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.