(Inspired by “Second Chance” episode by Pancatera)

    Now when I look back, I realize that for the past ten years, I was almost always sad. It’s a strange thing to admit because if you were to look at me back then, you’d see someone who smiled often and carried herself as if everything was fine. But deep inside, even in moments that looked like happiness, there was always a quiet sadness that never truly left me.

    It felt like I was living in a constant state of waiting: waiting for the day all the pain would finally make sense. I kept believing that if I was suffering this much, then surely, something extraordinary must be waiting for me ahead. That one day, I’d be able to say, “Ah, this is why I had to go through all of that.”. I imagined some kind of poetic fate: that I would rise from all the hardships with a heart full of smiles, stepping into days that finally felt beautiful.

    But life didn’t unfold that way. There was no fairy tale-like plot, no grand revelation, no sudden rescue, no miracle ending. Instead, unexpectedly, I fell even deeper. It was as if I kept walking through a tunnel that only grew darker and narrower. Until one day, I couldn’t see any light at all. It felt endless, as though the sun had simply forgotten I existed.

    So, I stopped walking. I stopped trying to find my way out. Maybe, I thought, this is just how my life is meant to be: an unending stretch of endurance. Perhaps the happiness stock in my life had simply run out. Maybe I had used up all the joy I was ever meant to have. The older I got, the more I believed it so I just learned to live with pain quietly.

    At my lowest point, when everything inside me felt too heavy to bear, I decided to go to the one place where my heart might finally find rest: the house of Allah. I thought, if there’s anywhere on earth where I am the most seen, heard, and understood, it must be there. So I packed my things, and with a weary soul, I went to perform umroh.

    I still remember telling my friend at the airport, with teary eyes, “My life feels so bitter. I hope I’ll come back feeling better.”. But, deep down I didn’t even go with big expectations. I only wanted to tell Him everything: the sorrows that had been sitting inside me for years, too deep to explain to anyone else. In front of the Ka’bah, I cried in a way I hadn’t cried before, out of surrender. I told Him how tired I was of being strong. How I no longer knew how to be hopeful after a series of pitiful life events. How I wanted to believe that I could still have a gentle life, even if I couldn’t see it yet.

    And then, something heartwarming appeared before my eyes. My roommates were three women in their 50s and 60s, best friends who came together to perform umroh. They were devoted in their worship, yet they also carried such lightness in their hearts. They prayed with tears, but also laughed with joy. They teased each other, shared snacks, and told stories about their families and lives with warmth that filled the room.

    Watching them, something soft flickered inside me. Seeing their happiness, it was the first time in a long while that I thought, “Maybe I can be like that someday.” Maybe I can also grow older and still find reasons to smile. Maybe my life’s happiness hasn’t run out after all. Maybe there are still things to look forward to: moments yet to come, people yet to meet, memories yet to be made.

    Maybe my happiness isn’t the bright sun constantly shining over me, but a collection of small candles along the way: the heart that slowly accepts Allah's decree, the people I encounter, the little kindnesses I receive, the warm words that breaks through a tired heart. They are the lights from Allah that reminds me that even in darkness, there are still reasons to keep walking.

    So now, I want to give myself a second chance: a second chance to live. To stop merely surviving and start feeling again. To stop blaming myself for everything happened in my life. To stop rushing toward a future that must “make sense,” and start appreciating the small pieces of joy that already surround me.

    Also a second chance to forgive myself, for my failures to make my late parents happy, for being heavily lacking, for not healing fast enough, for feeling lost, for being sad almost all the time. A second chance to believe that Allah has never forgotten me, even in the moments I thought He did. While others might walk under the bright sun and enjoy the scenery effortlessly, I’ll learn to cherish the small candles I find along the way in this tunnel.

    I will heal insyaAllah. With time, with patience, with faith, and with every small step forward, I will heal. Someday I will find myself smiling from the heart again. Someday, I will perform umroh again, with a better condition, with a heart full of gratitude insyaAllah.

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    I remember a reel by Putri Ratu Balqist that appeared on my Instagram’s explore tab. She narrated: When I talk “I don’t want to get married. Besides, I never deserved to be loved by anyone.”...... but I cry in Madinah.

    And I felt that deeply. Not necessarily just about marriage, but I also often told myself I didn’t expect anything anymore. I found it hard to stay hopeful with this broken-into-pieces heart of mine. But I cried in Madinah because deep down, I realized it's not I don't want to hope. I just think I don't deserve it. I think Allah is extremely kind but I just don't deserve it.

(Inspired by “Sore: Istri Dari Masa Depan” (Sore, Wife from The Future), a movie by Yandy Laurens)

If one day I wake up and find someone next to me claiming to be my husband from the future, I think I would be stunned into silence. Not because I don’t want to believe it, but because deep down, I’ve never been so sure that I would actually find him. And yet, if he did appear, my first words would probably be: “Are you really my husband from the future?”

I would want to know what made him decide to come back to this very moment. Did he want to bring me a message? A warning? A glimpse of what’s waiting ahead? Or perhaps a gentle guidance on the things I should change, so that one day, I will carry fewer regrets.

But first of all, let me ask about the dark cloud that is hanging over me.

Do I still look the same: someone who hides misery behind her smile? Has the sadness that once weighed so heavily on my heart finally softened with time? Do tears still wait quietly in the corners of my eyes, ready to fall at the smallest trigger? Does my breathing still feel heavy from grief, or have I finally learned to breathe freely again? The deep pain I’ve carried for several months, tell me, has it healed?

And then, what about the life we’ll share? What kind of wedding will it be for someone like me, who has never been able to picture herself in a wedding dress? What kind of family will we build together?  What kind of home will we call ours? Will it have a small backyard garden, like the one I’ve always dreamed of?

Of course, I know he might not give me any answers. Maybe he would just smile, keeping the future a mystery. Maybe that’s how it’s meant to be, because some journeys are not meant to be spoiled in advance, but lived, step by step. And that’s okay. Because just knowing he exists, knowing that somewhere out there, someone is destined for me, would already be enough to make my heart a little lighter. I would carry that thought with me: that I am not walking toward nothing, but toward someone.

So thank you for existing. Thank you for letting the current me know that you exist. I have a lot of shortcomings, so please treat me with patience, understanding, and mercy. And I promise, when our paths finally cross, I will take good care of you, too. For now, let’s pray for each other until the day our prayers are answered in each other’s presence.

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(I write this today on my late mom’s birthday. Her last wish was to see me get married. I am deeply sorry that I couldn’t make it happen while you were still here. That regret still weighs on me every now and then. I pray that your wish, though delayed, still found its way to me. I will sincerely pray about it.)

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P.S.: It took me 5 months to finally be able to write again. Hello, everyone. I hope you and your loved ones are doing well. 

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image source: idntimes.com

“Please come home now. Your dad and mom faced a misfortune.”

My heart stopped. This is the moment every child living far from home fears the most: the call that asks you to come back, but not from the voices of your parents. The call that shatters the illusion that there will always be more time.

I rushed home in tears, my hands trembling as I clutched my ticket, my breath uneven as I boarded the train. The journey stretched endlessly, each mile carrying me closer to a reality I could not bear to face. I pressed my forehead against the cold window, silently pleading: please, let this be a mistake. Please Ya Allah, I beg you.

But it wasn’t.

I arrived home to find two lifeless bodies lying in the living room. My parents, who once filled this home with laughter and warmth, were now covered in white shrouds.

Time stopped. My world stopped. I wanted to wake up, but this nightmare was infuriatingly real. As I walked closer to their corpses, these thoughts ran through my mind: How am I supposed to continue life without their voices calling my name? Without their prayers in every step I take? Without their hands, once so strong, now forever still?

I tried to console myself with words meant to offer comfort:

“Someone’s fate, including their death, is already decided 50.000 years before the world was created. Please accept it.”

“Your parents were taken in such a beautiful way, you couldn’t ask for better. You should be patient.”

“No matter how much you cry, they will not come back. Please be strong.”

“Hold yourself together. Your younger brother needs you to be someone to comfort him.”

But nothing could reach me. Nothing could make this hurt less. All I thought was: I am supposed to continue life after this? Isn’t it too impossible with the heart that will carry great pain all my life? Also how? Someone should tell me how to continue life after something so heartbreaking like this.

I thought, maybe with time, the pain would dull. That grief would grow tired of tormenting me. But days passed, and I remained numb. I still cried even when I told myself to let it go because there was nothing I can’t do anymore to bring them back. I moved through life as if in a fog, my body present but my soul somewhere else, somewhere still clinging to the past, still reaching for hands that would never again hold mine.

As I couldn’t rewind time, I would try to do everything I could do, including saying the words I never said. Here are the words I’ve been wanting to tell you both, Mom and Dad. I regret that I couldn’t say them while staring at your eyes:

Mom and Dad, even if I could choose my fate, I would still choose to be your daughter a thousand times over. I asked Allah to make me yours not once, but twice: here in this world and in the hereafter. Forgive me for every time I failed you, for every hardship I unknowingly caused. Forgive me for being difficult when all you ever gave me was love. I regret every unspoken thank you, every moment I took for granted, every time I thought we had more time. Thank you for raising me, for giving me all that you had, for being my home. I witnessed that you two had done your best. I pray you both have a beautiful life there.  

Until we meet again in the hereafter. 

Love,

iim

Malam itu, jemariku berkelana di antara kumpulan catatan di ponsel. Di antaranya, aku menemukan secarik tulisan yang kubuat tepat di hari pertama tahun ini. Biasanya, aku menuliskan beberapa target di awal tahun, tetapi kali ini hanya ada satu kalimat:

"Berikan waktu kepada Sang Pemilik Waktu."

Jari-jariku yang semula lincah terhenti. Apa yang terjadi saat aku menuliskan kalimat itu? Apakah aku sedang bersedih atau justru berbahagia? Aku mencoba mengingat kembali momen itu. Tak lama kemudian, aku tersenyum. Aku teringat rasa lega dan hangat yang memenuhi hati mengetik kalimat itu.

****

Di suatu subuh di bulan Maret 2024, aku tersentak oleh sensasi dunia berputar begitu cepat. Sejak saat itu, keseimbanganku seolah menghilang. Saat berjalan, aku merasa hendak terjatuh. Saat berdiam, aku merasa badanku berguncang. Setiap pagi, aku terbangun dengan kelelahan yang mendera dan kekhawatiran yang tak kunjung reda. Hari-hari berlalu dalam tatapan kosong, seolah dunia yang kupijak sedang menelantarkanku.

Lambat laun, aku mulai lelah menunggu pemulihan.

"Apakah ada kemungkinan jika saya tidak akan pernah sembuh, Dok?" tanyaku suatu sore, di kunjungan yang kesekian, dengan suara yang lemah.

Dokter itu mengerutkan kening, mencoba memahami arah pertanyaanku.

"Jika memang demikian, saya ingin belajar menerima vertigo ini sebagai bagian permanen dalam hidup saya." Aku bahkan tak tahu berapa banyak energi yang telah kuhabiskan hanya untuk bisa mengucapkan kalimat itu dengan tenang.

Tatapan dokter yang biasanya lembut kini semakin melunak. Ia menepuk pundakku perlahan dan berujar, "Kamu pasti sembuh. Percaya bahwa kamu pasti bisa sembuh. InsyaAllah."

Namun, entah mengapa, kata-kata yang seharusnya menggelar harapan itu terdengar seperti penghiburan semata. Aku tersenyum pahit. Setelah berbulan-bulan berada dalam lorong panjang yang gelap, aku tak lagi bisa melihat di mana ujungnya. Aku mulai kehilangan kepercayaan bahwa aku ditakdirkan untuk pulih, tidak bahkan setelah waktu yang panjang berlalu.

Sebagai seseorang yang kerap merasa waktu membiarkannya terbengkalai, aku mulai terbiasa tidak berharap banyak. Setelah lebih dari satu dekade dipenuhi pertanyaan tentang kapan masa-masa yang kuharapkan tiba, kini aku hanya ingin berdamai. Hati yang dulu dipenuhi keraguan: "Pasti datangkah semua yang ditunggu?" seperti dalam puisi Sapardi Djoko Damono, kini tak lagi terlalu menunggu. Batin yang dulu resah: "I used to think that I couldn't find it for my entire life. The world is very big and I walked it slowly," seperti ujar Bolin Shijiang, kini tak lagi begitu mencari.

Aku tersadar bahwa menanti dengan harapan jauh lebih berat ketimbang tanpa berharap. Maka, aku berhenti bertanya dan memilih menerima bahwa mungkin, tak semua orang mendapatkan apa yang mereka perjuangkan. Aku mulai berbisik pada diriku sendiri, "Mungkin memang begini hidupku selamanya.".

Sampai akhirnya, di suatu hari di bulan November 2024, aku mencoba bersujud, sesuatu yang berbulan-bulan tak bisa kulakukan tanpa dunia terasa berputar begitu kencang. Aku bisa melakukannya. BPPV (Benign Paroxysmal Positional Vertigo) yang sekian lama menggelayuti langkahku perlahan mulai membaik. Air mata jatuh tanpa bisa kutahan. Aku menyadari bahwa Sang Pemilik Waktu hanya meminta hatiku lebih berlapang sebelum akhirnya disembuhkan.

"Beri waktu kepada Sang Pemilik Waktu," kalimat yang melintas di pikiran.

****

Setelah kejadian itu, aku tak lagi berlari ke segala penjuru, mencari jawaban. Aku berhenti tergesa-gesa menuntut kepastian dari waktu. Aku memilih untuk berdoa dalam senyap lalu percaya.

Percaya bahwa waktu memiliki caranya sendiri. Percaya bahwa Sang Pemilik Waktu tahu kapan saat yang tepat untuk menghadirkan apa yang kubutuhkan. Percaya bahwa badai, sebesar apapun, akan berlalu. Percaya bahwa Dia sedang merangkai setiap potongan hidupku dengan baik meski saat ini aku belum bisa melihatnya.

Tahun ini, aku hanya ingin berkata pada diriku sendiri:

"Kamu sudah berusaha dengan baik, Nur Imroatun Sholihat. Tetapi untuk perkara waktu, mulai sekarang, berikanlah kepada Sang Pemilik Waktu. Dia tidak akan menelantarkanmu". 

Love, 

iim

"Adults feel pain too. It’s just that adults keep it bottled up." – Reply 1988

Just like Dukseon in the Reply 1988, who looked back on her youth through the said K-drama, I would love to be able to look back at 2024 via this post. Coincidentally, both years shared a connection to the Olympics: Seoul in 1988 and Paris in 2024, and both carried the bittersweet weight of their narrators' journeys. In the future, I hope I can recall my 2024 memories, here in my Reply 2024:

2024 was a paradoxical year. On the surface, it was filled with achievements I had worked tirelessly for: becoming an IT audit team leader, managing Auditoria magazine, leading the MoF-Cyber Guardians public relations efforts, earning a place on the Dean’s List, serving as a governor for IIA Indonesia, building a stable presence on social media, and passing the CISSP exam (a.k.a a dream that had lingered for years). Each milestone stretched me, forced me to grow, and uncovered parts of myself I hadn’t known before. Alhamdulillah.

But beneath it all, this year became one of the hardest chapters of my life. 2024 mercilessly tested me—physically, mentally, and emotionally. This particular year, my life seemed like a constant downhill journey, and there wasn’t a way back. I battled two illnesses that left me questioning whether I should just lock myself in my room and give up on everything. There were days when I felt completely defeated, wondering if I even deserved happiness. There were nights when I lay awake, questioning everything, especially whether life was worth the pain and sorrow. 

If Reply 1988 captured a world that moved slowly, 2024 was its opposite: everything moved too fast. Space exploration, AI advancements, the Olympics, the elections in both the U.S. and Indonesia, and so on all seemed to unfold at a deafening pace. Yet, I felt like a quiet, insignificant bystander, standing in a corner with an unsettled heart. If this story has a soundtrack, please lend me “Don’t Worry, Dear” from Reply 1988. Its warm consolation "그대여 아무 걱정 하지 말아요 (My dear, don’t you worry about a thing)" felt like the embrace I desperately needed.

Amidst the chaos, I found solace in ordinary moments. It wasn’t the achievements that kept me going; it was the small, quiet acts of kindness and connection. Family members who constantly prayed for me. That’s a nod to Reply 1988’s quote: “In the end, what helps you overcome obstacles isn’t brains, but someone who will take your hand and never let you go. In the end, that’s family”. Friends who offered comforting words and companionship on difficult days. The simple joy of noticing anything better as you are slowing down.  Ultimately, the tranquility from having full reliance on My Lord. These seemingly "small" moments became my lifeline, teaching me that even in the darkest times, beauty can be found in the simplest things.

And then, there was the “husband-guessing game” that Reply 1988 so cleverly played in the story. For me, the mystery remains unresolved and the search continues. But I’ve come to realize it’s okay not to have all the answers right now. It’s okay to sit with uncertainty and trust that the answers will come in their own time. Maybe, one day, when I look back, I’ll understand why I felt so lost this year. Until then, I’m learning to find peace in the waiting and trust that some mysteries are worth the journey.

In the end, 2024 reminded me of a truth that’s both humbling and freeing: I am just an ordinary woman living in a corner of the world. Like Deok-sun, I’m curious about the future yet burdened by worries about what lies ahead. But I’m learning to embrace the present moment, to find meaning in the here and now, and to trust that the pieces will eventually fall into place. Maybe one day I’ll write a "Reply 202X" where all the pieces make sense and everything I’ve been through will reveal its purpose. But for now, I’ll keep writing, keep hoping, and keep cherishing the beauty of this unfinished journey.

A belated farewell to 2024. You were the year I wiped away the most tears. The year I hugged and encouraged myself the most. The year Allah taught me that even if (hypothetically) I don't have anyone to rely on, I always have Him by my side. Thank you for reminding me of both my vulnerabilities and my resilience.

내년에는 더 행복하고 건강해지자.

Let’s be happier and healthier next year.

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Borrowing Zion.T's lyrics from Yanghwa BRDG:

"행복하자 행복하자 (Let's be happy, let's be happy)

아프지 말고 아프지 말고 (Let's not get sick, let's not get sick)"

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image source: Lisa Maria via pinterest

"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 stirred 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 you on. 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.)