What We Miss When We Rush to Judge

 

I have always believed that feedback should serve a purpose beyond comfort. It should sharpen thinking, deepen understanding, and ultimately help us do better for the people we are responsible for. When I ask for input, I am not looking for reassurance or validation. I am looking for perspective. I want to know what I might be missing, what could be improved, and how I can show up more meaningfully. Over time, I have realized that this mindset is not just useful in work or personal relationships. It quietly shapes how we engage with the world around us, including leadership and politics.

That belief came into sharper focus for me as I watched the May Day Rally 2026. When PM Lawrence Wong spoke about Singaporeans being brought home safely from the Middle East, there was a noticeable shift in the room. It was not just another segment of a speech. There was weight behind his words. And when he teared up, it did not feel rehearsed or calculated. It felt human in a way that is often missing from public life. It felt like a moment where the distance between leader and citizen narrowed, even if just for a brief second.

What stayed with me even more than that moment itself was what came after. The reactions were swift and varied. Some people received it with empathy, while others quickly dismissed it as performance. Once that narrative took hold, it seemed to gather momentum, becoming louder and more cynical with each retelling. It made me pause and reflect on how easily we can move from observation to judgement, and how quickly sincerity can be overshadowed by suspicion.

I do not think it is wrong to question leadership. In fact, I think it is necessary. A healthy society depends on people who are willing to think critically, to challenge decisions, and to hold those in power accountable. But there is a difference between thoughtful critique and reflexive dismissal. One seeks understanding, the other shuts it down. One invites dialogue, the other often deepens division.

This is something I came to understand more deeply years ago during the September 11 attacks. At the time, I was living in the United States. I was far from home, watching events unfold in real time, trying to make sense of something that felt both immediate and unimaginable. The fear was palpable. The uncertainty lingered long after the initial shock. In those moments, leadership was not an abstract concept. It was something real and urgent. Decisions had to be made quickly, often with incomplete information, and the consequences were measured in lives, not opinions.

Being there during that period changed the way I think about responsibility. It made me realize how easy it is to form opinions from a distance, and how much harder it is to carry the weight of decisions when you are the one accountable for the outcome. It is one thing to analyze a situation after the fact. It is another to act in the moment, knowing that whatever choice you make will have real and lasting impact.

That memory came back to me as I reflected on the rally. When we hear about efforts to bring citizens home safely from a region in conflict, it is easy to focus on the outcome and move on. But behind that outcome are countless decisions, conversations, and risks that most of us will never fully see. There is coordination across agencies, negotiations that happen quietly, and a constant awareness of what could go wrong. There is also the emotional weight of knowing that families are waiting, hoping, and trusting that everything possible is being done.

We may never know the full extent of what goes on behind the scenes, and perhaps we are not meant to. But I think it is worth acknowledging that leadership, especially in moments like these, is not just about policy. It is about people. It is about responsibility in its most human form.

None of this means we have to agree with everything our leaders do. Disagreement is not only inevitable, it is important. It keeps systems honest and prevents complacency. But the way we express that disagreement matters. There is a line between holding someone accountable and reducing them to something less than human. When we cross that line, we lose something valuable. We lose the ability to engage in a way that is constructive, and we risk creating a culture where cynicism becomes the default.

I have seen how easy it is to fall into that pattern. It often starts with a single comment or assumption, and before long it becomes a shared narrative that is rarely questioned. It can feel satisfying in the moment, but it does little to move anything forward. If anything, it makes it harder to have the kind of conversations that lead to real understanding.

If I think about the way I approach feedback in my own life, it always comes back to intention. Am I trying to contribute something meaningful, or am I simply reacting? Am I open to understanding a perspective that is different from mine, or am I already convinced that I am right? These are not always comfortable questions, but they are necessary if I want to engage in a way that reflects the values I believe in.

Perhaps that is what we need more of when it comes to politics as well. A willingness to pause before reacting. A willingness to consider the weight behind decisions, even when we disagree with them. A willingness to recognize moments of sincerity without immediately questioning their authenticity.

It does not mean we become passive or uncritical. It simply means we choose to engage with a bit more thoughtfulness and a bit more care. It means we remember that behind every policy, every speech, and every decision, there are people doing the best they can with the information and responsibilities they have.

As I think about that moment at the rally, I keep coming back to something simple. In a world where it is often easier to be cynical, choosing understanding is not a weakness. It is a conscious decision. It is a way of creating space for more meaningful dialogue and a more constructive political culture.

And sometimes, in moments like these, it does not have to be complicated. It can be as simple as recognizing what was done and what it meant. It can be as simple as acknowledging the effort, the responsibility, and the humanity behind it all.

And perhaps most importantly, it can be as simple as recognizing the moment for what it truly is.

Becoming the Person on the Other Side of the Screen

 

There was a time when social media felt simple to me. I was just another person scrolling through posts, laughing at videos, admiring photos, and occasionally sending a message to someone I looked up to. Back then, I never really thought about what it meant to be on the receiving end of all that attention. I would type out a message to someone I admired, hit send, and wait. Sometimes there would be no reply. Sometimes there would be a small reaction, maybe a like or a short response, and it would make my entire day. In those moments, it felt magical, like I had been seen.

I never stopped to think about how many other people were doing the exact same thing at the same time.

Now, everything feels different. Somewhere along the way, without fully realizing it, I stepped into that space. My following grew, slowly at first, then more noticeably. What started as me simply sharing parts of my life became something more. On my personal page, I share moments with my family, snippets of my day, little thoughts that I hope might make someone smile or feel understood. On another page, I share my fitness journey and my love for fashion, and somehow I found myself being called the Boot Queen. Even writing that feels surreal because it was never something I set out to become.

But with that growth came something I was not prepared for.

The messages.

Every single day, my notifications fill up. Comments come in by the hundreds, and my inbox is never empty. Some messages are incredibly kind, filled with encouragement, support, and appreciation. Others are more casual, quick reactions or thoughts that people felt like sharing in the moment. Then there are the occasional messages that make me pause, the kind that I read, blink, and decide it is best to just move on from.

Still, every single one represents a person who took a moment out of their day to reach out to me. That is something I do not take lightly.

And yet, there is this constant question that sits quietly in the back of my mind. Should I reply to this comment. Should I respond to this message. Should I acknowledge this person who reached out.

It sounds simple, but it is not.

Because for every message I open, there are ten more waiting. For every reply I type, there are dozens I have not gotten to yet. The thought of responding to every single one feels impossible, and yet there is this lingering sense of responsibility that makes it hard to ignore. I remember what it felt like to be on the other side, hoping for a reply, checking my phone, feeling that small spark of excitement when I got noticed.

Now I am the one holding that power, and it is heavier than I expected.

There are moments when I sit down and try to respond to as many people as I can. I genuinely want to. I want people to know that I see them, that I appreciate them, that their words matter to me. But time moves quickly. Between work, family, and everything else life demands, hours pass before I even realize it. And even then, the messages never stop coming. It becomes clear very quickly that if I tried to respond to everyone, it would take up my entire day, every day, and even that would not be enough.

That realization came with a mix of emotions. Gratitude, definitely. But also a quiet kind of guilt.

Because no matter how much I try, I know there will always be people I cannot reply to.

It has made me reflect on the way I used to view celebrities and public figures. I used to wonder why they did not respond more often. I used to think it would not take that much effort to just reply to a message or acknowledge a comment. Now I understand that it is not about effort. It is about scale. When the volume becomes overwhelming, even the smallest action multiplies into something that is no longer manageable.

And yet, behind all of that, there is something deeply human about the connection.

Every comment, every message, every reaction is someone reaching out in their own way. Some people share their stories with me. Some tell me that something I posted made them laugh on a bad day. Others say they feel motivated or inspired. Those are the moments that stay with me. Those are the moments that remind me why I started sharing in the first place.

I never intended to become an influencer, and I still hesitate to fully embrace that label. But I cannot deny that I have, in my own way, become someone people look to. That realization is both humbling and a little overwhelming.

There is also the reality that not every message is kind. Social media has a way of bringing out all kinds of voices, and not all of them are gentle. Some messages are easy to brush off. Others linger a little longer than I would like. Learning how to navigate that has been part of this journey as well, understanding that not every opinion needs a response and not every comment deserves my energy.

Through all of this, I have gained a new level of respect for those who live this reality on an even larger scale. The constant attention, the endless stream of messages, the expectations that come with being visible. It is not as simple as it looks from the outside.

At the same time, I hold on to what matters most to me. My family, my work, my own sense of balance. Social media is a part of my life, but it is not my entire life. I remind myself of that often, especially on days when the notifications feel overwhelming.

If there is one thing I hope people understand, it is this. Even if I cannot respond to every message or comment, it does not mean I do not see them. It does not mean I am not grateful. Every bit of support, every kind word, every person who takes the time to engage with what I share means something to me.

I was once the person sending those messages, hoping to be noticed. Now I am the person receiving them, wishing I could respond to every single one. Somewhere in between those two experiences, I have come to understand what it truly means to be on both sides of the screen.

And maybe that understanding is the most valuable part of this journey.