Dance brings me joy… and panic attacks

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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The campaign to find myself 

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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The heaviest was regret (but I let it go)

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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Why is it so hard to change my bad habits?

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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Battle against my body

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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