This is part 1 of the ‘Lover Girl’ series
No matter how full of joy and love my life is, I still want a romantic relationship.
I’m not miserable without one, but there’s still a space that nothing else quite fills the same way.
I’ve spent a lot of time reflecting on why that is. When I softened my edges to win someone over. When I made myself smaller to keep a relationship. And even when I am happily single.
I think… I finally have the answer.
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I just came back from the hospital, visiting my housemate, one of my oldest friends, who just gave birth. And somehow, it brought me back here.
It’s been almost two years since I first revisited The Question of Parenthood and tried to put into words how I felt then.
Looking back now, I realise that I was still — in some ways — shapeshifting.
Not entirely. But enough to blur the truth.
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Recently, I came across a post titled ‘The Oversharing Pandemic’. It made me revisit a topic I’ve always come back to from time to time – why do I write? Or rather, why do I share (some of) what I write here, especially when my subject matter has always been so personal?
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Late last year, life was a whirlwind. I was drowning in work – leading a massive government project on top of handling my usual accounts. The stress was so intense that I got shingles for the second time that year.
But even when things got hectic, I wasn’t willing to give up dancing. I continued with my weekly classes and practice sessions. I was preparing for my first performance at Singapore’s annual Chingay parade — a routine that included riskier air steps than I’d ever done before. On top of that, I’d just been recruited into two different dance crews.
And still, I was determined to have a social life. I carved out time to hang out with friends, and even dedicated one night a week to go on dates.
Honestly, I loved it. That season of my life brought so much joy and pride. I felt like I was growing in every direction. But to juggle everything, I had to make compromises — and sleep was the first to go. I was running on empty, teetering on the edge of burnout.
Still, I’m great under pressure. So I kept going. Kept performing. Kept the burnout at bay. Until… something in me flipped.
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After I wrapped up The Campaign to Find Myself, I found my way back into the dating world.
I met a few people through Hinge. Two stood out. But the one who left the strongest impression? A real-life crush I wasn’t even looking for. Here’s how it all unfolded.
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As I was recovering from a heartbreak, I confided in my friend Denise how overwhelming it was to think of life as indefinite. You have no idea when it will all end, how many more heartbreaks lie ahead, or if your dreams will ever even come true.
I’m not saying I wish for a terminal illness, but there’s a certain clarity that comes with a definite time frame, like “you have three months to live.” You know exactly how long you need to hold on and can focus on making the most of that time. Perhaps it was because of my background as a consultant. My professional life is structured around campaigns with specific objectives and KPIs to meet in three months, six months, or a year.
Denise said, “So, why not create a campaign for yourself? Give yourself three months to recover and move on.” So, I did.
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I turned 32 earlier this year. It’s my favorite number because it signifies my birth date, February 3rd. I had hoped 32 would be my magic number – a year of happiness, a time when I could simply glide through life after a couple of grueling years. Perhaps it would be the year I figured everything out, maybe even started planning the life I wanted to build with the man I was seeing.
Instead, this year has been one of the hardest of my life. Each month seemed to hurl one lemon after another. From getting shingles and spraining a foot, to dealing with a non-paying housemate and police reports, to going through romantic and financial turmoil. The final nail in the coffin was when my beloved first cat, Luna, suddenly went into acute kidney failure, just days after my breakup was sealed.
I broke down. When I saw my reflection in the mirror, my eyes were so full of sadness that I wondered if I’d ever be truly happy again.
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Recently, I’ve been having more heart-to-heart talks with my closest friends, which led to some important insights into myself and my relationships.
One shared something that took me by surprise. She said she’s always seen me as an independent, successful woman who knows how to fend for herself. Yet, when it comes to romantic relationships, she observed that I tend to put my partner first and myself second. “It’s good that you seek to understand your partner and know how to compromise, but it can be problematic when you keep giving without knowing what you deserve to receive,” she said.
Another friend asked, “Why does it take you so long to realize or admit that something upsets you? And why did you wait until you broke up to tell me all these things?”
These were two separate conversations, but they both agreed on one thing: Had they been in my shoes, they would have immediately blown up at some of the things my exes pulled.
It left me thinking. I’ve always had a complicated relationship with anger. I couldn’t let myself feel it. Anger, to me, has always felt like a weakness, a loss of control. And, until now, I’d never been quite sure why.
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A few weeks ago, I had to say goodbye to someone dear to me. This was not a novel concept but still, each time, having to let go when you didn’t want to could turn your mind into a warzone.
Taking accountability to the extreme, I was wildly grasping for faults and reasons, because if I could find them, I could fix them. I was quick to accept every point that he raised, claiming all the blame and inflating them a hundredfold.
The weight of regret was crushing, and this post was originally meant to condemn myself. But in the process of writing, somehow I turned into my own lawyer.
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When it comes to self care, I’ve always struggled with consistency. I’d go through cycles of getting inspired, overdoing it, falling off the wagon, and taking forever to get back on track.
Recently, I came across this insight: The question is not what to do. You know what to do. The question is, why are you not doing it despite wanting to? Most of the time, I would attribute it to character flaws. You’re lazy. You’re weak. You’re just not that type of person. I would point it out over and over, holding onto a false hope that self-shaming would coerce me into better habits.
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After my breakup with The Spaniard in 2022, I took half a year off dating. Learning to be content with myself, I turned inward. I settled into my new job, cultivated friendships, and leaned into the joy of lindy hop and the community that made it so special. I was building and savoring a life that made me feel so, very rich. Rather than conforming to someone else’s ideal, I resolved to only settle down with a partner who enhanced the life I’d painstakingly crafted – a life brimming with joy, love, and self-assurance.
Just when I least expected it, serendipity intervened. Over breakfast with my friend Sophiya, I confessed that I was enjoying my freedom too much and not actively looking for love, only to find myself swept off my feet that very night.
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I grew up pretending I was a mother; carrying dolls in my arms, soothing imaginary daughters from their nightmares, giving made-up sons the hugs and kisses I wished to have received. The make-believe continued well into my first serious relationship, right out of high school. We knew the name of our unborn kids and, for the first time ever, I was not playing house alone. I believed with every fiber of my being that I wanted to get married by 25 and meet the children of our dreams.
Until I turned 25, then 26, then 27… and I was nowhere near where I wanted to be. As we grew older, we grew apart. Our dissolution planted seeds of doubts. Life didn’t feel quite so straightforward anymore. Maybe I should focus on myself. Maybe I should focus on my mess. Maybe I shouldn’t be a mother. Maybe I never really wanted to.
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Everybody has always had a say on my body. When I was younger, my mom would harp on about how I was too thin and claimed that I must have been secretly dieting – when I wasn’t. But uncles and aunties – and even my boyfriend at the time – were quick to jump on the bandwagon and repeated that I was too thin. So, just eat. Eat more. More.
But not too much, my mom would add. Because nobody likes the other side of that coin either.
Alas, I guess I was out of luck because, as I grew older, the number on the scale grew with me.
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I turned 30 and thought I was happy. To be fair, in many aspects, I was, really. But I’d also been suppressing doubts and questions about where life got me and where I wanted to be.
I turned 30 and almost moved to Mexico City. A place I knew nothing of except for what I’d learnt from TV, and for what I’d been told: that I’d “love it”, in theory. And love, was the only reason I was planning to uproot my whole life in Jakarta, blindly (and quietly). Then came a twist: The man for whom I would move halfway across the world broke up with me.
I turned 30 and quit a job I’d thought I’d stay on for all eternity. Blew up my savings and travelled to San Francisco, Orlando, and Hawaii to feel less guilty. And after all that, I packed my bags and moved to Singapore for the promise of new possibilities, in life and love.
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To someone prone to overthinking and anxiety as myself, consensual non-monogamy including open relationship seems like a recipe for disaster. I am also, however, someone who is curious, likes to challenge myself, and highly values genuine connections.
Why do people do it? Is it for me? Will I ever be able to overcome my own insecurity and jealousy to pull this off?
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After dating around for a while following my big breakup, in 2020 I began a relationship with someone (let’s call him The Spaniard) who helped me learn further about how to be in a healthy relationship.
In the early stage of our relationship, amidst a raging pandemic, he had to move to another country for work. As he flew to this new chapter of his life, so began an intense week of anxiety on my end.
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Recently, I received a couple of messages, from acquaintances and friends alike, commending me for how “alive” and “passionate” I always look on my Instagram Stories. Which is ironic, because for the past year or so, I have not felt that way. I tried my hardest to restart the spark, and there were glimpses of real passion, but mostly, my mind was foggy.
I have been avoiding dealing with a lot of difficult thoughts and emotions. I would not even meditate or write — which had always helped — because, I guess, subconsciously I was afraid of what they would reveal to me.
But I’ve had some free time lately, and after a lot of running away, I started to go back to writing. I am writing about all the life-changing things that have happened since 2020. And, boy, there were a lot. So, who knows how long it will take me to finish writing everything? (If I would even finish…)
In any case, let me start with one story tonight.
Coming out of a nine-year relationship which started right out of high school, today’s modern dating scene is practically a jungle to me.
The last time I had to navigate dating was when I was a wide-eyed student in a relatively homogenous Catholic school. Back then, dating was as straightforward as it could get: you liked someone, interest reciprocated, then he (it was usually the guy) asked you to be his girlfriend. From then on, the mindset was that you both would end up married. This remains true for some of my old friends coming from the same background.
The dating scene I have to navigate now defies everything I knew then.
My last relationship died a slow death. Its end was a mixture of intense pain and blissful oblivion. Teetering between the two polar opposites for nearly a year, it could be hard to tell if I had moved on or was temporarily numb.
As I was going through this, I turned to the concept of 5 Stages of Grief to help me make sense of where I was. Still, I couldn’t do it then. My reading of my location was still unreliable.
I could only do it in hindsight, and with the help of at least a couple of movies, a couple of songs, and a TedTalk. It was not easy. Neither was the process linear. But understanding now what I went through then, and being able to name them out loud, helped me see.
I have truly moved on. I hope these will help you too.
A long time ago, I came across a saying by Nelson Mandela, “May your choices reflect your hopes, not your fears.”
I remember thinking, when I first discovered it, that it was a brilliant piece of advice on making tough life decisions. I never thought it would be so hard to apply. But there I was, faced with the decision to end or stay in a long-term relationship.
When was the last time you did something that truly scares you? Mine was last year: I jumped off a plane over the scenic Great Ocean Road, just two hours from Melbourne, Australia.
I wish I could say that I am this daredevil who lives life untethered and gets off on the adrenaline. I am not, but every year, I made it a point to do at least one thing that terrifies me.
Back in January, I started taking classes at STEPS Dance Academy. I had only one goal: to get fit. I ended up learning so much more this past one month and a half about myself and living life. Here are five lessons that keep me coming back to the dance floor:
Unlike many of my three million fellow Chinese-Indonesians in the country, I grew up in a family that was pretty removed from the Chinese culture. I never celebrated Cheng Beng or Cap Go Meh, nor did I know when to eat bakcang or kue keranjang. One that I especially yearned for growing up was to celebrate the Lunar New Year the true Chinese way.
So, when my Personal Development Fund from work was due this year, I used it to fly to Taipei, Taiwan just in time for the Lunar New Year.
I expected lots of festivity, with dim sum a-plenty and firecrackers going off every few meters. Instead I found…
I woke up finding multiple reasons to be annoyed on the very last day of 2017. My mom left her alarm on and disturbed my sleep; when I gave up sleeping and checked my phone instead, I did not see a message I was expecting… just to name a couple. These triggered an onslaught of negative thoughts, more reasons to feel discontent.
I was ready to have a bad end to this year, but then I surprised myself.
A photographer friend of mine once wrote on his Facebook status. “To produce great pictures is to see the world in more interesting ways.”
He argued that gadgets and filters can only take you so far, but whether or not your pictures speak to the beholders, it all depends on how interesting you are. It is a sum of the books you’ve read, the movies you’ve seen, the music you’ve listened to, the people you’ve met, and the paths you’ve trodden.
I penned my 2017 Resolutions during an 11-hour transit in Hong Kong back in January. I didn’t have any notebook with me, so I had to write them down on a scrap paper.
Sitting by a glass wall that overlooks the tarmac, illuminated by the setting sun, it was one of those light bulb moments when words just flow. I was hopeful. Not unlike the sun that set shortly after, however, my resolutions that it fueled soon died out.
Here’s how it happened and how I restarted my resolutions back to life in three essential steps.
Like in many love affairs, I never intended to actually fall in love with you. It was something that just happened. At first, it was mere good fun: exhilarating, intoxicating, addictive. We had no expectations, except for that we were not meant to last. We greeted each other, set no boundaries, and unreservedly explored the depth of the other.
Details were blurry, but I remember every emotion that surged through me. I was happy. Contemplative. Independent. Confident. Self-conscious. Carefree. I was alive.
I loved who I was when I was with you. And with our love affair, so began mine with life.
Like I said, 2016 was the most confusing period of my life so far.
I got tattoos — three of them. I developed an unlikely obsession with a Korean boy group, Bangtan Sonyeondan (BTS). I questioned my faith. I started thinking that maybe… I didn’t want kids. I suffered from anxiety, especially at work. I was lonely, but wouldn’t reach out to anyone. I thought I wasn’t good enough. I felt like on the brink of depression.
I didn’t know they were signs of what most likely was a quarter-life crisis. This was how the year went by:
Ladies and gentlemen. This is your captain speaking.
I now have a better reading of our situation and need to inform you that we are changing direction.
Part of reclaiming your life is knowing what you want to do with it professionally. And never have I thought that in my early twenties, I would be faced with the question, ‘Do you see yourself playing an integral part in this company’s growth in the next five years?’.
In other words, if I’m interested in being in it for the long haul, going more into the management side and helping run the company. Just between you and me, that is not the question that we millennials should be grappling with so early in life, right?
Wrong.
So, you’ve made your way into the marsh. Welcome!
I made ‘Into the Marsh’ as a memoir of how I continuously try to reclaim my life. And paid quite a hefty sum to secure the domain to cut short any excuse I may have to put it off. “You pay in US dollar every year for this website; you’d better quit lazying around and do something with it!”
You might ask, then, why do I need to reclaim my life? And perhaps, are you in need of doing exactly the same?
IntotheMarsh 