but neighbours looked out for each other; when water was precious enough to be boiled twice; when doors were left unlocked not because crime was impossible, but because trust was stronger.

And yet, holding onto these values in today’s world is harder than we might like to admit. We live in a time of speed and competition, where the measure of worth can sometimes be mistaken for the measure of wealth. In a society where we are always rushing—rushing for trains, rushing for deadlines, rushing to get ahead—it can feel almost counter-cultural to slow down and consider fairness, dignity, and the willingness to sacrifice for the common good.

That’s why I think it’s so important to remember that National Day isn’t just a celebration; it’s also a checkpoint. It’s the one day a year that invites us to take a long, honest look at where we’re headed as a nation. Are we still guided by fairness when it’s inconvenient? Do we still offer dignity to those who are struggling, without judgement or pity? Do we still believe in shared sacrifice, or have we started to protect only what benefits us personally?

When those values feel threatened—as they sometimes do—I hope we will continue to speak up. Not with the rage that divides, but with the clarity that invites understanding. I’ve learned that clarity is not about diluting our convictions; it’s about finding a way to voice them so they can be heard rather than dismissed. It’s not easy. It requires patience, courage, and the humility to accept that change often comes slower than we wish. But it is worth it.

I also carry an extra layer of gratitude when National Day comes around now—because I have returned to Singapore with my children, and they are growing up in a country that offers them something precious: safety. After living in America, I can say with certainty that this is not something to be taken for granted. Over there, safety felt conditional—something you had to actively work to secure every day, whether by avoiding certain areas after dark, double-checking door locks, or worrying about the possibility of violence in public places, even schools. As a parent, that kind of vigilance never truly sleeps; it hums in the background of every decision you make.

Here in Singapore, that constant hum is gone. My children can take the MRT on their own without me fearing for their lives. They can walk to the neighbourhood shops at night without the shadow of danger looming over them. They can grow up focusing on learning, friendships, and dreams, instead of navigating the invisible calculations of personal safety that American children too often absorb from a young age. That peace of mind is a gift I am deeply grateful for, and it’s one of the reasons I know I made the right choice in bringing them back here.

I remember one National Day when I was much younger, sitting on the floor in my living room with my family, watching the parade on TV. The national pledge was being recited, and for the first time, I really listened to the words. “...to build a democratic society, based on justice and equality…” These were not just ceremonial lines; they were a promise—one we make to each other every year. And the thing about promises is, they mean nothing unless we work to keep them.

Our struggles are real. Not every Singaporean feels the same sense of belonging, and not every Singaporean feels heard. There are still people living on the margins, still stories that don’t fit neatly into the glossy image of success we present to the world. But part of loving a country, I think, is the willingness to see it as it truly is—not just the beautiful parts, but the parts that still need work. Real patriotism isn’t blind; it’s clear-eyed and stubbornly committed to making things better.

So, when I think about National Day now, I think about more than the flags fluttering in the wind or the brilliant splash of fireworks across the night sky. I think about the people who came before me and the people who will come after me. I think about my children and the Singapore they will inherit. I think about the conversations we have at the dinner table, about what fairness looks like, about how dignity is something no one should have to earn—it should be theirs by virtue of being human. I think about the sacrifices we’ve made and the sacrifices we will still have to make to keep our shared home thriving.

This National Day, as I gather with my family and friends, I will celebrate—not just the progress we’ve made, but the values that have carried us this far. I will remember that fairness, dignity, and shared sacrifice are not just ideals from another time; they are the foundation of the Singapore I want to live in. And I will remind myself, as I hope we all will, that our voices deserve to be heard, especially when they speak not in anger, but in the steady, unwavering tone of care.

Happy National Day, Singapore. May we never forget who we are, and may we always have the courage to hold on to it.

Movie Recommendation: Inheritance (2020)

 

#DebraAndValerieMovieRecommendation

Inheritance (2020)

When a film has the power to stay with you long after the credits roll, you know it’s something special. Inheritance is one of those films. I first saw it out of curiosity, but soon found myself completely immersed in a web of moral dilemmas, family secrets, and psychological suspense. The way the movie shifts from a political family drama into something far darker, gripping, and thought-provoking was enough to keep me on edge from start to finish.

The movie centers around Lauren Monroe (Lily Collins), a district attorney with a seemingly perfect life. She’s got the career, the family legacy, and the respect of her peers. But everything she thought she knew about her family and her own identity comes crashing down when her father, a powerful politician, dies suddenly. What follows is a story that takes unexpected twists and leads Lauren down a rabbit hole of shocking discoveries that force her to confront not only the dark past of her father, but the unsettling truth about the legacy she’s inherited.

It’s hard not to be drawn into the eerie atmosphere of Inheritance, especially when the central secret is an underground bunker. I can still picture the moment Lauren discovers it—an almost claustrophobic reveal that sets the tone for the entire film. Inside the bunker is a man named Morgan (Simon Pegg), a prisoner who has been kept in isolation by Lauren’s father for years. At first, you don’t know what to make of him. Is he a victim? A monster? And the more you learn about his past, the more questions arise. It’s this mystery, this haunting unknown, that propels the film forward, each new piece of information unsettling you more than the last.

What really captivated me, though, was how the story explores the theme of inheritance—not just in terms of wealth or property, but in the way we inherit things like trauma, guilt, and secrets. As Lauren unravels her father’s past, she starts to realize that what she’s inherited goes far beyond a family fortune. It’s a dark legacy of violence, lies, and complicity. It made me question the nature of family and loyalty—how much of what we are is shaped by the things we don’t know, or what’s been hidden from us?

Lily Collins as Lauren is extraordinary. She plays the character with such depth and vulnerability that you can’t help but root for her, even as she makes increasingly difficult choices. Lauren’s transformation throughout the movie is striking. At the beginning, she’s an idealistic lawyer, sure of her principles and certain about what’s right and wrong. But as she delves deeper into the twisted truth of her family’s past, she’s forced to confront her own beliefs and what it means to seek justice. I found myself questioning what I would do in her shoes. How far would I go to protect my family, even when the very foundation of their existence is built on lies?

Then there’s Simon Pegg. If you know him from his comedic roles in films like Shaun of the Dead or Hot Fuzz, you’re in for a surprise here. Pegg’s portrayal of Morgan is nothing short of chilling. He completely transforms into this unsettling figure—part victim, part villain. There’s an eerie calmness to him, a charisma that makes him both likable and terrifying at the same time. His performance is one of the highlights of the film, as you constantly find yourself unsure whether to feel sympathy for him or to fear him. And that, in itself, is what makes his character so fascinating. He’s not just a villain locked in a bunker; he’s a man with his own story, his own pain, and his own secrets.

What struck me most deeply about Inheritance was how it handled moral ambiguity. There’s no clear-cut hero or villain here. The movie constantly challenges you to rethink your perceptions of right and wrong, of loyalty and betrayal. As Lauren uncovers more about her family’s legacy, she’s forced to make decisions that test her sense of justice. What would you do when your family is built on a foundation of lies? Would you stand by them, or would you expose the truth?

For me, the movie wasn’t just about the twists or the suspense (though those were plenty), but about the questions it raised about personal identity and responsibility. How much of what we inherit defines who we are? How much of ourselves are we willing to sacrifice in the name of family loyalty? And when it’s all said and done, can we ever truly separate ourselves from the sins of those who came before us?

After the film ended, I found myself reflecting on the relationships in my own life—what we inherit from our families, both good and bad. It made me think about the things we keep hidden, the secrets we bury, and how those things shape our choices. I kept wondering what I would do in Lauren’s position. Would I protect my family, even if it meant compromising my own integrity? Or would I expose the truth, no matter the cost?

Inheritance is a deeply disturbing yet thought-provoking thriller. It’s a movie that doesn’t just entertain, but challenges you to reflect on the complexities of family, loyalty, and the dark legacies we inherit. By the end, you’re left with more questions than answers, and that lingering feeling of unease sticks with you long after the credits roll.

If you’re looking for a film that not only offers suspense but also makes you think about the hidden truths in your own life, then Inheritance is definitely worth the watch. It’s a movie that grabs you from the first moment and doesn’t let go, twisting and turning in ways you didn’t see coming. And while the story may be dark, the questions it raises about identity, justice, and loyalty are ones we all need to ask ourselves.

If you haven't seen it yet, I highly recommend giving it a watch. But be warned: it’s not just a movie—it’s an experience that will stay with you long after the credits roll.

Blogger Day: A Love Letter to the Craft that Saved Me

 

I didn’t start out wanting to be a blogger. I just needed a place to put my thoughts, somewhere I could unload the mess in my mind without being judged. I remember sitting in my bedroom, years ago, staring at a blinking cursor on an empty screen. The world felt too loud, and I needed a pocket of silence where I could hear myself think. That pocket became my blog. And in many ways, that blog became the beginning of everything.

Blogger Day, to me, isn’t just a nod to the profession or a celebration of digital creativity. It’s personal. Deeply so. It’s a recognition of the journey I’ve been on — and the countless others like me — who have used words to make sense of our lives, to build communities, and to find purpose. When people think of bloggers, they might think of influencers, brand deals, clickbait titles, or picture-perfect photos. But for many of us, it started with heart. With stories. With late nights and honest truths typed under flickering desk lamps.

I still remember the first time someone commented on one of my posts. I think I stared at it for five whole minutes, shocked that someone out there — a stranger — had taken the time to read my words. Not just read them, but feel something because of them. It was humbling. And addictive. Suddenly, I wasn’t just talking to myself anymore. I was connecting. That comment might’ve seemed small to someone else, but for me, it was the validation I didn’t know I needed. It said: Your voice matters.

That’s what blogging has given me. A voice. I used to be someone who second-guessed everything — someone who overthought, who replayed conversations in my head a hundred times. But when I blogged, I could be bold. I could tell the truth, my truth, and not apologize for it. And over time, that boldness seeped into my offline life too. I spoke up more. I stopped hiding parts of myself. I began to believe that maybe — just maybe — I had something worth saying.

Of course, the journey hasn’t always been smooth. There were times I wanted to quit. Times when I felt like I was shouting into a void, when my stats dipped, or when comparison stole the joy from creating. I’ve had blog posts flop. I’ve poured hours into content that barely got a like. I’ve dealt with internet trolls and imposter syndrome. But I’ve also grown through it. Every post, every draft I never published, every mistake — they’ve shaped me. Taught me to be resilient, consistent, and most importantly, authentic.

One of the unexpected gifts of being a blogger is the community. I’ve made friends from all over the world, bonded not just over similar niches, but over shared values. We’ve celebrated wins together, offered support during slumps, and cheered each other on during launches and rebrands. It’s a beautiful thing, really, how strangers behind screens can feel like soul connections. And I know for a fact that I wouldn’t have kept going if not for them.

Blogging also helped me find my niche — not just in content, but in life. It forced me to reflect. To ask: What do I care about? What do I stand for? What do I want to leave behind? Through writing, I discovered passions I didn’t know I had. I became more curious, more informed, more open. I took risks. I experimented. I failed. I tried again. My blog became a mirror and a map. It showed me who I was and who I could become.

These days, blogging looks different than it did back then. There’s more polish, more strategy. SEO matters. Branding matters. Consistency and engagement and niching down — they all matter. But I try not to forget the heart of it. The why. I try to keep that part sacred. I still write posts that may not rank or go viral, but they mean something to me. They document my life. My shifts. My messes. My growth.

So, on Blogger Day, I pause to honour all of it.

The courage it took to hit “publish” for the first time.

The countless cups of coffee and late-night edits.

The joy of formatting a post just right, or finding that perfect image.

The vulnerability of telling the truth, even when it scared me.

The quiet pride I feel when someone says, “That post really helped me.”

The lessons I’ve learned about persistence, vulnerability, creativity, and connection.

And if you’ve ever blogged — whether you have one reader or one million — I hope you take a moment today to remember why you started. Not for the numbers or the noise, but for the voice it gave you. For the person it helped you become.

Blogger Day isn’t just about celebrating the craft. It’s about celebrating the courage it takes to show up, over and over again. To write into the void, trusting that someone, somewhere, might be listening. And even if they’re not — to write anyway.

Because sometimes, the person who most needs to hear your words… is you.

So here’s to the bloggers. The storytellers. The truth-speakers. The midnight writers. The ones who show up even when it’s hard. The ones who are brave enough to be seen.

Thank you for your words.

And thank you, blogging, for saving mine.

What I Would Say: Steps I Took to Overcome Self-Limiting Beliefs

 

If someone asked me today, “What’s stopping you?” — my answer wouldn’t be time, money, or opportunity. It would be me. More specifically, the version of me that used to live under a thick fog of self-limiting beliefs. The version that whispered “You’re not good enough,” “You’ll mess this up,” and “Others are way ahead, why even try?” For the longest time, I thought these were just passing thoughts. But I didn’t realize they were building a quiet, invisible cage around me. One I couldn’t see, but could definitely feel.

Overcoming self-limiting beliefs isn’t as simple as flicking a switch. It’s a process — slow, messy, uncomfortable, and deeply personal. But it’s possible. I know this because I’ve done it. I’m still doing it. And if there’s one thing I can say with confidence, it’s that your beliefs shape your reality — so changing them changes everything.

My first step wasn’t some grand, revolutionary action. It was just noticing the thoughts. I had to become aware of how often I talked myself out of things. A new project? “You’re too disorganized.” A bold idea? “Who do you think you are?” A chance to speak up? “Better keep quiet so you don’t sound silly.” These thoughts felt automatic. Natural, even. But they were actually just old stories—hand-me-downs from childhood, past failures, or things people said once that stuck too deep.

Once I began observing these beliefs, I started writing them down. Not to obsess over them, but to see them on paper — in black and white — so I could question their validity. One of the most powerful questions I started asking myself was, “Is this actually true?” Often, the answer was no. Or if it was a partial yes, it still didn’t mean it had to define me forever. Just because I failed once didn’t mean I always would. Just because someone didn’t believe in me didn’t mean I shouldn’t.

The next step was rewriting the script. I had to become intentional about what I wanted to believe instead. It felt strange at first. Standing in front of a mirror saying, “You’re capable. You’re creative. You’re worthy.” It felt like I was faking it. But slowly, over time, those new affirmations started to feel less like lies and more like possibilities. And from possibilities, they grew into truths.

But affirmations alone weren’t enough. I had to act. I had to prove to myself that a different story was possible. So I started doing things that scared me—speaking up in meetings, saying yes to opportunities I felt underqualified for, launching projects I’d usually overthink into oblivion. Each small win added a new thread to the fabric of belief I was weaving. And even when I stumbled, I didn’t take it as proof that I wasn’t good enough. I took it as part of the learning curve.

Another big shift came when I stopped comparing myself to others. Comparison is a thief—not just of joy, but of identity. It keeps you stuck in someone else’s lane, playing a game you were never meant to win. I had to learn to stay focused on my journey. My growth. My values. My definition of success. That was freeing. I could finally run at my own pace, with no pressure to match someone else’s highlight reel.

Support made a difference too. I had to surround myself with people who saw the best in me—even when I couldn’t see it myself. Friends, mentors, family—people who challenged my doubts with truth and reminded me of my strengths. Sometimes, you need someone else to hold up the mirror and say, “Look how far you’ve come,” especially when all you can see are the steps you haven’t taken yet.

One of the hardest but most transformative steps I took was forgiving myself. For the years I wasted doubting. For the chances I didn’t take. For believing the lies for so long. It’s easy to beat yourself up for not knowing better. But growth requires grace. I had to look at my past self with compassion and say, “You were doing the best you could with what you had.” And now? I have more.

There’s a quote I love: “Don’t believe everything you think.” It sounds simple, but it’s become a life mantra for me. Not every thought is true. Not every fear is real. And not every doubt deserves a seat at the table. These days, when a self-limiting belief tries to creep back in, I treat it like an uninvited guest. I hear it, I recognize it—but I don’t let it move in.

So, if you’re stuck in that fog of self-doubt right now, wondering if you’re the problem, let me tell you — you’re not the problem. The beliefs you’ve picked up along the way? Those are the problem. And they can be unlearned. Challenged. Replaced.

Start by listening to the thoughts that run through your head when you want to try something new. Write them down. Ask if they’re true. Ask who gave them to you. Then get bold and write the version you want to believe. Say it out loud. Say it until it feels less foreign. And take one small step — just one — that proves that new belief is possible.

You’re allowed to outgrow the voice that says “you can’t.” You’re allowed to be a beginner. You’re allowed to shine.

The truth is, the only thing standing between the life you want and the life you have is often a story you keep telling yourself. Change the story. Change your life.

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What steps will you take to overcome self-limiting beliefs?