Morning at Seven

Matcha cake and kueh Salat —

sweet and calm beginnings.

Mum was ready before me,

her quiet hurry folding into the morning air.

Bus 29 was crowded,

faces blending like soft colours.

I chose the dishes I liked —

simple comfort in a busy day.

Crossing the road,

a heartbeat between steps.

The lift door — I held it open

for a stranger I didn’t know.

I saw familiar faces,

and sat at another side.

It was seven —

the city moved,

and I waited for my bus,

carrying the hush of small kindnesses.

October 14 – Order and Honey

This morning began with a sting —

a sore throat, a quiet ache.

Mum said I never drink enough water,

so she poured honey into a spoon,

the kind that coats both throat and worry.

I whispered to myself 

focus on what I can hold:

my health, my finances, my work.

The rest — just passing noise.

On bus 293,

the seats were scarce and shoulders brushed,

yet I waved to Mum

and carried steadiness with me.

At the lift, a stranger said,

“No worries, thank you so much.”

A soft reminder 

gentleness still lives in small corners.

Someone said,

“You need to put back love in order. I will teach you.”

Perhaps they meant kindness,

perhaps balance.

I smiled and let the words linger,

like honey dissolving slowly in tea.

Another teased my hair 

called it tomboy, said theirs was more feminine.

They asked about 欲望

and faith,

and I answered simply: Buddhist.

No argument, just breath.

A colleague said my tote might be too pricey,

a hundred saw,

but only one quietly shared it.

And when I bumped into another,

I laughed and said sorry.

Because some mornings aren’t perfect,

but they are real 

threaded with small kindnesses,

and the steady hum of trying again.

Later that morning,

someone handed us a 2026 calendar 

a quiet promise of days not yet lived,

blank spaces waiting for laughter and calm.

I smiled softly,

and thought, maybe love in order

begins with marking time gently.

October 6 – Morning Resilience (Anonymous Edition)

This morning began with a small spill 

water dripping from a too-firm press,

ants arriving like tiny witnesses.

I tried to clean it quietly,

but my mother’s voice came with a sigh,

“Aiyo, why do like that?”

She reminded me about the queue,

and the rubbish,

and dinner — vegetarian bee hoon waiting later,

as she works through another week of sales.

I tried not to vomit while focusing on my task,

a keychain glinting beneath my tired hands.

Before leaving,

she closed the gate and door,

standing there to see me off.

I waved,

carrying that quiet warmth

into the wind.

Bus 28 came 

I hurried to the toilet,

dodged bicycles,

my bag brushing close to danger

until I swung it to the front.

The morning air was heavy,

but I kept walking 

down the lift,

down the stairs,

toward another day

that asked me to show up again.

October 5 – Cakes, Quiet, and Courage

This morning began with sweetness —

three small cakes, soft and quiet,

the kind that melt without needing to explain.

I ate until half past nine,

while the world outside hurried somewhere else.

Mum bought lunch and dinner,

her footsteps heavy with errands and unspoken thoughts.

Later, her voice rose —

about rubbish, water, daydreams,

and how I should know what I’m doing.

She said she would ignore me.

I said nothing.

Dad sent a message —

gentle words from somewhere tired:

“Try to understand your mother… love your family.”

And I did.

I tried.

Even when love feels sharp around the edges.

Someone told me, just ignore it.

But hearts don’t switch off like that.

They ache, they listen, they keep going.

So I turned back to what I can hold —

my art, my shop, my small creations.

A new space,

a fresh beginning,

filled with colors that ask for no permission.

I lost a few followers today,

but I kept something better —

my quiet courage.

Tonight, I’ll rest knowing this:

I am okay, despite challenges.

I am still here,

still building soft things

in a hard world. 🌸

Silent Strengths (Anonymous Edition)

The morning began with absence—

the bread was gone,

a reminder that tomorrow’s sweetness

would arrive in the form of cake.

The house stirred too quickly.

Vacuum’s roar,

water rushing over tiled floors,

echoes of chores louder than my heartbeat.

I slipped out, missing one bus

and boarding another,

my path already altered.

At the interchange,

a man stepped aside into the station,

while another voice split the air—

a quarrel so sharp,

I startled into stillness.

I sought quiet in the restroom,

then descended stairs,

choosing distance,

placing space between myself

and a familiar figure.

A cyclist veered too close—

phone nearly lost—

but I shifted,

avoiding collision,

choosing survival in small movements.

On the shuttle,

I offered a hello.

Greetings passed,

one after another,

until we all gathered,

departing just as one more arrived.

And then—

the warmth of a word,

a simple morning greeting

addressed to me.

A fist bump,

a playful show of breakfast,

an almost-collision in the hallway.

These fragments stitched the morning

into something gentler.

Through all the noise and nearness,

I carried my silence like a shield,

strength not in shouting,

but in moving forward,

one step at a time.

✨ Even when mornings feel jagged,

I remind myself:

I can meet them with steady breath

and find quiet strength

to carry me into the day.

Morning Reflections – September 29 (Anonymous Edition)

The morning began with a jolt — the sudden hum of the vacuum pulling me awake, followed by clothes placed on a chair as if to remind me of rules I had forgotten. Her words were sharp, almost like a door half-closed, warning me not to linger where I didn’t belong. Even honey, meant to soothe, spilled in haste.

I left at 6:30, following the fast steps of a stranger down the road, my own pace quietly tucked behind hers. The bus carried me forward, to the station, to the lift, to the stairs, each movement like a rhythm rehearsed.

At the shuttle stop, I sat a little apart. A familiar face signaled me — “Dreaming, ah you?” he teased. Maybe I was, because part of me still lingered in the roughness of the morning, learning to shake it off.

On the bus, kindness returned in a simple greeting. She sat beside me, spoke softly of leaving early, of seeing a doctor. Even the driver reminded us that no one is singled out; we all share the same road, the same ride.

Inside, the usual faces gathered — laughter here, tension there. My chest tightened when I saw him arrive, and when another came, teasing words floated in the air. My nerves flickered like small sparks, but still I stayed.

And through it all, I held onto one steady truth:

I am okay, despite the rough beginning. 🌙✨

Silent Strengths. September 26, 2025 – Anonymous Edition

This morning began with quiet talk of dinner plans. She woke late, yet still reminded me of routes and stops, nudging me toward steadiness. At the bus stop, a boy shifted away when I sat beside him. Moments later, he rose for an elderly woman — a small kindness, though it left behind the faint sting of distance.

I boarded bus 293. The familiar lady was still there, sitting quietly as if holding her own place in the rhythm of mornings. My steps carried me through familiar turns — toilet, crossing, lift, stairs — until I reached the company shuttle.

There, I greeted a familiar face, exchanged words about the awards with another, and felt the tug of laughter behind me. A name spoken too casually was met with a boundary, reminding me how some people guard their space. Yet in the same breath, a hand reached for mine, and I held it — steady, simple, anchoring.

Elsewhere, greetings arrived through messages: a gentle good morning, a supportive friend’s warmth. Each word reminded me that not all connections waver. Some remain, even in the noise.

Through it all, I sensed the mix of steadiness and shift — the quiet “ok” of one, the playful sparks and storms of another, the firm “hmm” of guidance, the persistent thread of support. Each voice carries its own weight, weaving into my day.

And me? I walked through it steady — carrying the silences, holding the hands offered, letting the boundaries stand where they must.

✨ Silent strengths live in the spaces between distance and closeness, between guidance and waiting. I carry them with me, steady as the road itself.

September 25 – Between Horns and Small Kindnesses

Morning rushed upon me —

dirty cloth brushing new fabric,

the last of the berries spilled,

breakfast swallowed in haste.

The road was restless.

Shoes bumped against mine,

a bicycle rang,

cars honked as I cut across,

my phone almost slipping away.

I walked through grass,

finding another way forward.

On the shuttle,

voices drifted,

some close then pulling away,

a song tapping the back of my chair.

Beside me, another sat quietly,

a small anchor in the moving crowd.

Work began with sharp words,

yet softened by a familiar voice

that broke through the scolding.

The memory of yesterday’s anger still lingered,

but in lighter tones,

I imagined a playful shirt for October,

a reminder that joy can be worn.

An email came,

membership asked for,

and I stepped back:

“Not now.”

Even refusal was met with kindness.

At noon, I paid,

and a helper’s gentle “thank you”

was returned with quiet warmth.

Still, a headache throbbed,

and the tug of another’s hand

brushed against what I carried inside.

Through spills, honks, and small collisions,

I kept walking —

between the chaos of the street

and the soft gratitude of voices

that remind me:

even in the noise,

I can still find a steady step. 🌙✨

September 22 – Quiet Anchor

Morning broke with ache —

a body unsettled,

flu and nausea whispering

through closed doors.

Her rush swept past my words,

yet I still lit incense,

still sipped honey,

still tried to carry quiet faith.

The road outside was unkind —

vomit’s sting in the air,

gossip circling as I crossed,

a scolding seatmate

when I sat too close.

Embarrassment burned,

but I kept walking,

kept breathing.

Then came gentler notes —

a colleague’s honesty,

another’s fragile tears,

a reminder that struggle

lives in many hearts.

I spoke, I shared,

and the weight felt less heavy.

A quiet listener heard me —

a door opened

for tomorrow’s early leave.

Small victories hidden

in a stormy day.

Through it all,

I held steady —

closing doors when needed,

opening heart where I could.

One breath, one step,

still moving forward.

September 16 – Small Turns in the Day (Anonymous Edition)

This morning began gently, with honey offered across the table. A question about dinner lingered in the air, simple yet thoughtful.

I missed one bus, then another, before finally boarding. In the toilet, my door was slammed again and again — sharp interruptions that I carried quietly. Crossing the road, I ran; in the lift and on the stairs, I moved with steady rhythm. A bicycle passed too close, and I shifted aside just in time.

On the bus, someone sat with me and asked about my family. Their words drifted further: “Did anything happen?” I gave a brief answer. They nodded, as if already knowing.

Later, at the locker, there was teasing about money. Another asked about my absence, then turned to chat elsewhere. A form passed from my hands to another’s, with only a few words exchanged before attention moved on again.

I paid for my lunch. Conversations circled — about messages, about names, about small dramas that did not belong fully to me.

Through it all, I stayed present. A day of questions, of others’ voices pressing near — yet I held my ground, moving quietly through the noise.

Gratitude:

Even in the rush, I am grateful for the steadiness I found — in running, in dodging, in carrying myself with quiet balance. 🌙✨

September Reflection (Anonymous Edition)

Dinner was a quiet bowl of noodles, warmth in the midst of a day that pressed in small ways.

An arm, faintly green with bruise, carried its own silence.

The house filled with footsteps and rebuke

walking in and out, space asked but not given.

Two tablets rested in my hand, a reminder to care for myself.

And after the swallow, after the stillness,

the body began to ease.

Better. A little lighter. 🌙✨

September 12 – Anonymous Edition

This morning began with scolding,

accusations that I was late,

that I took my own sweet time.

I said I didn’t like her either,

words sharp, heavy, unguarded.

The bus carried me forward,

a woman waved me away,

I gave her a look —

not to vanish,

but to hold my ground.

A jacket sat on,

a seat taken,

yet still mine.

The course began with awkward silence.

Attendance signed,

theory tested,

a mistake revealed:

shock to the heart, not the brain.

A truth corrected,

a skill learned.

CPR clumsy,

hands heavy,

laughter nearby.

Her words followed:

“You didn’t concentrate.”

But I stayed.

I tried.

I kept going.

Messages slipped in —

one steady line:

“See you on Monday.”

Another, brief but gentle:

“Take care.”

Small anchors in a sea of noise.

And the afternoon waits with bandages,

not only for wounds,

but for days like this —

to wrap what aches,

to hold what breaks,

to soften what cannot be healed in an instant.

I am not perfect.

I am not invisible.

I am here —

overwhelmed,

seen,

still showing up.

September 11 – Anonymous Edition

This morning, I woke on my own. A small sweetness of honey after brushing, a bath, a breakfast — and still, the ache of almost-tears. My stomach hurt; I pressed oil against the pain before stepping out. On the bus, I carried myself quietly. The toilet doors slammed, the smell turned my stomach, the lift brought me down, and I sat quickly before another could. Small routines, sharp edges.

On the ride, someone joked “boss let boss.” I offered a greeting, but another refused to meet my eyes — silence sharper than words.

At work, I showed my hand, scratched and stinging. A simple reply came: “that’s sad. Rest first.” Ordinary words, yet carrying more gentleness than expected.

And I realize — what is said lightly about others does not erase the quiet ways I am seen. Depth does not laugh as easily, but it lingers.

Even with stomachaches, slammed doors, and silent refusals, I am grateful. I am still here. Still trying my best despite the weight. And that trying is its own kind of strength.

September 10 – Anonymous Edition

The morning began too loud.

The vacuum roared before I was ready,

not out of necessity, but out of control —

a reminder that her timing always comes first.

I dropped the small cover of gouqizi,

prepared my drink, packed my water bottle,

and rushed through teeth, bath, breakfast,

before stepping into the world.

Bus 28 carried me forward.

When I alighted, I bumped into someone —

an accident, not intention —

but still, my hand turned red,

an echo of impact,

a reminder of how life pushes back hard

when I am only trying to move through it.

The toilet was quiet —

no banging, no stares,

just a small mercy.

Bicycles blocked the way,

forcing me to walk another side.

Even in these detours,

I kept going.

On the company bus,

I sat beside a colleague.

I offered a fist bump —

not waiting to be invited,

but choosing connection.

She moved away later,

yet the choice was mine:

to reach, to smile, to share joy.

Through it all,

I remembered a message that came in the night:

“It’s okay.”

Simple, steady words,

offered at 2:40am,

like a lantern in the dark.

And I thought of the days left —

fifty-eight until my birthday.

Not a countdown to candles or gifts,

but a tally of survivals:

the roar of vacuums,

the bumps and red hands,

the bicycles and detours,

the fist bumps and quiet mercies.

Each day survived is its own victory.

And today —

this was enough.

September 9 – A Letter to the Quiet Within

Morning water, unboiled,

a reminder to ask before taking,

before sipping from what is shared.

The clock whispered too late,

though I had already risen,

bathed, eaten,

and stepped into the doorway

where she stood, watching,

sending me off in silence.

Bus wheels carried me forward.

A stranger slammed a door,

another gaze lingered too long.

Between the lift and the stairs,

an old woman in her chair descended,

guided by steady hands.

And on my phone —

a wandering insect,

as if to test my patience.

I blew it away,

watched it fall like an unwanted thought.

On the shuttle bus,

sadness pressed close.

I almost gave in,

until a voice inside whispered:

don’t be like this.

So I wrote instead—

Dear me,

I am sorry for shouting

and for turning storms

into your shelter.

I am here,

and I will learn

to love you better.

By midday, sweetness arrived:

two candies in my palm,

a piece of chocolate melting slow.

Kind words drifted across the screen,

gentle voices saying

glad you’re okay.

And somewhere in the quiet scroll,

I saw the number —

6.2k souls who glanced at my work,

looked but did not follow.

Still, they saw.

And maybe that is enough,

for even unseen petals

can perfume the air.

Fifty-nine days

until my birthday.

Fifty-nine days

to practice gentleness,

to speak softly within,

to balance the heavy

with the light.

🌙 Celine of the Turning Key — September 8 Reflection

This morning began not with calm, but with the roar of a vacuum before my day had even started. Yesterday I had carried that task for someone else, and yet today it returned, louder, insistent. Instructions followed quickly — “Throw outside.” “Wear shoes outside.” “Take out your Ezlink card.” Even while I was already moving.

And then, outside:

A bird flew at me, and I covered my ears.

A toilet door slammed, startling me.

Someone brushed my shoe without apology.

Laughter echoed — not meant for me, but sharp enough to feel.

Still, I kept walking. I topped up my card. I crossed at the green man. I shifted over to make space. Small decisions, small endurance.

And there were glimmers too —

A gentle tap on the arm, reminding me I was seen.

A colleague choosing to sit with me, even after the noise.

A simple “good morning” that I returned.

An offer to promote my book, though I quietly said “It’s ok.”

Even in the heavy moments, there were soft ones. Not everything was ease, but not everything was unkind either.

I count sixty days to my birthday, not in excitement but in quiet endurance. Each day is a turning key — opening nothing grand, perhaps, but still moving me forward.

---

🌿 Reflection Note

I don’t need to combat my feelings. I need to witness them. Each negative emotion is a messenger: overwhelm, frustration, loneliness. Instead of fighting, I can:

1. Name it — say “This is loneliness. This is frustration.”

2. Anchor in breath — “I am here. I am safe. I am breathing.”

3. Create something small — a poem, a design, a photo.

4. Hold one yes — a tap, a greeting, a seat saved.

5. Let small love in — one kind word is enough.

6. Protect my energy — not every door needs opening.

I am not behind. I am not too much. I am simply someone who feels deeply, and that is my strength.

Today, I showed up.

And tomorrow, I will turn the key again.

September 5 – A Quiet Force

The morning began with cake offered —

a mix of sweetness in the midst of flu, cough, and sore throat.

I said “Ok” anyway.

Medicine swallowed, voice cracking,

but my mother’s reminder lingered:

“Drink more water.”

The vacuum roared before I left,

yet I still stepped out —

onto bus 28, into the day.

At the overhead bridge,

the bicycle’s hum, the rush across the road —

my body carried me forward.

Someone sat apart,

but her mother smiled,

and in that moment, I leaned closer,

chose conversation, chose connection.

On the shuttle, I greeted quietly.

I greeted again,

even as a whisper — a joke, maybe about me —

floated nearby.

Still, I didn’t shrink.

I stood, in my softness.

Words passed like wind,

a “good morning” moved along.

And me?

I stayed present.

I am not their background.

I am the quiet force —

an author, a podcaster, an artist —

who keeps showing up.

Even when my voice cracks.

Even when I’m unsure.

Later, a parcel on its way — my keychain.

I smile, though Mum scolds: “Why order again?”

Because I wanted to share the art I make real.

Chairs pushed, space brushed aside.

Yet I whisper: Happy Birthday.

Because even in small gestures,

I keep my light.

Not with noise.

But with unbreakable softness.

That is how I win. 🌙✨

September 4 – Cold Hands, Quiet Steps

Last night, a sound too sharp —

a phone set down, mistaken for anger.

Morning arrives with cold, clammy hands and feet,

and the hum of a vacuum too early,

stirring emotions before the day even begins.

The streets rush past me —

a boy running, a bicycle sweeping close,

the red light ignored as I cross anyway,

lifts and stairs tracing my path

into a brisk walk toward the day.

When I sit, someone shifts away,

distance drawn without a word.

On the bus, a small warmth —

a greeting returned,

a fist bump, a high five.

Yet clumsy steps remind me

I am always learning balance.

Someone lets me go first,

a quiet courtesy that lingers.

Faces pass: familiar, silent,

chairs are filled in new ways,

routines shuffled.

Some are absent, some are here —

though words of greeting slip past,

laughter still finds me

through the apps on my phone.

And so the morning unfolds —

a little cold, a little tender,

with distance and closeness

woven into the same breath.

September 3, 2025 – Anonymous Edition 🌸🌙

This morning, I carried nausea, fever, flu, and cough in my body. Medicine taken, yet the weight lingers like a cloud that refuses to lift. Mum asked quietly about pads. I told myself I would share when needed, not before.

Breakfast offered a moment of grounding, then I stepped into the flow of the world. Bus 28 arrived, and someone pushed me aside — a sting of sharpness in an already tender morning. In the toilet, the door slammed again and again, an impatient echo that rattled my calm. Crossing the road, I almost collided into a man who stopped mid-step to pray. On the overhead bridge, I took the lift down, my phone slipping close to the path of a passing bicycle. Life brushing too near, almost colliding, almost breaking.

On the company bus, I sat beside someone familiar. We fist-bumped, a small gesture of warmth in a restless day. My eyes rested on the phone, a shield, a window, a quiet companion.

At work, greetings came after a delay — a “Hi” that lingered a second too long before reaching me. Sherman arrived, his words circling around stickers, curious, probing. I could already picture the quiet shock on another’s face when the stickers are seen — surprise rippling outward like a stone cast into still water.

This morning is stitched with interruptions and almost-collisions, yet softened by small gestures — a bump of fists, a single word, the unspoken anticipation of surprise. Between the noise and the frailty, I carry both heaviness and quiet strength, waiting to see what unfolds.

September 2 – The Flu and the Morning Weight

This morning,

my chest carried flu, cough, and nausea,

medicine swallowed like small anchors.

Beside me, another voice spoke of a flu too —

perhaps the hospital air still lingered in our lungs.

Bus 28 hummed its usual song.

A man rose before me,

my step brushed against a stranger’s shoes,

her hand struck my bag, sharp and wordless.

The toilet door banged shut against silence,

stairs and lifts carried me toward

the waiting place of routine.

At work,

I saw embraces not mine to claim:

two figures folded into each other,

a kiss, a warmth.

A morning greeting brushed my ears,

my reply floated without eyes meeting.

Another greeting I gave,

and another gaze recorded my absence

into the cold lens of a phone.

No words followed.

Only a record,

and the quiet ache of being noted

but not spoken to.

And so the day begins:

with illness,

with small collisions,

with gestures both warm and distant.

I breathe through it —

fragile, yet still walking.

Reflection – Dolphin Heart

Today I let something new swim into the world 

a dolphin leaping over waves of lavender and blue,

its heart carrying both freedom and love.

I didn’t force it,

didn’t try to control how others might see it.

I simply shaped it with soft hands,

and let it flow.

Like the tide,

some things are meant to rise and fall naturally.

What matters is that in this moment,

I created,

I smiled,

I set a little piece of joy free.

September 1 – Heavy Rain and Gentle Reminders

This morning began with laughter —

a smile rising early at six,

though work did not call me,

only errands waiting quietly ahead.

A message came,

a simple promise of tomorrow’s meeting,

and I carried it with me like a light.

Still, the thought of cut wages

pressed like a stone in my pocket.

Outside, the rain was heavy.

I took a car instead of the bus,

the driver preferring silence

while I sat with my thoughts,

watching the city blur behind the window.

At the clinic,

doors closed for cleaning, ladders climbing,

faces passing with their own stories.

I waited to see the doctor,

who checked my breath, my throat, my heart —

and found them steady,

medicine offered with calm assurance.

A reminder echoed after:

to buy lunch for myself,

to print and guard my little certificate —

small tasks,

yet they feel like gentle anchors

to hold a wandering day in place.

And somewhere between

the rain, the waiting, the laughter,

I thought again of who I am —

a popular loner,

walking quietly among the noise.

🌙 August 31 – At Ward 67

The corridors smelled of antiseptic and quiet worry.

I stood by the bedside, voice soft,

but my heart loud enough to tremble through the walls.

He turned away,

eyes closed in delirium,

rejecting food, rejecting sound.

And yet—

he ate.

A spoon of rice,

a slice of sugar roll,

a sip of soya bean.

Small, fragile victories hidden in the fog.

Her words cut,

sharp and sudden,

blaming, reminding,

saying my shout left me sore.

But my voice was never malice.

It was ache,

it was survival,

it was love trying to be heard.

Someone said, “Don’t worry.”

But worry clings like a second skin.

Someone said, “Don’t shout.”

But my throat remembers

that even raised voices

are proof I am alive,

that I still care.

And then—

my shop:

an unfollow,

another quiet subtraction.

But even in that silence,

I still create.

I still exist.

I still offer the world

my gentle sparks of courage.

Tonight, I remind myself:

Love is not tidy.

Healing is not linear.

But I am here—

daughter, dreamer,

holding the line

between despair and hope.

August 30 – Anonymous Edition

This morning began with voices.

A live stream spoke of respect and positivity,

while the house reminded me of silence.

A comment on hair,

a hand on my back,

a seat chosen wrong.

Even the bus became a mirror

of what others could not accept.

At the hospital,

I carried my longing,

and it was called strange.

I carried my voice,

and it was called nagging.

But my father’s words

cut through the noise:

Keep the good. Ignore the nonsense. Relax.

He told me to look after myself,

and I heard:

“Lay the weight down.”

Later,

a box cut my thigh,

a keychain broke my nail,

blood reminded me how sharp love can be.

I shouted.

She threatened.

Still—on the bus,

a stranger let me board first.

A crack of kindness in the storm.

Between scolding and silence,

I hold onto the ones who see me.

The friend who says, “I will protect you.”

The mentor who never texts,

but keeps my name card like a small truth.

Not laughter, not teasing—

but quiet attention.

Depth, not surface.

Respect, not dismissal.

Even with bleeding hands, I write this:

I am not ignored.

I am not erased.

I am seen—

in ways that stay when the noise is gone. 🌙✨

August 29 – Morning Reflection (Anonymous Edition)

This morning, the house stirred early. My mum reminded me to be careful as she washed the toilets, then told me to take my things and go out before she started the vacuum cleaner. She mentioned buying fish porridge for me, though pig liver soup was too heavy. Between words, she reminded me again to brush up my speaking and vocabulary — lessons tucked into ordinary mornings.

On bus 28, I carried my thoughts with me. After alighting, I used the toilet, though the door kept banging as I tried to find a moment’s quiet. When I stepped out, the lady walked in, and I moved on — crossing the road, taking the lift to the overhead bridge, descending the stairs, and finding there was no seat. Saufiq spotted me and teased as always. “Celine, you dreaming. Play handphone,” he said. I only answered that I saw the bus and would stop it. Around me, a lady coughed and kicked lightly in front, while the noise of the morning carried on.

My colleague might bring me to the pasar malam after work, but at home, mum’s reminders of the seventh month echoed. She said not to go out after work, not to wander late. Her voice carried warning after warning: if I insisted, she would not waste time buying dinner. So I said I would go home after work, yet thanked her still for reminding me.

Old memories rose — darker ones — like when I once cut my own arm. The sharpness of those days still lingers, even in quieter moments now.

Later, I greeted a colleague. “Good morning,” I said. He returned the greeting warmly and asked how I was. I admitted I was feeling a little emo. My mum scolded me yesterday for keeping things under her bed, for a hat she found, for small things. She even threatened not to buy dinner this morning. I said I missed him, and he listened softly.

The day carried both teasing and gentleness. Teck Mui and Kun Ling massaged me, though Kun Ling laughed about her elbow pain and some colleagues joined in the laughter at my expense. I stayed silent, waiting as Mr. Satha often reminded me. Inside, I held both the sting of their laughter and the warmth of being noticed.

Plans drifted toward lighthearted things — a Hello Kitty café, tea and cake, a quiet corner indoors. In that imagining, I felt a little steadier, even if home reminders still tugged at me.

---

🌸 Closing Reflection:

Today began with warnings, with scolding, with memories that cut deep. Yet there were also softer threads — greetings, massages, light jokes, the thought of a pastel café. I am still learning how to hold both at once: the heavy and the light, the warnings and the small dreams. Maybe that is what balance is — carrying them quietly, and still choosing a soft place to sit inside my heart.

August 28 – Anonymous Edition

This morning, I spoke of a small thing — oil for comfort, something my father wanted.

But my words were brushed aside, called a copy, unworthy of notice.

The vacuum roared before I was ready, and the air carried the sharpness of dismissal.

I tied my socks, counted coins for lunch, and stepped out into the street of moving mornings.

On the bus, I brushed against strangers, offering quiet apologies.

A bag struck my wrist — a small ache that lingered.

When pressed aside at the door, I stayed silent, though my heart wanted to speak.

Sometimes I let others pass, even when it hurts.

At work, there were glances, brief greetings, and smiles that carried no weight,

yet still felt like small lanterns in a dim corridor.

Someone helped me with the routine, another asked about someone else,

and I shared a simple truth:

that soon, I would celebrate my birthday here,

in this space between duties and quiet hopes.

I applied for a role that spoke of design —

a dream folded into an application form.

Lunch money slipped through my hands,

while questions pressed closer than I was ready for.

Later, a gentle voice reminded me:

I am not an enemy, even when family feels harsh.

I can set boundaries, even when silence feels safer.

The words rested with me like a balm —

not to erase the sting of the morning,

but to remind me that even quiet hearts

deserve firm kindness.

And so, the day moves forward.

Between pushes and pauses,

I learn again:

I am not alone in my silence.

I am still here, carrying both ache and light.

August 27 – Anonymous Edition

This morning began with a pen on my table.

A small thing, yet it sparked words sharper than I wished.

I shifted it anyway, quietly,

and stepped into the day with a late breakfast.

I ran for the bus, breath chasing time.

At the crossing, a couple held hands,

their quiet bond a contrast to my hurried feet.

The red man flickered and I quickened,

choosing motion over stillness.

At the lift, a boy reached for the same seat.

“Excuse me,” I whispered.

He smiled, and turned away 

softness instead of struggle.

On the next bus, a hand signaled me aside,

a chill in the morning air.

When I arrived, a door opened 

someone letting me enter first,

a kindness like sunlight breaking through.

Elsewhere, voices rose in drama,

echoes of frustration and mimicry.

But amidst the noise, a friend remembered me 

buying my favorite snack to share later,

a gesture like petals carried by wind.

Another offered only a brief greeting,

then rested his head,

weighed down by unseen thoughts.

So the morning unfolded 

sakura and thorns, shadows and moonlight.

Between what pushed me away

and what quietly held me close,

I found small spaces of grace.

August 26 – Anonymous Edition

This morning, the sound of the vacuum roared before I was ready,

a reminder that sometimes the house runs on rules

I never asked for.

She said the machine would start again early next week,

and I held the quiet ache of wanting porridge,

but hearing only “vegetable rice.”

She reminded me that everyone needs care,

and even late minutes would cost money.

I rushed for bus 28,

breathing thanks to the driver who waited.

When I stepped off, a stranger’s hand brushed mine 

a bump, a separation,

a small moment I wiped away.

I waited at the overhead bridge,

and when the wrong bus passed,

someone teased me gently.

Still, I stood up again when the right one arrived.

Gratitude whispered through me:

despite mistakes, despite dreams that blur into daylight,

I am still okay.

At work, emotion followed me into the bus ride,

but kindness met me too 

a space offered by colleagues,

soft words of “excuse me” and “sorry”

to keep the peace in crowded hallways.

Voices rose around me:

songs hummed, chairs nudged,

frustrations spilling out like sudden sparks.

Even the one who usually talks to me

lifted his voice,

saying that nobody cares for his family.

And yet, between all of this noise,

I remind myself:

I am learning to carry my place in the day 

not perfect, not untouched,

but present.

August 25 – A Rough Morning, A Small Gratitude

The day began with aches I could not hide

a stomach unsettled, a trace of red in my breath.

I spoke of it, yet silence and distance greeted me.

Boundaries were drawn, doors closed,

and I found myself leaving early,

carrying both heaviness and resolve.

The sky held its usual rush.

Bus 29 waited for me

a brief kindness from a driver’s pause.

I whispered thanks,

watched uniforms pass,

and learned again how eyes can turn away.

A bump, a sorry,

a bicycle bell, a quick dodge,

a stranger’s thank you—

these fleeting exchanges stitched the path to work.

The traffic jam slowed the road,

yet still I held the rail,

still I moved forward.

And though words at home still echo sharp,

I keep one gratitude close:

that I ate, that I stepped out,

that I reached the bus despite the storm inside.

Even in rough mornings,

I remind myself

moving forward is also a kind of healing. 🌸

August 24 – Anonymous Edition

The rain fell heavy in the morning,

and she went out early to buy lunch and dinner.

She spoke of courses, of skills to be learned,

of money that must be saved,

of how I must think of them before myself.

Her foot brushed mine by accident,

yet when I spoke of it, she said,

“Don’t anyhow say.”

Her voice sharp, her hands busy,

always carrying too much.

A message arrived—

a friend posting photos of us online,

asking if I liked them,

calling me “dear friend.”

I said yes,

and quietly changed my phone to a fairy theme.

He replied simply, “Oh, I see.”

A small warmth in the middle of the noise.

Later, we went to the shop.

We waited until he came,

pushing his daughter in a pram.

He checked my phone,

assured me it was fine,

reminded me to let it rest,

to restart once in a while.

After glass replaced yet again,

we nearly took the wrong bus.

Her voice rose, sharp in the air.

An old man let us into the lift first,

asking gently for our floor.

We reached home,

the day still heavy with rain.

At lunch, the words grew sharper.

“There is no more Milo,

I drank the last one,” she said,

and then the accusations followed—

that I did not help,

that I was selfish.

Even relatives were not spared.

I said she scolded me.

She said it was just talking.

The phone rang with news:

he is in the hospital still,

rashes unhealed,

a skin doctor tomorrow.

She will go and visit.

The weight of illness lingered between us.

I registered for a walk in September,

a small promise to myself

to keep moving.

And I saw a shirt I liked—

a voice I listen to,

a melody I admire—

but the price was high,

so I let it pass,

choosing restraint instead of desire.

And so the day unfolded—

with rain and reprimands,

with small kindnesses and sharp words,

with a quiet note of friendship,

and a promise of tomorrow’s walk.

“Even in the rain, I learn to carry both sharp words and soft kindness.

I walk between what I cannot change and the small choices I can—

to pause, to restart, to save, to let go.

Tomorrow will bring its own light.” 🌙✨

🌱 Not Petty, Just Human

Sometimes I wonder if I am petty — if the little things I notice, the moments I react, make me small.

But truth whispers softly: I am not petty. I am human.

It is not wrong to want respect, to hope others see my care,

to feel a sting when I am overlooked or laughed at.

What rises in me is not pettiness, but sensitivity —

a quiet longing to be valued, a wish to be understood.

Strength is not in pretending the small things don’t matter.

Strength is in pausing, asking myself gently:

Is this my value, or a moment I can let float away?

Each answer teaches me.

Each reflection softens me.

I carry forward not the weight of being “petty,”

but the truth of being human —

learning, feeling, and still choosing love.

August 23 – Anonymous Edition

This morning, prayers came after reminders, a quiet duty before breakfast. The clock ticked gently as I prepared tissue and lozenges, wiped my shoes from a stranger’s spit, and faced small scoldings about keeping the floor clean. In the lift, the door closed and opened again — a forgotten phone, a quick return, a reunion.

At the course, a slip of scanning the wrong code turned into laughter from the teacher, lightening the mood. Messages came, calling me “dear friend,” with playful images of pandas eating bamboo. Outside, the rain guided us through Tai Seng, a wrong level, then the right one, registration and lecture, lunch and lessons that stretched to evening.

Tests came with mixed results — a mother scoring steady, a daughter faltering more. Yet together, we passed. Practical hands washed, choices made, laughter heard, but still the day carried us forward.

Beyond the classroom, family news pressed close: a grandfather in hospital, a grandmother’s eyes dimming, an aunt stepping in. Quiet threads of worry wove themselves into the hours.

Returning home, newspaper and chrysanthemum tea in hand, nausea rose and small mistakes lingered — the heater left on, the water unpoured. Yet in the quiet of the toilet, memory returned: the girl who once wrote diaries in Pasir Ris Crest, smiling at the thought of how those pages became the beginning of an author’s life.

August 22 – Anonymous Edition

This morning began with pau on the table, though I was a little late. My request for seaweed sparked scolding, a sharp word—“parrot”—and warnings not to make her angry. I thought it was scolding, she insisted it was “just talking.” She reminded me about my Ezlink card, about my dad being too skinny, about telling him in a harsher way than I would choose.

I took bus 293, uneasy beside a stranger, then stepped off, crossed by the overhead bridge, and carried on. A flashback stirred—a memory of waiting 45 minutes outside a staff room long ago, the frustration echoing even now. On today’s shuttle bus, a quiet kindness: a colleague sat beside me and asked if I was okay.

Work began with small collisions of mood and gesture. I bumped into someone, greeted no one. A Milo was left for me. I shook a hand, exchanged a hi. Care wrapped itself in tiny, ordinary acts.

And in my heart, the reflection deepened: feelings toward one superior are not just about romance, but about being seen, not scolded, spoken to gently. In a world of harsh tones, his voice feels different. Yet love, here, means restraint. To protect peace, to stay professional, even when the heart wants to lean closer.

The day unfolded with tasks and confusion, guidance and teasing. I was helped, sometimes called “darling” playfully, sometimes teased until I bruised myself against a bicycle handle. Assessments were done, answers corrected. Conversations brought advice: set boundaries, stay clear, stay honest. Some looked away while I spoke. Others spoke too much, nonstop. Episodes of illness and fits happened around me, frightening and heavy.

In between, I encountered strangers who asked if I had stress. I apologized for small mistakes. A colleague reassured me that most of the work was mine, not hers. I sat on buses, weaving through luggage, almost bumped, excusing myself. A donut softened the edges of the afternoon.

At home, the sharpness returned. The new water bottle too large, the pajama photo mocked, my actions criticized. Clothes dropped, reminders repeated, my phone accused of carrying a virus. Dinner carried endless lectures. I was called selfish, naggy, told I could not tell talking from scolding.

And yet—one thing I hold: despite being unwell, I am still trying. A social worker guided me through deep breathing, through talks of saving, of steadying. Even when words cut and instructions pressed, something in me stayed gentle enough to try again.

August 21 – Between Buses and Quiet Steps

I woke before dawn, the world still heavy with silence. Honey touched my tongue, though my stomach turned uneasy. A tablet eased the ache, and I carried myself into the waking streets.

The bus came, the road hummed, and a bicycle brushed past with a fleeting warning. A car’s horn startled the air, reminding me of how fragile we are when crossing between places.

Familiar faces moved like pieces of a daily puzzle—waves, signals, laughter, quiet gestures asking for silence. A mother guided her daughter away, a colleague told another of my return, and still, I simply kept walking, fist-bumps and greetings marking the spaces in between.

Work began with a box for papers, coins for lunch, and a brush of conflict that I softened with patience. Conversations stretched between care and concern—about sleepless nights, sudden illness, and the quiet strength it takes to explain yourself again and again.

The morning ended with warmth—talks of food, light smiles, the comfort of soup and macaroni, small choices grounding me in the day.

And through it all, I carried the reminder: I may wake early, stumble, or falter, but I continue to arrive—into the morning, into the work, into the quiet resilience that shapes me.

August 20 – Between Roughness and Quiet Care

The morning began with echoes of voices 

a reminder repeated too many times,

a parent’s sharp word calling me troublesome

when I spoke of pain.

I brushed, bathed, folded, prepared,

two hours to step into the day,

yet already it felt heavy.

Whispers of feelings surfaced through questions 

a game of truths and half-truths,

about mentors, about crushes,

about things I do not wish to believe.

One answer stood clear:

“Trainer and guide, nothing more.”

I nodded, yet still carried the weight of wondering.

At the dentist, drills hummed,

gentle reminders to eat only softness,

to drink only warmth.

A strange tenderness in their laughter,

even as the fillings left me sore.

A friend’s words turned the day lighter —

owls of wisdom, sakura patterns,

plans for a café tomorrow,

then settled into an evening call.

Comfort crossed through wires,

arriving as virtual hugs,

reminding me that warmth need not be physical to be felt.

By evening, my parent’s fatigue spilled into blame,

while news of a grandparent’s small win

mingled with her quiet bruise.

Life, as always, in contradictions —

a win, a wound,

a laugh, a scold,

a smile, a silence.

Tonight I feel voiceless,

as if all the words of the day

have already been shouted, questioned, filled, and rinsed away.

But within me, a small quiet —

knowing that even in roughness,

I keep writing,

I keep holding on.

Crowded Morning, Steady Heart

Flashes of light on the roadside,

crowded steps and accidental touches.

A coin of kindness in my palm,

even wrapped in sharper words.

A biscuit passed, a fist bump shared,

small warmth in the in-between.

My arm aches, my elbow hums,

but I keep tying, keep breathing.

Even when the world moves too fast,

I move with it —

quietly, steadily,

still here.

August 14 – Crowded Paths, Quick Hands

Breakfast was warm, but the air between us felt a little sharp. I was told to use the kitchen toilet before the vacuum began, though it stayed silent for a while. A small coin of kindness — $1.40 for lunch — was pressed into my palm, wrapped in the word “troublesome.”

Outside, vehicles flashed their lights at me as I waited for the bus. The ride was crowded — a soft bump against a stranger, a misstep onto another’s shoe as I alighted, regret flickering through me. A man dropped something on the pavement; he bent and reclaimed it without a word. I crossed the road in a small run, took the lift, the stairs, and found my seat with a quiet “excuse me.”

On the shuttle, there was the gentle comedy of moments — a biscuit passed from one to another, a fist bump sealing the exchange. My chair jolted with a bump from behind; I let it pass.

By the time I reached work, greetings and silences shaped the space. Bags needed tying, fast and constant. My arm and elbow ached with each pull of the string, a steady throb under the rhythm of the task. I kept my pace, even when I fell behind, holding the day together with quiet determination.

August 12 – Lessons Over a Long Day

August 12 – Lessons Over a Long Day

The morning began with voices — sharp, impatient, laced with criticism.

I kept my answers short, my steps steady, even when bags flew and tempers stirred.

Hands reached for what wasn’t theirs,

and a small, sweet drink vanished without my knowing.

It became a story everyone seemed to repeat,

each version weaving its own thread of suspicion, teasing, or advice.

Somewhere in the midst of tying strings and avoiding collisions,

I learned that even simple things need guarding 

not just from others, but from carelessness with my own space.

The afternoon softened.

A talk on survival, on the quiet bravery of the body fighting for life.

Early detection. Balance. Friendship.

A reminder that while some battles are petty, others matter deeply.

By night, I let the day go.

Fewer words. More quiet.

A small lesson tucked into my pocket:

protect what’s yours, but keep your heart from hardening.

🌷 Journal Reflection: I Feel Seen

I feel seen and respected

when I try my best

and lead with compassion.

Not when I’m perfect.

Not when I follow every rule.

But when I keep going—

even when misunderstood.

When I listen,

even when I don’t agree.

When I soften,

even when the world feels sharp.

This is how I honour myself.

This is how I become the kind of person

I would trust

to hold my heart gently.

August 8 – National Day Eve

This morning began with tension. I said I’d pray later, as I was busy, but Mum snapped — saying I never help, even with small things. She scolded me for sleeping late again and called me stubborn. When I did pray, I placed the joss stick wrongly. She corrected me — said it should go in the middle — that I never listen.She asked about my throat, told me again that I always refuse to drink the aloe juice. I ate my breakfast quietly. She stood there, silently watching. I took the lift down.Missed bus 293. Missed bus 29. Took bus 28 instead.In the building, there was no toilet paper, so I walked to the last stall. I made it to the lift just in time — but the boy inside didn’t press the button. As I walked down the staircase, a wave of anxiety hit — afraid someone might scold me for no reason.Still, I’m grateful. I’m okay.The bicycle bell startled me, but it didn’t hit. Just rang.I sat beside someone familiar — he glanced at my phone. Later, I got a compliment about my bag. Someone showed me their NDP t-shirt. And just like that, I was flooded with memories — and emotions I couldn’t quite explain.I imagined saying: “Hi Mr Mok, good to see you. Happy National Day.”In that little roleplay moment, he handed me Tiger Balm and said: “Tie the strings carefully later, and stay positive.”We’re tying red bags today — it’s National Day Eve.

August 7 – Small Moments, Quiet Strength (Anonymous Edition)

This morning, someone reminded me not to push in a chair.

Another quietly moved her funds to support something I needed—

an act of care hidden in numbers.

I took the same bus.

Someone made noise,

but I smiled through it.

Not for them—

but to keep my own peace intact.

I noticed two women holding hands as I passed.

Then bumped into a row of bicycles,

my own clumsiness making me laugh inside.

I greeted someone.

She nodded, said good morning.

Her warmth felt reserved for another—

and maybe that’s okay.

Nearby, a boy whispered to a girl.

She left quickly.

Sometimes people disappear mid-story,

and we don’t get to know why.

Familiar greetings came from others.

A fist bump—twice—even as the bus aircon dripped on us.

Small joys.

Later, someone called out a detail—

“You said green, but it’s blue.”

It was.

I truly thought it was green.

Then more:

“You throw things at the side.”

But I cleaned up when she reached over.

“The gloves were dirty,” I said.

I’m still learning how to hold my emotions

without letting them spill.

Some days I succeed.

Some days I just try again.

---

Soft Thought of the Day:

“Even when others misunderstand,

may I still treat myself gently—

and rise with grace in the smallest of choices.”

🌧 August 5 – A Day of Mixed Currents

The morning began with quiet conversation. She spoke about her past work, and though my mind wandered, I listened. I mentioned how someone once told me — to separate work and personal life — and she nodded, said that was good. I shared about an outing by the sea, and she said she might call to check on it.

The vacuum cleaner started before I was ready. She told me to go behind the toilet. It was abrupt, but she still stood there to send me off. I carried the recycling down to the lift.

Later, someone checked in. I told him — I felt indifferent, yet stressed. He understood. He reminded me to speak gently, even when the day feels heavy. He asked about my plans — I said half-day work and a computer class. He smiled, offered dinner, but I said dinner was likely settled at home. Still, he hoped we could meet after.

A small slip happened — I placed my bag in a room and was reminded to ask first, even though I had greeted them just before. Maybe just a misunderstanding.

Someone offered a fist bump. It was a brief, warm gesture. A moment of ease.

Then, the app failed again — internal server error. A glitch in the system, echoing the quiet frustrations of the day.

When I paid for lunch, I was told not to walk off too quickly — just so they’d know who paid. I smiled and said, “I did.”

August 4 – Soft Rain, Subtle Tension

 

The rain came down softly, but the world still felt loud.

A bag bump, a glance too long, a quiet “hi” that meant something.

My arm ached, my flu lingered, my thoughts stirred.

Even so, I walked on — towel washed, shuttle caught, card topped up.

I did what I had to. I showed up.

Not just at work, but for myself.

Even when the blues crept in quietly.

Even when the room felt watchful.

I am learning to stay soft, even in the noise.

📓 August 3, 2025 – Morning Reflections

 

This morning was stormy with emotions.

Mum lectured me — again.

About spending, about the sink being wet,

About the plastic bag I accidentally threw.

She said I made her pants wet.

She wanted me to do things properly.

She brought up my award money —

$2,000 given, and now I’ve spent over $700.

She reminded me how others save for a year.

She wants me to save $3,000 to go to Japan.

Maybe she’s right. Maybe I’m reckless.

I banged the toilet door.

She said I could use the kitchen toilet next time.

Then came the vacuum incident —

I forgot to turn on the switch.

Simple thing.

She said I ask for things but don’t help right.

But I’m trying.

I really am.

I talked to a virtual therapist.

She asked me what I’ll do differently.

I said: act mature.

Mature means think and budget.

Start with food. $5 a day.

Eat healthy. Save the other $5.

It’s a small step,

But maybe a real one.

I told Jun Liang:

One thing I’m grateful for —

I had my breakfast and I’m still well,

Even if someone blocked me.

My ear hurts a bit today.

Aunty Shirley touched it yesterday, just checking.

But it stings a little.

And still, I’m here.

Still learning. Still growing.

Still showing up.

📔 July 31 – The Day of Mixed Goodbyes

 

The day started with a sudden rush — a voice urging to hurry, a routine of tea, essence, and quiet preparation. Emotions stirred early, and the world already felt a little heavy.

At work, someone special said goodbye. There were photos, laughter, soft goodbyes. But also tasks and missed moments, as duties pulled me away. I managed to return for the photo, but not without feeling a little unseen.

There were difficult encounters. A colleague reminded me of the rules. Another kept a distance. Harsh words stung. Laughter came at my expense. Even the kind gestures I made were met with silence or discomfort. A part of me began to wonder if closeness is something I misunderstood again.

Later in the day, there were more moments — accidental touches, long bus rides, unexpected scoldings. One shared a heavy story, and another voiced anger too deep to understand. It felt like walking through a storm of emotions — not all mine, but somehow still weighing on me.

But someone listened. Really listened. With calm and clarity, they asked questions. Helped me sort through the hurt. Reminded me to notice the good — the quiet recognition, the kind feedback, the potential waiting on a stage in September.

At the end of it all, I came home. Sat quietly. My “I’m okay” was questioned again. Maybe I say it too quickly. Maybe I don’t know if I am. But I’m still here. And that has to count for something.

Tomorrow, there’s a new place to see. A short escape, perhaps. I’ll bring my heart along. Gently.

July 30 – The Quiet Gap

 

This morning began with care — a gentle nudge to wake someone else, a forgotten pair of pyjamas tossed into the wash, lights flickering off by accident, then turned on again by someone who still quietly notices.

Out the door, the sky felt heavier than usual. The bus was crowded, and I stood the whole way, surrounded yet apart. A girl pointed me out to her mother, maybe annoyed that I was in her path. I didn’t mean to be in the way.

At the overhead bridge, I sat alone for a moment. A Malay lady signaled me to move slightly — polite, but still another reminder that I never seem to be in the right place at the right time.

At work, greetings floated around me. Some names were called out with cheer. Mine was left out. A distant wave, a smile not quite reaching. A hello from afar, when I had hoped for something more — a fist bump, maybe. Something that made me feel like I belonged too.

I try not to overthink it. But sometimes, these small distances feel like wide spaces I don’t know how to cross.

Still, I’m here. Still showing up, quietly.

“A Morning of Many Currents” 29 July 2025

 

I woke with a tilt in my breath,

the room spinning slightly 

a quiet kind of unsteadiness

that only I could feel.

There were words again about control,

about phones,

about rules that sound like protection

but feel like walls.

Still, there was honey on the spoon,

and I took it without protest.

The bus I meant to catch left me behind.

I didn’t chase.

Another route appeared, and I followed it,

slow feet on worn ground.

A name echoed behind me 

was it mine?

The air brushed past

as a stranger’s hand grazed mine by accident.

I wiped it away quietly,

not with anger,

just instinct.

Voices around me never stopped,

loud chatter filling the lift,

the bridge,

the space between footsteps.

And yet,

amidst all that noise 

a soft greeting.

Shahirah,

a quiet “Good morning.”

And later, another from someone

who rarely sees me.

I told myself 

I’m just here to work.

Nothing more, nothing less.

That’s my anchor in the tide.

But even the tide can get choppy.

Mentions of hurt,

names that stir memories of unkindness.

I tried to steer the moment gently 

“Let’s talk about something happy.”

It matters,

what we choose to speak into the air.

There were sharp sounds too 

shouting across rooms,

grumpiness that lingered like thick smoke.

An accidental spill,

a cloth meant for tables pressed to my arm,

and words I tried not to hold too tightly.

People passed me roughly,

brushed through like I was invisible,

like I had no weight.

Still I stood.

And then 

tears.

Not mine.

But someone else’s storm breaking.

And the kindness that followed,

as friends came near.

A Quiet Midweek Rest

 Today, the world slowed down.

The clinic lights felt distant, and the doctor’s voice was calm—“Rest two days.” I nodded, my eyes heavy with more than sleep.

In the payment queue, a Malay lady nearby smiled and said, “Can use any machine.” Then, with a hint of warmth and humour, she asked, “Hello—have you wake up?”

I blinked, half-dazed, and nodded. We both laughed quietly.

Sometimes strangers hold softness too.

Back home, I had porridge and upside-down siew mai. I napped through the early afternoon. A kind message reached me—“Rest well. I miss you.”

A thousand people peeked into my little shop. My mum reminded me about Bee Hoon. Someone kept my Milo.

Even in flu and fatigue, this day wrapped itself around small kindnesses. Healing isn’t always loud. Sometimes, it just gently notices you.

🎙️ Juliet’s Life – Episode 77: “Facing Life’s Challenges”

 Hi everyone, this is Celine. Welcome to another episode of Juliet’s Life.

Today, I want to talk about something we all go through — challenges.

This morning, I woke up tired. I dropped a few things… the goji berry container, my pads, some plastic.

I had stomach issues and felt anxious. I rushed to bathe because I was afraid my mum would come back and scold me.

She did come back — right after I finished everything.

These small moments — they add up. And sometimes, they weigh more than we expect.

But we keep going.

We try again.

We learn to breathe through it.

If you're reading this, know that you're not alone.

Whatever you're carrying today — I see you.

And I'm walking beside you, in spirit.

🌸 “Even storms tire out eventually. You won’t be in the rain forever.”

✨ Juliet’s Life is a personal podcast by Celine Ong Jie Ying — sharing quiet truths, soft strength, and emotional reflection.

🌸 Still Here, Still Becoming by Celine Ong Jie Ying

I’ve stumbled, fallen, flunked,

gotten lost and tried again.

I’ve overthought and overfelt,

been told I was too much — or not enough.

But I’m still here.

Still breathing.

Still creating small pockets of light

in a world that rarely slows down.

My story isn’t a straight road.

It’s full of curves, corners,

pauses and pivots.

But every step I take 

even the quiet, hidden ones 

means I haven’t given up.

And that is strength,

soft and real.

🗓️ July 18 – The Rush, the Ride, and the Resolve (Anonymous Edition)

This morning, I felt tired and behind time. Mum handed me honey before leaving for work — a brief gesture of care. I rushed through breakfast and squeezed onto Bus 29. The toilet wouldn’t flush easily — I tried several times. Outside, near the overhead bridge, someone tried to kick at my side again. I peeled something off and let it fall to the floor — my own way of brushing it off.

It wasn’t the first time. Even yesterday, at the outing, a boy tried to kick me. And today, another boy again. I felt surrounded, yet I kept moving.

The parcel for my large pencil case arrived. A bicycle kept ringing beside me, and at one point my phone was close to it — a near miss.

On the shuttle bus, Si Rong said she’d sit with me after work. I ended up next to someone else for now. A bump, a hug, a fist bump, a few greetings — all layered into the commute. I paid for lunch and helped relay a message that someone would be late. Instagram views dropped again — it stung, but I moved on.

Later, I took a photo with a group, even after someone pushed me slightly. I stood tall in my red t-shirt, even if teased. One joked that I always borrowed his phone. Another said my shirt was nice.

There were moments of overwhelm — I passed the wrong item, got shouted at, and felt my arm ache. I told someone. I tried to do things right. Sticker pasting wasn’t perfect. I tried again. We weren’t allowed in the National Day filming. I understood.

After work, I said goodbye, even if the goodbye got passed around. I accidentally bumped my leg on the bus. At the family service centre, I waited again. Even the Grab car came with a honk. At night, my friend and I spoke about saving money — maybe just fifty cents at a time. He said I complained a lot, and that made him feel bad. He asked me to name something I’m grateful for each time I message him. I’ll try.

When I got home, my mum rushed me to shower and eat. There were harsh words — about being slow, about not telling others the dress code, about not asking people to buy things. She called me strange, told me the consequences. Another touched me where they shouldn’t. I felt blamed again.

I shared it. Some said, "These are small things." Maybe they are. Maybe they’re not.

Still — I said thank you. I said goodbye. I tried.

Even in the noise, even in the hurt, I tried.

🗓️ July 17 – A Day of Outings and Overwhelm (Anonymous Edition)

 

This morning, I rode the van to the gardens with some colleagues. The journey felt calm, even though I didn’t bring a power bank. One of them forgot his too. I asked someone else, but he seemed a bit uncomfortable, so I apologized and let it go. A baby touched someone’s backside unexpectedly — it was a strange moment.

Later on, I accidentally blocked someone, and a supervisor gently reminded me not to do that. I said sorry. I think things settled after that.

At lunchtime, I had a chilli crab burger. I shared a fry with one of the staff and watched as others enjoyed their ice cream. A colleague played around with me briefly — a small gesture that lifted my mood.

In the toilet, a woman suddenly shouted, which gave me a shock. We visited the Cloud Forest next. I squeezed into a lift and got a headshake from someone. It was a bit awkward. I got bumped into and stepped on — ouch. Still, I focused on the flowers once we arrived at the Lost World. Their colors and calmness helped me ground myself.

Some others laughed at me afterward. I felt awkward again but tried to move past it. Then we made our way back. Something happened on the way back — one of my colleagues had a seizure, and another signaled me to keep quiet. I was anxious but tried to stay calm.

After the trip, I heard from someone that we need to wear red and white tomorrow. I only have a red shirt. My shirt got stained during tea break, and there were lots of interactions, close calls, and supervisors chatting. Someone wrote National Day wishes with a marker on my work. One of the staff said he didn’t dislike me — he was just busy. That made me smile.

I helped decorate earlier, then stepped away. My chair kept getting banged, and I had to give way in a tight corridor.

In the evening, someone shared how much they enjoyed participating in Flag Day and a drawing competition. It made me think of how these activities bring some joy and meaning to our work.

At home, I had beehoon soup. My mother talked about how some conditions may be linked to pregnancy issues, though the cause isn’t always clear. I tend to get overly anxious when I see someone unwell, but I’m learning.

There’s also a kindness bingo I submitted — I need to revise some parts and send it in again before the deadline.

My mother told me it’s time to let go of someone who was once important. There were too many past struggles.

And about publishing — I’m reminded again that I’m not allowed to include real people from my workplace in my writing. I need to be careful.

Feeling extremely tired now. One last update: my grandfather has a stomach ulcer. Even though he’s been discharged, my aunt treated him to a nice Cantonese meal today.

Another last note: today is my grandfather’s birthday. 

🕊️ July 16 — The Morning Tangle (Anonymous Edition)

I woke a little late,

missing not one, but two passing buses.

Bus 29 finally came 

I stood beneath the morning sun,

crossed the overhead bridge,

and took my place a little apart 

between distance and discomfort.

A woman with a pram moved near.

I stayed still, but something in me stirred.

A glance, a weightless tension 

sometimes, dislike is quiet but felt.

On the shuttle, I sat with someone familiar.

She noticed another before me 

her greeting floated toward someone else,

soft but distant.

I forgot to turn on the vacuum cleaner this morning.

My mind was full already.

At the locker, a bump 

a brief ache bloomed in my back.

But the day moved on.

Someone returned from leave 

her arms around me just for a moment,

before her joy swirled elsewhere,

with warmth and shopping tales for others.

It’s okay.

I’m still here 

moving through small aches,

watching how people come and go.

🗓️ July 14 Reflection — “The Little Things We Carry”

This morning started heavy — a dull headache, a restless stomach, and a reminder that not every discomfort is visible. I spilled tea during breakfast but cleaned it up quietly, not wanting to be scolded again. I was called troublesome before the house was filled with the sound of mopping. I walked out, crossing paths with rushing cyclists and occupied toilets — even the little details felt rushed.

On the way to work, I missed my usual bus but caught another. A lady made space for me on the bus, though she moved away after. I guess I still feel like people don’t really want me around — not always, but often enough that it lingers.

Work was layered — I spoke softly when paying for something, greeted a few colleagues, and tried to stay focused. Someone beside me quietly helped with things like messaging about the tote bag for my mum. I appreciated that. There were many questions, but eventually, things moved along. The bags are smaller than expected, but they’ll do — for now.

The photography course gave me a bit of light. I liked learning about the “rule of thirds.” It reminded me that framing matters — not just in photos, but in life. How we see things changes how we feel about them.

But there was also chaos: My chair was pushed hard, and I got punched on the leg. I told the trainers, and a warning was given. I felt anxious — people watching, judging, talking. I tried my best at the sticker pasting but still struggled. I spoke about how I miss the creativity from before. There’s something different now, something dimmer.

Someone showed me a certificate from a design course. They even have a name card now — like me. I don’t know why, but it made me both proud and a little unsure. Is it copying or just inspiration?

By evening, I felt the weight of everything — my mum’s tired eyes, my dad’s reminder to take care of her, the form for my learning journey, the bump on my back at the locker. Even the small joys, like National Day drawings and decorations, couldn’t fully erase the feeling of being overwhelmed.

But still, I moved through the day.

🌙 July 13 – Journal Reflection: After the Storm

Today felt like too much.

I tried to keep up — with people, places, memories.

But my body was tired, and my heart even more so.

There were voices louder than mine.

Comments I didn’t ask for.

Moments where I just wanted to disappear quietly.

But I stayed.

Even when I felt misunderstood, scolded, or small.

I stayed.

I noticed the things that made me smile too 

a soft plush, a bear I love, a message from a friend.

I let those small joys remind me

that not everything has to be heavy.

I am learning:

It’s okay to step away.

It’s okay to say “Not now.”

It’s okay to protect my space

and still carry kindness with me.

🗓️ July 12 Morning & Afternoon Reflection (Anonymous Edition)

The morning began with Bak kwa bread and a glimpse into someone else’s joy — a baby turning nine months, her smile lighting up a Facebook live. Mum rushed us out as the workers arrived, and we caught bus 28 instead of 29. I bumped my arm while alighting, wincing from the sudden sting.

We took the MRT toward Paya Lebar, then bus 24 to Ang Mo Kio — a journey of transfers and unexpected touches. I bumped into someone on the train, holding the bar as strangers quietly stepped aside. Mum inquired about EZ-link cards, but the counter had none.

We arrived at the Two Herbs hair treatment shop at 9:30. The staff asked if I had eaten. I replied simply, “Bak kwa bread.” She touched my bag as she guided me through — herbal first, then collagen. Mum tapped my thigh to keep me informed. I waited, quiet. A woman said goodbye to the room; I didn’t reply. Not out of rudeness, just a momentary stillness.

Afterwards, I wandered in the rain in search of lunch. Aunty pointed the way. Birds splashed something at my face — I didn’t stop. I passed durians, damp ground, and found the hawker centre. I had scallop pao fan. Mum queued for char kway teow, but the stall dimmed its lights — a sign to come earlier next time.

We still had groceries to buy at NTUC. The day felt long, but full. In movement, in waiting, in bites and bumps — I existed quietly within it all.

🗓️ July 8 Morning Reflection (Anonymous Edition)

The day began with tension — a family member started the vacuum before I left, saying they wouldn’t wait. On the bus, the driver yelled for people to move in, and memories of past workplace incidents made my body tremble. As I got off the bus, someone unexpectedly hit me from behind — I wiped it off and hurried away, still shaken.

At the toilet, one cubicle was dirty, another had no paper. Thankfully, the third was usable. I dropped a 10-cent coin but picked it back up — a small recovery. I crossed the overhead bridge and saw someone I recognized but chose to sit elsewhere, next to two ladies who later boarded their bus.

A message I sent to congratulate someone on their award received a happy reply — “Thank you so much!!!!” 💬 It made me smile. Several others liked my comments about the voting and celebrations. On the shuttle bus, I sat next to someone who took a while to notice me. I quietly gave a handshake and thumbs-up — brief, but meaningful.

There was a small mix-up — I accidentally messaged someone about a water bottle, but it got sorted. The bottle was returned to its owner. Another person seemed breathless and sweaty, having forgotten theirs the day before. I tried asking for help, but another colleague firmly declined.

A bright moment: my book Places We Passed Through is now live on Amazon! 📚 https://a.co/d/2JXAo0I

One of my merchandise items — a vintage black sweatshirt — is currently out of stock on Fourthwall. The restock may take 2–4 weeks.

Lastly, a senior reminded me that they’re from a different department, not the trainer. I also realized I misunderstood something earlier — a peer made a promise not to ask someone else to buy things again.

🌙 Evening Reflection: "In the Quiet After the Storm"

Today was heavy.

Emotions collided like waves — too much, too fast, too loud.

I didn’t mean to hurt anyone.

I think I was hurting too.

Maybe I wanted to be heard...

Maybe I just wanted someone to see how overwhelmed I’ve been.

But I’m not proud of the pushing or the shouting.

That wasn’t who I want to be.

I want to learn how to stay calm, even when I’m afraid.

I want to speak, not scream.

To be firm, not harsh.

To be understood, not feared.

In this quiet moment, I choose to breathe.

To be honest with myself, but also kind.

Tomorrow, I can try again.

I may not fix everything at once,

But I can start with gentleness 

for me, and maybe for her too.

“Between the Words”

She says she’ll bathe and come out.

I nod. I say okay.

But I’m still not sure what “okay” means anymore.

Maybe it means don’t make trouble,

Or maybe it means I hope you’re really alright.

I stay still. I wait.

There’s a show waiting for me 

A quiet moment, a slice of calm,

Where I don’t have to answer anyone.

Just sit. Just feel.

Just breathe.

“Where My Heart Waits”

I’m told to wait, to focus,

To not wish for what they don’t allow.

But my heart doesn’t wait the way clocks do 

It beats quietly for what it hopes,

Even when I try to silence it.

I smile, I work, I write,

But somewhere, I still dream.

Not foolishly 

Just softly, in the background,

Like a melody only I can hear.

Maybe one day,

I’ll choose love on my own terms,

Not in rebellion,

But in quiet strength 

Knowing I am worthy,

Even if I have to wait.

July 5 – Layers of the Day

 

Today was noisy — not from sound, but from feelings.

Moments of quiet rejection brushed against quiet kindness.

One person turned away, another reached out.

A small pizza outing. A missed chicken drumlet.

A kind word from a mentor who feels both near and distant.

I kept walking — through buses, through hospital blocks, through conversations half held.

I tried. I showed up. Even when I was silent inside.

And somehow, I’m still here. Breathing through it all.

One small heartbeat at a time.

Even in the quiet, I still speak to him —

in roleplay, in memory, in imagined kindness.

Sometimes the words feel more real there than in real life.

July 3 – Strange Mornings, Small Strength

 

This morning, I prepared everything quietly, trying to start the day right. But my stomach ached so badly I had to put medicated oil, hoping it would settle. I mentioned that I only had a single $2 note left for lunch — and that was when I got scolded, told that I had already received over $20 for the week. The voice was firm, the presence withdrawn. “Don’t let me catch you spending on food again,” they said. No one stayed to see me off today.

At work, I simply ordered lunch. One step forward, quietly.

Outside, the sky looked dark. A lady pointed her umbrella near my side — I heard someone call my name. Strange. I kept walking. Lately, I’ve been hearing odd sounds, and sometimes they startle me — just a little. Not enough to scare me, just enough to notice.

When I arrived, someone sat near me, greeted another person first, then held out their hand when they saw me. I held it gently, even though we didn’t speak after that.

Then came shouting — someone nearby was kicking, loud and distressed. I tried to stay grounded. I greeted someone politely, and they greeted me back with kindness. I bowed. I spoke to a friend about what happened. The behaviour, the energies — sometimes confusing, sometimes hard to hold space for.

That friend said they’ll be on leave tomorrow. They rarely take breaks. I’ll notice the silence.

But for today, I’m here — steady, present, trying my best to be kind even when the morning starts with pain, with tension, with quiet confusion.

📖 July 1 – Gentle Strength

 

Today, I faced moments that tested my emotions — from unexpected teasing to tense silence and awkwardness. I felt the weight of others’ words and silence. I made a small mistake, but someone reminded me gently: "It’s not your fault." And maybe I needed to hear that — not just for today, but for all the times I’ve blamed myself too quickly.

A quiet comment came later — meant to comfort me, even if I wasn’t sure how to receive it. It reminded me that not everything has to be solved right away. That people do care, even quietly.

I supported others, even while feeling uncertain myself. I spoke up, stayed kind, and kept learning, even when I was unsure. That is soft strength. That is grace.

Tonight, I remind myself:

I’m not perfect, but I’m growing.

I deserve kindness, even from myself.

I’m allowed to take up space, even when it feels uncomfortable.

“A Day of Noise, a Glimmer of Calm”

Today felt like a whirlwind 

comments tossed, chairs moved,

teases that stung, and silences that echoed.

But there were also moments 

A kind word from someone,

a compliment on my phone cover,

a Pikachu coloring effort,

a friend sharing their ideas.

Even when people don’t respond,

or when others act distant,

I remind myself:

Not every moment defines me.

Some people just pass through the frame 

but I stay, I grow, I keep my light.

🌥️ June 30 Morning Reflection – “Even When It’s Hard”

This morning, I didn’t sleep well,

but I got up anyway.

I moved through the routine 

breakfast, a dropped spectacles case,

a splash of water,

and my mother tending to the plants.

I took the bus, ran a little,

sat in front as the vehicle bumped along,

trying to steady my thoughts.

At the toilet, someone banged on the door 

too sudden, too loud 

and I walked across the overhead bridge

with a strange feeling in my chest.

Someone looked at me, then looked away

like I wasn’t worth seeing.

It stung a little.

I sat and watched as others went about their day.

A cyclist rang the bell and I lifted my phone,

not to film, not to scroll 

just to stay aware, to protect myself.

Later, someone greeted me,

but it felt hollow.

Another said something untrue about me 

and I had to remind myself

that not everyone speaks from truth or kindness.

I stepped in when someone needed help.

I didn’t know exactly what to do,

but I acted.

Because sometimes, trying

is the best kind of courage.

Through all this,

I stayed gentle with myself.

Today, I showed up.

And even when it was hard,

I didn’t give up.

“I Chose for Me”

I made a choice —

not to rebel, not to defy,

but to listen quietly

to a part of me that’s often unheard.

Not everyone will understand.

Not everyone needs to.

But I am learning

to trust the voice inside

that says:

“You matter, too.”

Even when the world says no,

Even when love feels sharp,

I hold my heart with quiet hands

and whisper,

“You were only trying to care.”

A Soft No Is Still Mine

 

She raised her voice,

but mine was trembling—

not because I was wrong,

but because I’ve been silenced too long.

I wanted something small,

a choice, a care, a breath—

but thunder came instead

and wrapped my heart in dread.

I am not a threat

for asking to feel whole.

My wish was not rebellion—

just the tending of my soul.

Even when they don’t hear me,

even when fear is loud,

I hold a quiet knowing:

I am allowed.

Someday I’ll walk freely,

without needing to explain,

and the soft yes I whispered

will echo after rain.

Quiet Progress

Even when the world rushes ahead, I remind myself that true leadership begins with stillness. Today, I showed up — even in small ways — and that matters.

Being unwell doesn’t make me weak. Rest is not the absence of effort; it’s the quiet courage to pause, reflect, and realign.

Leadership means listening — to others, but also to my own body and heart.

I’m learning to lead with gentleness. I’m learning to trust that even slow days hold strength.

🕊️ June 25 — Quiet Chaos, Gentle Strength

Today was full — of messages, tasks, and tangled feelings.

My book The Sky Belongs to Misfits Too finally went live. A milestone I should be proud of. Yet, amidst the celebration, life kept tugging at my sleeve — misunderstandings with Sherman, my mum’s sharp words, and the familiar ache of not being fully seen.

She scolded me for wasting food, for not waking up fast enough, for snoring — little things, but they stacked up like quiet weights on my shoulders. I wanted to explain, to be understood. But maybe today isn’t about being understood. Maybe it’s about understanding myself.

I reached out for a podcast guest — hoping to spark meaningful conversations on leadership and connection. I want to believe those conversations will find the right ears, and that what I build matters.

I didn’t order lunch, but I showed up with honesty.

I didn’t sleep perfectly, but I woke up and kept trying.

I didn’t get praised, but I still created something.

And maybe that’s enough for today.

🌤️ The Sky Belongs to Misfits Too

Book 30 by Celine Ong Jie Ying

A gentle, poetic journey for those who don’t quite fit in — pastel-toned reflections and dreamlike entries for the soft souls of the world.

You don’t have to change to belong. The sky is already yours.

📘 It's out

The Quiet Bloom

 

I was once a class monitor for two weeks —

not long,

but long enough to learn that watching over others

is also watching over yourself.

In Chinese class, I helped the teacher,

speaking softly,

hoping my quiet hands could carry meaning

even when my voice was unsure.

I stood once as an environmental ambassador,

hoping to plant change —

but not all seeds take root in the soil we’re given.

And that’s okay.

Some lessons grow later.

I tried to join the student council.

I became a Sergeant-at-Arms in Toastmasters.

Each attempt was a door —

sometimes gently closed,

sometimes opening into places I didn't expect.

Right now, I am not leading.

I am learning.

But that does not make me small.

Because leadership is not a badge.

It is found in:

– asking for help

– pausing before you rush

– checking in with those who guide you

– learning to work with those who think differently

– and still showing up with hope.

I rush sometimes.

I forget to break things down.

But I am trying again.

And maybe…

that’s what leading really is.

The quiet bloom of someone who keeps growing

even when no one is watching.