Tag Archives: love

The Writers Block

Young & Un/Sheltered

I was chatting with someone earlier this week, and they asked me if I always wanted to be a scientist, and it gave me pause. Today I was considering writing about being young and “making it,” but I think the current title better reflects what I’d like to focus on: being unsheltered but somehow sheltered in a way that can make you a late bloomer.

.

The first crush I can remember was a boy called BP. We were in middle school in sweltering summer heat; he was a sort of shade. He was so cute, with icy deep blue eyes (not the scary pale type), and he loved to play football, always yapped about it. I used to secretly hope he’d let me escape with him.

For whatever reason, he always stopped to talk to me. It confused me at the time because I didn’t dress in a fly way, just what we could afford, plus the clothes or out-of-style sneakers I would borrow from my cousins, who were kind enough not to complain.

During that kind hectic time in life, I always appreciated his sweetness and how he was not the “brightest” intellectually, but he made up for it in warmth. After school, when I waited for my aunt to pick me up, his face would light up, displaying his crooked but white teeth (all thirty-two), and he’d run to hug me. It always made me feel something. That something wasn’t love, but it was just something, as opposed to the buzz of sugar-coated nothingness that revolved around living with our mom.

It’s only as I get older and less certain of the future that I realize how sheltered we were. At times the past is fuzzy, other times it’s jarringly sharp, but a general theme I recall is the feeling of instability that came with seasons of being unsheltered. Unsheltered in a sense that sometimes we didn’t know where we would stay, but more so emotionally, fending for ourselves and trying our best to consider how much harder someone else had it. Being a sheltered child meant hope, believing that instability could be resolved by just doing the right things, but often in a narrow mindset of success, weddings, children, and humble endings.

In general, my sheltered upbringing taught me to see the world in black and white: you work hard, you don’t complain, you are grateful. This mindset is slowly eroding. I now feel a lot of guilt caring for myself, finding a million reasons to prioritize others’ emotions above my own. I sometimes struggle to set up my own space because my body recalls the fear that it won’t be mine for long, and I struggle to give in a healthy way when I’m deeply interested in someone, though I don’t think I’ve felt mature love yet, just puppy love and the kind that comes with friendship.

I just wanted to share that you can slowly unpack the parts of you that developed while you were sheltered. I will say it has made me very empathetic and creative at making cold places feel like home, and that is one aspect I desire to keep. However, I am slowly learning that I can be “selfish” sometimes and think about what I want in a way that’s balanced and not rooted in greed or being parallel with the Joneses.

I enjoy science. It is fun, hard, and stable, a few of the things I used to yearn for as a child. But I think when you grow up a certain way, you learn to dream for just enough, and it’s hard to see beyond that. I like the ability to see beauty in simple things, but I’m getting more comfortable not being so sure about everything. So, on my off days, I dream outside the box and write.

Happiest Sunday + end of a ramble.

Standard
The Writers Block

Mousey & Young

My favorite picture of me and my sister is of us sitting close, faces together, in our matchy-matchy Christmas dresses by the beautifully decorated tree, credit to my mother’s impeccable eye for gaudy yet girly design.

I love my sister’s gap and the milky brown tone of her face. I chuckle when I see that picture; she looks so much like the older sibling, and I so mousy, a bright smile, but quiet just the same.

I have a complex view of quietness. I enjoy it, but sometimes it’s pulled from me by well-meaning strangers. It’s often viewed as weak or slow, but it’s my favorite sound after a long day.

Quiet. Often used as a slur for a person unsettlingly at peace with their own company or just socially awkward. Or…?

Quiet,

floods over me more recently. I used to think it was when I plugged in my earbuds and floated into my own world. But it muted my mind, just my loud escape.

Quiet,

and well-behaved, often celebrated by some elders for being so well-trained, respectful, unproblematic, crushed into a figure so small and barely noticeable. Like fine cutlery, only to be fully admired when its owner deems it fitting.

Quiet,

to some people who’ve yet to defrost, I appear to be nothing more than my quiet nature. But how loud and boisterous I am with the ones who melt me. Though, global warming is inescapable, and I find myself less cold but still cautious.

Quiet, be quiet.

I usually am, but today I’m really in pain. Can you listen this time? I know I’m often silent—

silenced, by my own discomfort with overwhelming you. It might just be a one-off thing, a bad day?

Quiet, be a good girl, be nice. Behave. A woman shouldn’t be so angry. Forgive and get back in your trap.

Quiet, don’t act like you don’t have your own issues.

Quiet, ashamed of my mistakes.

Nuanced as it is, I will say the quiet part aloud too.

I see my flaws, but I won’t bury them with yours,
silently suffocating under the weight of the rug I was swept under.

Quiet and gracious, not to ignore the trampling of the elephant in the room,
but because I won’t carry on like a martyr from the ring of mockery.

I don’t often speak unless I’m really in pain. Please don’t make me…
Hushhh. How do you expect to be married if you don’t allow some mistreatment?

I do not want to be fine cutlery, only allowed to speak when given permission. You praise me for being so good at listening, but when I ask for the same, you stay… quiet.

Silence is a beautiful thing, it allows for moments of reflection, but sometimes it’s forced, when voices are trampled over in pride.

Still, there’s this pressure, a pressure to appease others’ discomfort with a nature that is not inherently wrong, not inherently sinful. Shrinking yourself to fit their expectations, to be more palatable, seems less like an act of grace and more like a painful death. Sure, there are conditions, complexities, and nuances, but ultimately it kills slowly.

So, though I love my ability to be silent, I will no longer be

mousy
but quiet, yes.

Epilogue

There’s beauty in not needing a reason, a trauma story, a diagnosis.

But sometimes, there is. And there is beauty in knowing that too.

More than conquers, but Jesus wept.

It’s not black and white, or gray—maybe much worse than that, a muddled brown.

Not everything needs to be pathologized (as some point out), but it’s okay to get the help you need to understand yourself.

I hope you get to enjoy some quiet today.

I wrote quiet as an ode to the complexities of quietness, sometimes as it is seen in women. I share it with you with no subtext; it is not related to one instance but reflecting over a lifetime from my adolescence up to today.

Standard
From the heart

Young Yet Older

The change in weather signals that the start of spring is soon to come, and it’s evidence, alongside the sound of groans as I get up from bed, that time waits for none.

I’m reminded of my father, a living time machine. When I visit home, I love to rub my fingers over the grey spikes that now litter his scalp. I feel the weight of nostalgia when I embrace him, remembering moments from my childhood: dancing on his toes, the look of disappointment on his face when I was distracted by everything but what mattered, the one time I saw him cry, and now, the strange WhatsApp messages we share. He’s always been an old man who yells too much, but now he’s fragile and forgetful, so much older than I remember.

I set out to write something poetic on youth and aging, but lately, something else has been weighing on me. I’ll write, assuming that if it’s meant to, the right people will read and understand to whom I’m speaking.

I think of dim sum, craft nights, and the sting of betrayal.

It’s hard to ignore the contrast between the people who once filled my days with joy and those who have become the source of my pain. There’s a heaviness in seeing people I once looked up to turn away from me, distorting the truth or using my flaws as weapons. Some probably didn’t intend to hurt me, but others seemed to take pleasure in pointing out every fault. It’s a bitter realization that those who were once so close can now feel like strangers.

Despite all this, I remind myself that guilt, though painful, is not our enemy, it’s an invitation to grow. I’ve learned that our mistakes, no matter how big or small, can’t erase us, but they reveal parts of us we often try to hide. Our insecurities, fears, and weaknesses come to light when we face the truth of our human nature.

I know that many of you are good-hearted, though like all of us, flawed and in need of growth. Still, I hold onto the hope that we can all do better. I want to offer grace, and in return, I ask for the same. I’ll do my best not to harbor bitterness or remember the passive-aggressive comments, and I ask that we try to meet each other with kindness, even when it’s hard.

In all of this, I will always cherish the good memories:

Talks about babies growing from a pear to a watermelon, weekend trips to the beach, nights watching Single’s Inferno, YA game nights with confusing prompts, prayer circles, stories of stealing boats with friends.

They are etched into my heart, and I will carry them with me. But I also recognize that some relationships might not evolve in the same way they once did. You’re always in my prayers. I am just not sure if we should make any more memories together. Maybe we will, or someday awkwardly greet each other and talk about how time flies.

Standard