"Get up, perform a night prayer. Don’t feel tired in praying, Nduk*," my mom texted me one quiet early morning. Her reminders were almost daily, but something about that day's message cut deeper. It was as if she knew I was silently drowning, struggling to find the surface. It was as if she could sense her daughter had reached the lowest point in her life and began to question everything.

I placed the phone down, and almost immediately, tears welled up. At first, they fell slowly, but soon I found myself sobbing. These past months had been restless; I’d wake up feeling drained and powerless about my life. I could feel my heart growing numb, my hope fading with each trial and “unanswered” prayer. I was walking through a seemingly endless, dark tunnel with no light in sight and no hope of an end. 

After years of pleading, I had begun to surrender to the idea that maybe, just maybe, there was nothing left to expect. What happened next was I witnessed myself grow tired: of asking, of hoping, of waiting. Actually, I wasn’t tired of praying itself, but of the weight of the expectation that came with it. Lately, hope felt like a burden I wasn’t strong enough to carry anymore.

As I finished my prayer that morning, my mind drifted back to a younger version of myself—a girl who prayed with her whole heart, who poured out her soul in every sujud. I vividly remember that young girl who saw the world through the eyes of faith, wonder, and belief. She was an optimistic person who believed Allah was listening to every word. 

But that girl had slowly faded, worn down by the years of knocking on doors that never opened. I noticed that my prayers had grown quieter, more cautious, more guarded, and more restrained. I still prayed, but it felt like I was holding on to a thin thread, afraid it might snap at any moment. I was still asking, but the belief in the magic—the certainty that Allah would answer the way I asked, had gradually diminished. I began to limit my prayers and wishes only to the "realistic" and "achievable" ones.  And that thought—that I had lost the part of me that believed so deeply in Allah’s mercy and love—broke something inside me.

And what hurt even more was the harsh truth: I had become ungrateful. My life, compared to many, wasn’t so bad, yet I felt so broken by it. My trials weren't even the hardest among what people in this world face. Yet my heart complained while I was still living relatively well. 

I should have known that perhaps the things I had begged for so desperately weren’t what I truly needed. Perhaps, in His infinite wisdom, Allah was protecting me from unseen pain, guiding me toward a future I couldn’t yet understand. I should have trusted that He knows what’s best, even when the weight of the world felt unbearable. I also came to realize that not every trial will make sense. Sometimes, the tests Allah gives me seem too heavy, too confusing, too much to bear. But the struggles, the waiting, the heartbreak—they weren't abandonment.

So I cried uncontrollably because I felt so ashamed in front of my Lord. I regretted that I had been begging for my life to turn out the way I hoped. I felt sorry that I had been demanding—for my life to be okay all the time. I regretted that I didn’t have enough patience to fully trust in His decree.

Forgive me for being such a bad human, Ya Allah. Forgive me for being so consumed by my pain that I failed to see Your mercy. Forgive me for the moments when I questioned Your plan with sighs of frustration and tears of despair.  I had let my impatience cloud my faith, and let my doubts weaken my belief. I had spent so much time focusing on what wasn’t going right, on what I didn’t have, that I had forgotten to be grateful for all the countless blessings I did have. 

Forgive me for being weak, for being an awful servant. I am only human, and I will fall short again and again, but I am learning. I am learning to trust and have patience. 

Thank You for never giving up on me, even when I had almost given up on myself. Thank You for still allowing this ungrateful soul to mend her relationship with You—the most important relationship a human can have. Please keep on holding my hand, My Lord. Don't let this poor soul go astray. 

And slowly, I began to notice small wonders finding their way back into my life. I'm humbled.

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The title is taken from Ad-Duhaa verse 7: "And He found you lost and guided you"

*'Nduk' is a Javanese term of endearment, meaning 'my daughter.'.

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image credit: SERHAT TUĞ via pexels.com 

Lately, I’ve noticed a heartwarming buzz spreading through social media— “Aku bisa, Yura”, translated as “I can, Yura”. It's a wave of optimism inspired by the heartfelt song "Risalah Hati" by Yura Yunita. In her lyrics, she powerfully sings, “I can make you fall in love with me, even if you don’t.” But beyond love, these words have grown into something bigger, touching on everything from dreams to resilience, from believing in yourself to pushing through challenges. It made me smile because it’s been a while since I’ve seen such a collective surge of optimism—so raw, so open.

Scrolling through my feed, I’ve seen countless stories of people sharing their "I can" moments. Their stories of breaking through limits they once thought were impossible and proving to themselves that they are stronger than they ever thought to stir something deep inside me. “Aku bisa, Yura” has become a shared declaration of strength, a reminder that no matter the struggle, we can persevere, and overcome. In a world that sometimes feels too heavy, this joint strength is like a gentle warmth spreading from one heart to another.

And personally, it reminded me of something I had almost forgotten about myself. It took me back to when I was younger when I approached life with a sense of quiet determination—almost as if the words “I can” were stitched into my soul. It was apparent to the people who looked closely that a friend who I perceived had everything above me said, “I don’t envy anything about you—except for your grit. You just keep going, no matter how impossible it seemed”.

I vividly remember that younger version of me, the one who believed she would one day be recognized as a writer. She faced many challenges, but she never gave up. She faced rejection after rejection, losing many writing competitions that anyone else might have quit. But she didn’t. She kept going, kept believing. That persistence, that quiet resilience, was her strength. She just didn’t always see it.

But as the years passed, that optimistic girl began to fade. Life knocked her down and she felt like she couldn’t get up. No longer exists that little girl inside of me who sees the world through a magical lens. I gradually lost that unwavering belief in myself. So, when I saw “Aku bisa, Yura” trending, it felt like a soft pat on my shoulder—reminding me that maybe, just maybe, I can.

I can heal.

Healing—both physically and mentally—could be a tiring process. There are moments when I feel like I'm moving through fog, unsure if I'll ever feel whole again. But hearing the words "I can" sparked a new belief in me—that maybe I'm not as far from healing as I thought. Maybe I can find my way back to the person who once believed in herself, even when life was tough. Maybe I can regain my health, the way it used to be. No matter how long it takes, if Allah permits, I can heal from the things that have scarred me and the things that made me ill.

I can find what I’m looking for.

There’s this quiet search I’ve been on for most of my life. Sometimes, it feels like I’m walking down endless hallways, unsure of where I’m going. It’s hard not to feel lost, especially when it seems like everyone else has found their way, while I’m still wandering. But deep down, I know that I can find what I’m searching for. Maybe not today, not tomorrow, but if I keep going, I’ll get there. The collective courage I see in others makes me believe that one day, I’ll find what I’ve been looking for. The love I deserve, the peace I crave, the joy that doesn’t feel so out of reach—it’s out there somewhere, waiting for me. 

So here’s to the younger version of myself, the one who never gave up. No matter what comes next, insyaAllah we can face it.

If you’re reading this and your heart feels heavy, I want you to know this: you’re not alone. And just like I’m learning to embrace “Aku bisa”, so can you. I'm cheering on you. I believe in your quiet courage—in the resilience you don’t always give yourself credit for. And one day, I hope we’ll share our own “Aku bisa” stories, reminding others that they, too, can.

Dear everyone, let's meet again with our "Aku bisa, Yura" stories, someday. 

Love, 

iim

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(I want to thank Yura Yunita and everyone who has amplified this movement because this energy is contagious. We all need to be reminded that life, as tough as it may get, can still be approached with a can-do attitude. Seeing others prove, over and over, that they can overcome obstacles gives me hope.)

“It sounds cliché, but you really do have a lot of silent lovers in your life. People who want to see you succeed… They look at your smile, your career, your kindness, and your moves, and are silently cheering you on.... Just know that when you feel all alone—there are always people rooting for you.” — Kinematronics via Instagram.

(For a better understanding of the context, I suggest you read my previous post, "Thank You for Saving Me After the Seemingly Endless Heartbreaks".)

Last week, several friends sent me kind wishes, having saved my birthday in their calendars. While I don’t celebrate birthdays, it made me reflect on the love and support I’ve received throughout my journey. It felt like a good time to write myself a letter—one of encouragement, healing, and lessons I’ve learned.

***

Dear Nur Imroatun Sholihat,

I’m always rooting for your happiness.

I know life hasn’t been easy, and I know you’ve carried the weight of heartbreak for years. As a child, you wondered if your mom loved your brother more, and that perceived favoritism planted insecurities in your heart. That little girl grew up feeling like she wasn’t enough, no matter how hard she tried. Even at school, your hard work was overshadowed by a teacher’s bias toward a boy in your class. And even now, there are moments when you still feel like you’re being treated as if you aren’t sufficient—as if your efforts aren’t quite enough.

You grew up believing love was something you had to earn—that happiness was always just out of reach. Watching others receive affection effortlessly while you fought for acceptance left you questioning whether you truly deserved it. You convinced yourself that being enough meant you had to constantly prove yourself—be better, nicer, stronger, more diligent, more worthy. And so, you kept pushing. I know you felt tired but you kept trying....

Over the past year, though, something heartwarming has happened. Messages from friends, acquaintances, and even strangers filled your inbox—people telling you they were cheering for you, rooting for your happiness, inspired by your journey. You also came to understand that it's okay not to be your mom's favorite. Little by little, you've been healing from the pain of unfairness, betrayals, and past wounds. For the first time, you realized that the love and encouragement you’d been longing for had been there all along, from people who genuinely wanted to see you thrive. More importantly, you found closure to the painful narrative and made peace with yourself. You recognized that the acceptance and love you sought didn't need to come from others—it was always within you.

After a series of seemingly endless heartbreaks, I want you to know that I am proud of how far you’ve come. I admired that you didn't let the pain turn you bitter. Thank you for lifting others up, even on the days when you felt down yourself. Thank you for trying your best to be kind even to the people who hurt you. And I want to remind you of something that’s always been true, even when you didn’t believe it:

You are enough. You always have been.

It’s taken a long journey to finally say this, but I want to hug you while saying:  

I’m always rooting for your happiness.

I’m sorry I didn’t say it earlier.

I will erase your tears as I whisper: It's time to smile. It's time for you to smile.

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P.S.: I'm always rooting for your happiness too, my family, friends, and readers. I have you in my prayers.  

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Photo by Pixabay from Pexels

“How could you be patient in matters beyond your knowledge?” - Khidr to Musa, (Al Kahf: 68)

In every hardship I've faced in life, I’m grateful that there are always Al-Quran verses that offer solace. This time, it's the story of Prophet Musa (AS) and Khidr in Al Kahf: 65-82. The story begins with Allah informing Prophet Musa that there is someone on earth wiser than him. Prophet Musa immediately embarked on a quest to find this righteous person, later revealed as Khidr. Musa asked Khidr if he could follow and learn from him, to which Khidr responded, “Verily, with me, you will never be able to have patience.”

“How could you be patient in matters beyond your knowledge?”, he continued.

Khidr warned that Prophet Musa would not be able to remain patient, as he lacked the knowledge and wisdom behind the upcoming Khidr’s actions. However, Musa insisted he would stay patient and obey Khidr’s instructions. Khidr agreed but asked Musa not to question anything until he explained it later.

It did not take long for Musa to question Khidr. When they boarded a ship, Khidr made a hole in its deck. Utterly shocked, Musa protested at this bewildering act. He protested again when Khidr killed a young boy, which seemed unjustified. Once more, Musa protested when Khidr repaired an almost collapsing wall in a town whose people had been hostile towards them. As Musa repeatedly demonstrated his disapproval, Khidr finally bid Musa farewell.

“This brings me and you to a parting of ways. Now I shall explain to you the true meaning of things about which you could not remain patient. As for the boat, it belonged to poor people who worked on the river, and I intended to cause a defect in it as there was after them a king who seized every [good] ship by force. As for the boy, his parents were believers, and we feared that he would overburden them by transgression and disbelief, so we desired that their Lord should grant them a son more upright and more tender-hearted. As for the wall, it belonged to two orphan boys in the city, and under it, there was a treasure that belonged to them. ...... This is the true meaning of things with which you could not keep your patience.” (Al Kahf: 78-82)

If I put myself in the place of the boat owner, I would be really upset about what happened—not knowing that Allah was protecting me from a greater danger. If I were to lose something, like a son I love, I would grieve and feel broken—not knowing that Allah would provide me with a better fate.

This journey is an analogy for how even a prophet is tested on patience. In a sense, we are all like Musa in our own journeys. Just as Musa strove to make sense of the events, so do we in our lives. It felt agitating because the bigger picture hadn't been revealed to us. We encounter decrees of Allah that appear harsh and situations that defy our logic, because divine purposes may not be immediately apparent. As a result, we might lose our patience along the way. 

When faced with trials, I will remind myself that my understanding is limited and that there are divine reasons behind every circumstance. I will embrace the unknown with humility, recognizing my limitations in comprehending the complexities of fate. Just as Khidr's actions were ultimately revealed to be acts of justice and mercy, perhaps the hardships I endure carry hidden favors and lessons. I will presume everything, even the seemingly unfavorable, as a blessing. I will be patient with the difficulties and believe Allah’s fate is the best for me.

Now, I shall find peace in the journey, knowing that Allah's wisdom encompasses everything. These broken roads will lead me somewhere beautiful, I believed and prayed.

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image source: Ingrid Duchesne via Pexels

“Have you ever noticed when you’re tired, your fingers don’t grip things as tightly as they should? That things slip through them more often than you wish? I feel as though I am those fingers and life is slipping through me.” - Kelsey Danielle, Life and Other Things.

For the past 30 days, I've been battling a relentless headache and occasional nausea. This isn’t just a minor discomfort; it’s a constant, throbbing reminder that I’m not okay. Waking up each morning, I find myself already exhausted, worried, and feel uneasy. When I moved or walked, I noticed that I was somehow not adequately stable. This persistent pain and anxiety have seeped into every aspect of my life, making even breathing feel heavy.

It coincidentally happened when I was emotionally worn out. It added a chunk of sadness to my already sorrowful self. Now, it’s as if my heart is carrying an invisible huge burden that I can’t quite shake off. I've cried many times, even when I told myself that I was strong enough for this. There were moments where I said, “If I should be honest, I feel like it’s beyond my ability.” No matter how hard I tried to stay positive and grateful, this time I miserably failed. I simply couldn’t be collected enough for this.

The last time I felt this emotionally drained was six years ago when I was diagnosed with mild scoliosis.

Work, which used to be a source of fulfillment, now feels like an uphill battle. I’ve struggled to perform properly, and the guilt of letting my colleagues down weighs heavily on me. The pressure to meet expectations, both theirs and my own, is overwhelming. If I tell them, they would be understanding and supportive, but I can’t help but feel that I shouldn’t be a nuisance.

There were constant questions that played on repeat in my mind: How do I handle everything when it feels beyond my capacity? To whom should I rely? After all, I am just an ordinary person who needs consolation and help at times. I’ve always pulled myself to be strong and resilient (well, I don't have any other choice), but these days, that strength betrayed me. Most of the time, I am okay with facing everything by myself, but in this case, I was afraid to face it alone. This time around, my world crumbled down as I tried to keep everything intact by myself.

I feel like I have been abandoned. That life abandoned me and left me alone suffering. I wished I was stronger and braver. But truthfully, nobody is entirely strong and brave in facing life, I guess.

I'm typing this in the Jakarta Islamic Hospital while accumulating all the bravery left to face the reality I've avoided. Out of nowhere, I found renewed courage and calmness. A sudden profound sense of peace washes over me while tears stream down. I feel that as long as Allah is with me, I can be at peace. It’s the biggest comfort to realize that it’s okay even if nobody's around, I can always rely on Allah.

I walk through the hall while whispering to myself, “No, Iim, life isn’t slipping through you.”. In that quiet moment, I've come to realize that life could feel overwhelming at times. We are human, and it's natural to have moments of struggle. I remind myself that I am not alone in this journey. Allah is always with me, patting my shoulders and saying this isn't beyond what my soul can bear.

Allah didn’t abandon me, neither did He hate me (inspired by QS 93:3). His beautiful fate isn't slipping through my fingers. I will hold that belief with me tightly.  

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(I haven’t been able to respond to comments, DMs, and emails due to my condition. Thank you for your understanding and patience.)

image source: Sandy Torchon via Pexels

“There is a word in Korean, ‘in-yeon’. It means providence or fate… It’s an ‘in-yeon’ even if two strangers walk by each other in the street and their clothes accidentally brush,” – Past Lives (2023)

Recently, there were moments when my mind occasionally wondered about where fate would bring me. Then fatefully, I stumbled upon a movie that eloquently talks about fate namely “Past Lives”, written and directed by the talented Celine Song. In Korean, there exists an expression for providence particularly regarding human connection: “in-yeon”. The narration of the Korean proverb 옷깃만 스쳐도 인연 (“even simply brushing clothes with someone is fate") made me pause the movie and think deeper. It suggests that a seemingly insignificant encounter with someone on the street, when the edges of our clothes brush, is fate. That the presumably minuscule scenes in our lives carry within them the destiny.  And for 2 individuals to eventually marry each other, they have 8.000 layers of in-yeon between them. 

In Islam, we're taught of qadar (divine decree), where even the fall of every single leaf is governed by Allah’s will.

I can write a long essay on how beautiful the movie is—the storyline, cinematography, dialogues, performances, and everything. However, I am here today to specifically talk about my thoughts about fate after watching the award-winning movie. This isn't the first time the concept of “fate” in Korean culture has been discussed and caught my attention. In Reply 1997, the series also delves into its role in human relationships.

“Some people believe they are born with an invisible red string tied around their little finger… The string is tied to a person they’re destined to be with. However, it’s hard to find out who is the person at the other end.” – Reply 1997

In Islam, too, we find the notion of predestined connections between individuals. It is said that who we will end up with was inscribed 50.000 years before the earth was created. 

So, my heart should be at ease, right?

Despite the comforting embrace of destiny, an unsettling unease grips my heart. Even within this framework of destiny, where I should find solace, there remains an element of uncertainty I couldn’t help but be worried about. Sometimes I sensed that my paths are not predetermined in their entirety, but rather shaped by the choices I make and the people I encounter along the way. It whispers to me that while fate may guide us, we are, to some degree, the authors of our own stories. 

Hence, I fear I may have avoided a fate that will eventually bring goodness.

What if, in my haste, I've overlooked the subtle signs that guide me toward him? What if that someone has crossed paths with me but I barely register? What if he slipped by, unnoticed? 

What if, in my hesitation, I forfeit the chance for a love?

What if my destined other half is forever beyond my reach?

I am haunted by the possibility of missed connections, of souls meant to intertwine and then destined to remain forever apart instead. 

But also I am afraid that I will give up too early.

Thus, I couldn’t help but think about it over and over while grappling with my own destinies. If there is someone on this earth who is destined for me, why does it feel so impossible to find him? Should I just give up on the idea that somewhere someone is also looking for me? Borrowing Past Lives' analogy: Is there someone out there who shares 8.000 layers of in-yeon with me? Truly, as mused in Reply 1997: “If the red string of fate really exists, where will mine end?”.

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image source: Henry & Co. via Pexels

If a woman my age cries, one can predict several possible reasons behind it but structured query language (SQL) is probably unthinkable.

Dear my teenage self, we hit a roadblock again. Our current job demanded proficiency in SQL, a language founded on the principles of logic. Don’t you remember how much you struggled with logic? During high school, you were so afraid of attending classes in logical subjects. You were so fixated on the thought that you weren’t built for logic, proven by your low marks on almost every assignment and test. Mathematics and physics seemed to dance just beyond your reach, leaving you feeling inadequate and frustrated. I can still taste the bitterness of embarrassment from those days when your math teacher distributed the results and said “Take the remedial test next week” to you.

Fast forward, the present you should learn SQL’s lines of code. I hid my confusion and fear as I confronted the daunting task. Try as I might, there were moments I couldn't wrap my head around the SQL queries. I felt so out of place again—feeling small as a familiar ache in my chest resurfacing. I once again realized that this journey would be far from easy as every function felt like a tangled web. Witnessing my friends study much faster than me, one even jokingly teased my turtle pace, I couldn’t stop tears from streaming down. It gave me all the years of “smart people are the ones proficient in math” where I don’t belong there.

As tears flowed down, I realized that the emotions weren't just about SQL anymore. It was about the years of feeling inadequate--the years of constant embarrassment coming from red marks in logical subjects. It was about the countless times I'd struggled to prove myself in a world that seemingly revolves around numbers and logic. It was about the weight of expectations and the fear of failure that threatened to consume me.

And guess what? Just like you back then, I allowed myself to feel the frustration and embarrassment again. I will face everything with my shaken bravery. I may not have been born with an innate understanding of logic, but I refuse to let that define me. For years, even when I was the weakest one in the room, I knew that persistence ran through my veins. I will walk slower than anyone, fail, be frustrated, and cry again many times but it’s okay.

Until then, let's keep pushing forward, one query at a time.

The “I might be the weakest but I can learn”,

Your present self

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image credit:  Zeeshaan Shabbir via pexels.com

It's been a while, hasn't it?

I found myself amidst an intense introspection--contemplating life and expectations. Navigating the labyrinth of human relationships has recently brought me face-to-face with poignant experiences--each a miniature heartbreak from those I hold dear. At this juncture, the weight of expectations and disappointments seems putting dark clouds above me. 

I've always believed in giving my utmost to those around me, investing my heart into every interaction, every relationship, and every connection. I know I have so many shortcomings but I have always tried my best. I put in great effort to be there for others, to support them, and to show them love. It's the way I've always lived my life, and I don't regret it for a second. 

Yet, along the way, in some settings, I can't help but discern a lack of reciprocity.

There have been moments when I couldn't help but wonder if I was receiving the same treatment I gave. Often, I was being left behind questioning if the consideration I extended was returned in kind. It's a bitter pill to swallow, which made me ponder whether I even deserve the care I long for. Again and again, it made me feel that I didn't deserve kind treatment in the first place. (T_T). 

Disappointments have become frequent in this chapter of my life. They often trace back to my expectations of people. I've learned that expecting too much can lead to heartache. Expectations, like delicate glass ornaments on the tree of relationships, are placed with care, hoping they'll enhance the beauty of the bonds I share. Yet, I've noticed that most of the time, I'm the one caring more and putting in more effort. Facing this, I couldn't help but feel down and, at times, even resentful.

Actually, throughout my journey, there have been times when I felt strong and resilient. I've faced life's challenges head-on, and I've overcome many of them. But there have also been those tiny, fragile moments when I yearned for a little extra kindness, understanding, or love and what happened made me think that sometimes I should even beg for people to treat me decently.

Truth is, there were tiny, tiny times when I hoped that I would be treated better.

The reality is that even the strongest among us are only human. We all have vulnerable moments.  Truly, I am just an ordinary human. My heart breaks, and I yearn for genuine treatment. 

To whoever reading this, if I may say something to you: please, please, I beg you, treat people kindly. 

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P.S.: While I recognized the aforementioned heart-breaking moments, it didn't necessarily mean that I failed to notice the kindness people did to me. I truly appreciate the people who treat others carefully and kindly. And I am happy to say that most of the people around me are thoughtful and kind people.

(I've learned to gradually diminish my expectations of people and shift them more towards Allah. I feel so much better.)

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image credit: Mat Reding via pexel.com

“Di saat rentan hati, ingin rasanya saya pergi mengasingkan diri. Pergi jauh ke sebuah pelukan dan berlabuh di bahu seseorang, tetapi pelukan siapa, bahu siapa?” (“When I was vulnerable, I want to go into exile. Go deep into an embrace and land on someone's shoulder, but whose embrace, whose shoulder?”) - Srimenanti, Joko Pinurbo

Several days ago, a close friend and I visited a place together with my motorcycle. As our outing came to an end, we made our way back to the parking area, only to discover it was packed with vehicles, making it challenging to retrieve mine. Determined, we both exerted considerable effort to navigate our way out while sharing jokes about how “independent” we are. I later uttered, “I remember a quite similar moment where I still get emotional when I think about it,”

“What happened?” She inquired

"One morning, while riding this exact motorcycle to work, I noticed smoke emanating from its front. Later, when it was time to head home, I approached a male colleague from my team, seeking reassurance about the safety of bringing the motorcycle to the repair shop in its current condition--hoping to convince myself that I would be alright," I narrated, the scene replaying vividly in my mind.

There was a brief pause as I took a deep breath, "Instead of offering me the assurance I sought, he said, 'Just ask a man for help. What's so impossible about it? You don't have to handle everything on your own.'"

The floodgates of mixed emotions surged within me. “I ended up seeking assistance while battling to hold back tears. Truthfully, I don’t want to be this ‘independent’, I just don’t have the luxury to rely on someone,” I noticed that the smile I offered was broken.

“Same as today. It’s not that we are inherently strong, just we don’t have options. That’s what you meant?” She tried to read the direction of my story.

I nodded. Truth is, there are times when I wish to rely on someone, putting down the burden of making difficult decisions or performing strenuous tasks. There have been days in my life when I yearned for a break from the constant need to engage my mind fully. There have been instances where I wanted to mindlessly follow someone else, trusting that he would lead me to the right path. I secretly longed for moments when I could surrender to a sense of ease, knowing that someone would take care of things for me.

As someone who always thought that nobody was willing to be her place to lean on, sometimes, I desired the freedom to be weak and vulnerable. There were also tiny moments when I hoped I could let go of the worries and responsibilities. Therefore, I would highly appreciate the moments when I am allowed to not have all the answers as someone else would be there to figure things out alongside me. Therefore, I just smiled when people said that I was a strong independent woman who didn't need help. Sorry to burst your bubble but that's not necessarily true.

Life has taught me resilience, nurturing independence born out of necessity. From time to time, I consoled myself with the knowledge that, despite the difficulties, I possessed the strength to navigate life. And perhaps, in an unexpected encounter, I may stumble upon someone’s shoulder. Until that, I will remain steadfast, honoring both my fragility and strength. Because, just as Joko Pinurbo also mentioned in Srimenanti: Namun, bagaimanapun saya mencintai hidup ini. (However, no matter how it is, I love this life). 

I will try to always love this fate.

Love,

iim

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(Amor Fati is translated as a love of fate.)

image source: John Nature Photos at Pixabay

Have I mentioned that one of my secret favorite things to do is blog walking? There’s something captivating about strolling through the depths of someone’s (even stranger’s) mind. A personal blog, in my opinion, offers a window into the intricate complexities of an individual’s train of thought. What a great thing it is to have access to someone’s mind by reading their posts.  

Recently, I revisited one blog that stuck in my mind even after years of reading it. I decided to delve into the posts that I hadn’t explored yet. After wandering around, one particular entry gripped me in its emotional embrace. I didn’t close the tab after I finished it as I was captivated by the poetic expressions that totally describe my feelings:

“As I willed myself not to cry, I realized I was probably too soft for this city. And that I should probably drink more water…. And, yet, I’m too hard for other cities. I can’t seem to find the right fit.” (I Am Too Soft for This City, Generation Meh)

For years, I found it difficult to express my confusion about the fit living space for me and then the author squeezed my struggle in just 4 sentences.  It was as if the post had eloquently captured my perplexity regarding finding a suitable place to call home. These sentiments mirrored the conversations I had with my friends, where I expressed the struggle in discovering a sense of comfort in my current residence, Jakarta.

Navigating the capital city, in my opinion, demand a high-level resilience and a strong-as-stone heart. Someone with delicate feelings like me often can only cry for what I and other people in this full-of-inequalities-and-unfairness city have to go through. I am aware of how overwhelmingly tiring it is to breathe in this bustling, fast-paced urban environment while being sensitive like me. It’s a metropolis with relentless demand and perpetual motion that will leave anyone behind unless they run. Yet, here is the land that offers the most opportunities and growth--stuff that I recognize as necessary.

“And that I should probably drink more water.”, the author wittily continued expressing their feeling towards the city. It’s a beautiful metaphor that in this kind of city, we need to take care of our well-being more. Indeed, I need to stop ignoring the importance of physical and mental well-being, even when I live in a stressful city.

On the other hand, some cities exude a gentler aura, embracing me with warmth. I find comfort in slow peaceful living but after months, I would find myself feeling out of place. I seemed can’t fully integrate my aspiration of having a meaningful impact with this softer lifestyle. There is a reluctant nod from me because turned out “Yet, I’m too hard for other cities” also fits my situation.

Then I remember an old piece of advice my dad said to my mom: “No matter where we go, there is always a neighbor we can’t genuinely get along well with or something that we couldn’t completely accept. The Prophet in the hadith had discussed this as well so let’s be grateful for where we live.”.   

While I acknowledged the truth in that advice, I still wish I can find the environment that fits me the most. I know this constant search for the right place leaves me disheartened at times. However, I hope that someday, I will stumble upon a city that balances growth and tenderness. I pray that one day I can find my rightful place in this vast world--the perfect equilibrium between my inner world and the external environment. Though the path may be uncertain, I believe that there is a city out there, a home out there, that provides me with the harmony I seek. I believe someday I will find it. 

Oh wait, perhaps I had found it...

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(For now, I will try to enjoy Jakarta.)

image source: Ahmad Basyar on Pixabay