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.
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 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.”
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.
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.
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.
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.
π It's out
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.
Some memories fade, but the feeling remains.
This is for anyone who ever served quietly, felt forgotten, or needed a gentle reminder that their presence mattered.
A poem for my St. John chapter—
still a part of me, even in silence. πΏπ€
I remember the uniform,
crisp sleeves folded with care—
the way you stood in still lines,
even when your heart wavered.
I remember the weight of moments,
lessons held in folded hands,
the pulse beneath your gloves,
how you listened, how you stayed.
The page is gone,
the faces faded,
but you—
you are still here.
Not forgotten.
Not erased.
You were there.
You gave.
You mattered.
And even if the world
never claps or says your name—
your quiet courage
still echoes like a song
only the moon and I remember.
So cry, dear heart.
Cry for what’s gone.
And when you’re ready,
we’ll walk gently forward
together.
Today was full.
I carried more than just a heavy bag —
I carried the weight of eyes watching,
voices raised,
and feelings I couldn't quite name.
A cough in the silence.
A coloring done with care.
A whisper of kindness,
and advice wrapped in gentle words —
“Smile through it. Breathe.”
I did not scream.
I did not cry.
But something inside me folded, like paper in the rain.
Still,
I smiled a little when someone said thank you.
Still,
I listened. I adjusted.
I tried.
Maybe tomorrow will be softer.
Maybe the weight will shift.
For now, I rest my thoughts in this page,
and hold on to a quiet truth:
Even storms pass.
Even petals bloom again.
Even when the world begins in a storm —
when voices clash,
when your throat aches,
when coffee doesn’t stay —
you are still here.
You stood up.
You caught the bus.
You noticed the Milo.
You saw someone fall,
and you stayed aware.
Your presence matters,
even in silence.
Even if no one says thank you.
Even when the chair just says your name.
Take one breath.
Then another.
Not every moment has to be strong.
Some can just be soft.
Lately, rest has felt like something I have to fight for. This piece is a reminder — for myself and anyone else who feels overwhelmed — that healing takes time, and softness is not weakness.
You do not need to explain
why your hands are tired,
or why your breath feels like
it carries the weight of silence.
Tonight, rest does not ask for permission.
It simply arrives,
like a quiet moon through the curtains,
gathering your sorrow
and humming lullabies
only your heart can hear.
You are not lazy for being ill.
You are not weak for needing space.
You are simply a garden in recovery—
growing, even in the shade.
So take this moment.
Let the world wait.
Let your body soften.
You have survived today,
and that is more than enough.
— gentle as a whisper, just for you
It did not roar,
nor demand to be seen.
It did not arrive with applause
or the shine of medals.
It was in the way I rose again,
after a night of ache and silence.
In the moment I chose
not to shout back,
but breathe,
and let the words fall away.
It was in my stillness—
the quiet refusal to break
even when misunderstood,
even when unseen.
A strength that whispered,
“You are still here.
You are still whole.”
And maybe that’s enough.
Maybe quiet strength
is the loudest kind after all.
I carry a quiet fever in my chest,
a cough that echoes what I cannot say.
They think I fake it—this ache, this rest—
but pain has no script, and truth finds its way.
My body folds like petals in the rain,
soft, tired, worn by battles they can’t see.
Still I rise, again and again,
not for them—but gently, for me.
I am not lazy. I am not weak.
This pause is not failure—it’s grace.
Even if their words come sharp and bleak,
I hold peace in my sacred space.
So let them talk, let judgment fall—
I choose healing, slow and true.
Even when no one sees it at all,
I believe in what I’m going through.
I only wanted silence
after the sting of saline drops
and a soft tissue in my hand.
But voices rose,
not to lift me,
but to crush me under words like “lazy.”
I held my bowl,
not for sweetness,
but for restraint.
I didn’t throw it.
I could’ve.
But I didn’t.
She left.
I stayed.
And even in her anger,
she asked if I needed medicine.
The world is loud.
I am learning
to breathe before the echo.
We stood in the hush
between presence and parting,
where glances linger
longer than words dare.
I did not ask for more,
only to remember
the warmth that once stood beside me—
quiet, steady,
unspoken.
No blame.
No claim.
Only a hush —
where memory breathes.
Sometimes, partings are quiet.
No curtain call, no last embrace.
Just a moment that stays with us,
even when the world moves on.
Thank you for walking that small stretch
of the journey with me.
After dinner,
my legs gave way beneath me—
I held on to tables,
as if they were anchors in a room that swayed.
The Taiwanese drama flickered to an end at ten.
I barely made it.
Then I vomited.
Fever came quietly,
like a second shadow.
I woke in the middle of the night
to take medicine
and stumble to the toilet alone.
Morning came,
but not with comfort.
Mum said I forgot to turn on the vacuum cleaner.
I told her—
I vomited,
I had a fever.
She didn’t reply.
Instead, she called the polyclinic.
My appointment is at 9:50.
I spilled tea on the floor,
wiped it with the tablecloth.
Dropped tissue paper—
picked it up.
Sprayed the toilet floor clean.
Ate my breakfast.
Even while I felt faint,
I still tried.
Still cleaned.
Still moved.
Some people will miss me.
Some will stay silent.
But I’m still here.
Even while the fever rose.
This morning, I changed my mind again —
pork porridge, then Chee Cheong fun.
Maybe I wasn’t hungry for food,
but for peace that didn’t feel so fragile.
She was unwell.
Snapped when I asked about the bill.
“δΈθ¦ε΅ζδΊ”
— but I wasn’t trying to fight.
Just to understand.
She asked about the semor tablets.
I said I didn’t know.
I took them too — not out of habit,
but to feel a little more human,
a little less invisible.
She said I only care about myself.
But if that were true,
why do I keep trying?
He said, love your family.
I nodded quietly.
There was no best friend to text today.
No warm reply to my updates,
just empty bubbles, unread.
Still, I liked a post celebrating love.
Still, I joined a fan club,
maybe to feel like I belonged somewhere.
Some people are mysterious.
Some don’t like when I ask too much.
But maybe I just want to be let in.
To be known,
without having to knock so hard.
And so I watched something not for the plot,
heard a sound I couldn’t silence.
But no one said a word.
Not even her.
She’s asleep now.
And I’m writing this —
a quiet offering
for no one in particular.
Just me.
Still here.
Still trying.
A poetic journal entry by Celine Ong
June 6 — Rain Before the Light
Woke before the sun,
the floor still cold,
my steps soft between
the sound of a mother’s chores—
vacuum hum and water splash
echoing through the walls.
The morning air tasted sour,
my stomach turning after breakfast.
Outside, the sky wept—
a heavy, unkind rain
drenched the streets and
soaked my bag like
a quiet weight I carried.
The bus came late.
Someone saw me
and quietly shifted away.
Another made a sound
I didn’t understand,
but I sat beside them anyway—
the seats left no room for pride.
At work, I stayed quiet.
A good morning
found others first—
then landed on me
like a leaf brushing the ground.
I returned it without looking.
My heart, still curled inward.
I forgot the certificate.
Fumbled it into the box.
A small, tired mistake
on a day already heavy.
But still—
I made it.
Not smiling,
not shining.
But I showed up.
And sometimes,
that’s the softest kind of strength.
