Make the Best of an Ordinary Life

  It feels almost unnatural. Reading has always been second nature to me, yet this week has driven me to the edge of myself—overwhelmed, breathless, as though my body trembles at a peak it cannot hold. In that fragile space, I fled to a kind of refuge: the faint rhythm of a piano spilling from my phone, the ancient, musty perfume of old books. I reached for a volume at random from the library’s rack, not knowing it would cut so sharply into me. It was a story of grandmothers. Our grandmothers. The words dissolved into tears. The body betrays itself in such moments—hormones flooding, emotions unraveling, the simple act of breathing turning into labor. Anxiety crests like a wave, and with it comes an uncanny force: echoes that ache, shadows that press, a silence that suffocates. The book spoke of the Comfort Women —women whose voices, long buried, rose to carry the weight of scars carved into their bodies and their souls. Enslaved at the hands of the Japanese, their humanity viol...

There’s no waiting for another lifetime, no holding out for a “someday.” This moment, this breath, this chance — it’s all I have. So I remind myself: fight for the things that bring light into my life. Protect the people I love. Leave them softer, lighter, and better than when they found me. Defend my heart, even when it feels bruised and heavy — because it deserves to stay open. I will forgive — not just others, but myself. I will slow down. Taste more. Touch more. Care more. I will not let the joy that comes my way slip through my fingers because I feel unworthy of it. I am worthy. I am enough. Strength does not always look like being unshakable. Sometimes strength looks like gentleness, or tears, or breaking open and still choosing to keep going. And when my time comes — when I have to give back this borrowed breath — I want my heart to be worn out from loving too much, not from holding back. I want my soul to be tired in the best way, because I lived, I felt, I hoped. I want to lea...

Venting has never been betrayal—it’s survival. It’s how I let go of the weight before I face the world again with the respect it demands. But survival is easy to misread. Some see it as being two-faced. And that hurts, especially when it comes from places I once thought were safe. What I’ve learned is this: life isn’t black and white, it’s layers. Sometimes you smile when you’re breaking. Sometimes you bow when you’d rather scream. Sometimes you swallow it all just to keep moving. If that makes me fake in their eyes—so be it. Being misunderstood still stings, quietly, where no one sees. But it doesn’t own me. I know my heart. I know my truth. If they can’t see it, that’s on them. Even if I’m seen as something I’m not, I’ll keep standing. Because survival has always been about the layers they don’t see. Chits! 

Jakarta has always been a city of fire and contradictions—where dreams rise high above skyscrapers, yet struggles drown in the alleys below. A city of resilience, yes, but also of unrest. And lately, that unrest has grown heavier, darker, louder—anger spilling across the streets. It started with numbers that cut like an insult: lawmakers receiving housing allowances nearly ten times the minimum wage, while the rakyat fights every day just to survive. That pain was already boiling when tragedy came—Affan Kurniawan, 21 years old, a ride-hailing driver, struck down by a police armored vehicle. His life stolen, his dreams silenced. His name now joined by others, more lives lost to greed and negligence. The city erupted. From every corner, voices rose—not begging, but demanding. The chants were not only about salaries or privileges. They were cries for fairness, for dignity, for justice. For Indonesia to finally stand on the side of her people, not against them. But what met them? Tear gas....