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, with nary a penny.

What do I want? 

Some people know with absolute certainty what they want to be when they grow up. A successful entrepreneur, married by 30, with a house in the suburb and a second baby on the way. They have a blueprint broken down into a series of five-year plans. They strategise, they hustle, and they go hard after what they want. 

I’ve always admired their conviction. Because when it comes to what I want, it is only clear in either the most trivial kind of way – I want bubble tea this afternoon – or the most vague, “big picture” kind of way – I want a life richly lived, a life where I’m loved and chosen. 

As a north star, the first big picture – I want a life richly lived – is helpful. It has guided me towards a myriad of experiences that I might otherwise have shied away from. Embracing the risk of making a fool of myself on the dance floor. Taking a leap out of a plane. Falling in love in foreign cities. I have made each choice with the sole objective of squeezing every drop of juice out of the life I’ve been given. 

The second big picture… this is where it got tricky. A life where I’m loved and chosen had taken me out of the driver’s seat and put others behind the wheel. Mentors and parental figures to make proud and not disappoint. Partners to entice and impress so they would stay. Instead of looking inside for what I want, with every choice they presented me, I tried to read what they wanted or expected of me, and go down that road. 

By the second half of 2021, the (self-applied) pressure kept building up as I was unwittingly reaching my breaking point, just a few months away from turning 30.    

On the one hand, I was continuing to climb a career ladder that I was not 100% sure was the right fit for me. I was too afraid of letting people down to stop and ask myself what I really wanted. So, I kept setting new, bigger goals, taking on mission after mission, and collecting accolades until I lost all meaning. 

On the other hand, I was contending with the fact that my partner (let’s call him The Spaniard) hated living in Indonesia and the only way our relationship would survive was if I moved with him to the one place he’d felt happy – Mexico City. While I was grappling with what I needed to prepare for the eventual big move, I was also spreading myself too thin trying to anticipate and meet my partner’s every want and need. I wouldn’t admit it to myself then, but I was doing that out of hope that life in Indonesia would not seem so bad and, maybe that way, I could keep delaying the inevitable. 

Ironically enough, that quickly became the topic of our increasingly countless fights. He would keep asking me what I really wanted – from something as simple as what to do this weekend, to the finer subject of where I would like to live if I could live anywhere. 

The more we fought to uncover what I really wanted – something I subconsciously fought tooth and nail to keep hidden in the murky waters – the more we grew apart. Until one day in February 2022, just a couple of days after I turned 30, The Spaniard told me we should break up, but we could remain friends. 

And with that, I reached my breaking point.

Turning inside 

How did a life where I’m loved and chosen take such significance, such that it was one of the only two things I knew for sure that I terribly wanted? And why was it so hard to identify (or admit) what I really wanted apart from that big picture? 

As I sat with my feelings in the weeks following the breakup, I realised something. 

For almost three decades, ever since my dad passed away, I never believed that I was enough. That someone loved or valued me enough to choose me, to choose to stay. I tried to convince myself otherwise, of course, but deep down I did not believe it. 

The thing is, my dad passed away from metastatic lung cancer and my relatives told me that it was because he’d smoked. He’d smoked, and so did — does — my mum. 

I had not realised how deeply terrified six-year-old Marsha must have been to possibly lose her mum to smoking, just like her dad. For weeks, or maybe even months or years, after my dad died, I begged my mum to stop smoking. My aunts and uncles chided and prodded and begged her too, offering me as the reason to quit smoking — and yet she wouldn’t. 

Finally, I stopped begging. My young self mistook my mum’s addiction to nicotine as a lesson that I was not important enough to be chosen. To sacrifice something over. To fight for. To live for.

So, I worked hard to be self-sufficient and hyper-independent. I built a strong, tall wall between me and my mum, so if she would ever leave, I would never be so powerless. 

But I still longed to be loved and chosen. 

As I looked outside to replace this integral connection I severed, I somehow internalised the belief that to win people’s love and to ensure they stay, I needed to be perfect. I needed to be what they wanted, no matter what it would cost me. The “A” student, the selfless friend, the overachieving professional, the best girlfriend. And when they did leave, it only reinforced my suspicion and fear that I was not enough. Never would be. 

So, I would cling on, keep trying to fix the problem and make the pieces fit, not knowing when to stop even when I started bleeding. I would never ask myself what I really wanted in the more granular sense, because they might clash with what the people I love and value wanted. If that happened, that would mean that the big picture of a life where I’m loved and chosen might shatter.

What I really want 

But then, in the depth of my grief, I had an epiphany. 

I learnt the lesson! I finally learnt the real lesson! That my value does not rely on somebody else choosing me. I am enough, in and of myself. And what I really want, matters. 

So, I took out my phone and started typing down a detailed list about everything I knew of myself as a person. Who I am, what I value, how I think and feel and love, what I need, and what I really want in the key aspects of my life. 

That’s when I learnt to let go of those that no longer aligned. That’s when I finally told my ex that I wanted to have a period of no-contact so I could truly move on before we transitioned to being just friends. That’s when I finally submitted my resignation, said some of the most difficult goodbyes in my life, and said yes to a new life in Singapore. 

When this epiphany hit me, I fell to my knees and broke down crying – from happiness, relief, and pride. I flipped through an album full of childhood pictures of myself, and as the little Marsha grew older with each photo, I hugged each version in my mind.

“You did it. We did it! I’m so proud of you,” I kept whispering to myself, feeling such overwhelming love. 

Finally.

What do you want most out of life? Have you ever felt less than enough, like you’re not worth what you want? I would love to hear your story!

Credits:

Photographs from Pixabay and Stocksnap