What My Favourite Star Wars Character Says About Me

Note: This post started when I casually mentioned to my AI assistant that my favourite Star Wars character is Rotta the Hutt. What followed was an unexpectedly thoughtful discussion about identity, family legacies, and why a former baby Hutt managed to become one of the most relatable characters in the galaxy. The Star Wars opinions are mine. The psychological unpacking was a team effort. 😄

A few days ago, I had an interesting conversation with my ChatGPT. The discussion started with me asking about Star Wars characters and the types of personalities that tend to like them.

ChatGPT described that fans of Din Djarin might value loyalty and responsibility; fans of Ahsoka might admire independence and integrity; and fans of Obi-Wan might appreciate wisdom and resilience.

Then ChatGPT asked me: So, who's your favourite character? Can you guess what was my answer?

Rotta the Hutt

For those unfamiliar with Star Wars lore, Rotta is the son of Jabba the Hutt. And I meant Rotta the Hutt from the 2026 movie, Star Wars: The Mandalorian and Grogu.

What I find most interesting about Rotta is that he seems determined not to become his father. For context: Jabba the Hutt is an untouchable, ruthless mob boss in Star Wars.

In The Mandalorian and Grogu movie, the scene (spoiler alert!) that really stayed with me was when he chose to remain behind and help the New Republic. It wasn't a flashy or heroic moment. It was simply a choice to do something different from what people might have expected of a Hutt.

ChatGPT suggested that perhaps the character resonated with me because of my own experiences growing up. Like many people who grew up with challenging family dynamics, part of my identity was shaped by what I wanted to avoid; for example, not wanting to repeat certain behaviours or to make the same mistakes and decisions.

I had never connected those thoughts to a Star Wars character before. Yet when I look at Rotta's story, I can see why it resonates. He inherited a reputation and certain expectations and assumptions about who he would become. Instead, he chose a different path.

What Fictional Characters Reveal About Us

Of course, this is where fiction and real life differ. In real life, change is usually much messier than a character arc. There isn't a single defining moment when we suddenly become a different person.

Instead, we make hundreds of small decisions over many years, e.g., who we spend time with, how we treat people, what values we prioritise, and how we respond when life becomes difficult.

I used to avoid becoming the person I didn't want to become. These days, I think I'm more motivated in becoming the kind of person I respect, i.e., someone who keeps learning and contributes meaningfully through her work.

Perhaps that is why I like Rotta. Not just because he rejected his father's legacy, but because he chose to build his own.

I guess that's why certain characters stay with us. It's not because they are the strongest or the most heroic, but because they reflect questions we have been asking ourselves all along.

For me, Rotta's story is not really about a Hutt choosing a different path.

We are not limited to the stories we inherit. We are also shaped by the choices we make, and sometimes, those choices matter more than where we started.

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Why My Dreams Became Medical Dramas

Note: This blog post is written after recounting a series of vivid hospital-themed dreams that stayed with me long after waking up. My AI assistant later helped me explore the strange intersection between healthcare, identity, midlife transitions, and the subconscious. What emerged was unexpectedly thoughtful.

The Strange Psychology of Dreaming About Hospitals

Recently, I had two unusually vivid dreams.

In one dream, I saw my own obituary, except the face on the obituary wasn't mine. Somehow, I was supposed to have died as a terminal patient, but I had apparently "skipped" the obituary and was still alive, travelling, and moving through life.

At one point, I saw a hospital administration placard that mentioned a patient code being recalled because the patient was "no longer in danger". Then someone casually asked me how I was coping because I had "coded twice".

A few weeks later, I had another vivid hospital-related dream. This time, what began as a period somehow became a miscarriage (blood everywhere)! I was in a hospital again, while a specialist looked visibly perplexed, trying to figure out what was wrong.

I now think somewhere between these two dreams, my subconscious has fully absorbed the healthcare ecosystem.

When Your Subconscious Starts Speaking in Medical Language

I have spent years orbiting around healthcare environments, not as a clinician but close enough to absorb their rhythms, language, systems, and emotional atmosphere.

Think hospital corridors, medical terminology, patient journeys, specialist consultations, disease awareness campaigns, and conversations about survival, prevention, treatment, uncertainty, and recovery.

Over time, healthcare stopped feeling like merely an industry I worked around. It became one of the ecosystems through which I understand human life itself.

And perhaps that is why my subconscious now processes emotional transition using hospital logic. This truly feels deeply symbolic and hilariously bureaucratic. LOL.

The Hospital as a Psychological Space

The more I reflected on these dreams, the more I realised hospitals carry symbolic meaning far beyond illness.

Hospitals are transitional spaces. People enter them suspended between "before" and "after". Between uncertainty and diagnosis, sickness and recovery, fear and relief.

Perhaps that is why hospitals appear so frequently in emotionally significant dreams. It's not necessarily because we are afraid of death but because hospitals represent moments where human beings are forced to confront vulnerability and survival beyond our control.

And maybe that is also why neither of my dreams actually felt frightening. Both dreams ended with continuity, i.e., the patient survived, the code was recalled; life continued, and people were checking if I was okay.

So, my dreams were not about endings. They were about recovery.

Midlife Changes the Way You Think About the Body

Perhaps midlife changes the symbolic role the body plays in our subconscious.

As younger adults, many of us unconsciously assume the body will simply cooperate forever.

Then one day, as you age, you start to notice the hormonal shifts, fatigue, the need for health screenings, preventive healthcare, specialists' consultations, and the growing awareness that health is not guaranteed.

Perhaps my dreams are simply reflecting that transition and a growing awareness of the body as something that requires care, interpretation, maintenance, and attention.

Maybe This Is Also What Healing Looks Like

What fascinated me most was not the medical imagery itself, but the emotional tone.

In the dreams, I was calm and almost nostalgic, as though my subconscious was not warning me about something but quietly processing a difficult season I had already survived.

I still do not know exactly what these dreams "mean". Maybe dreams are less prophetic than reflective. Or maybe they simply borrow the emotional vocabulary of the worlds we spend the most time inhabiting.

And perhaps after years spent around hospitals, specialists, patient stories, disease education, and healthcare systems, my subconscious has decided this is now the language it understands best.

Which honestly explains a lot. 😭

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I Retook the Sorting Hat Quiz. Now I'm a Ravenpuff.

I took the Harry Potter sorting hat quiz in 2024 and got Hufflepuff as my core, which felt about right at the time. Loyal, steady, generally trying to be a decent human being who doesn't make life harder for others.

Then I retook it this year (2026).

And somehow… I'm Ravenclaw now.

For the record (because of course I tracked it), across THREE quizzes, the pattern was… consistent:

Ravenclaw: Clearly dominant

Hufflepuff: Still present

Gryffindor & Slytherin: There, but not running the show

Which, honestly, feels accurate.

So yes, I'm "owning the bird"!

So, I'm a Ravenclaw now.

The bird. The thinking.

The quiet need to understand how things work before I agree with them.

No, I'm not suddenly quoting obscure facts for fun. But, I will:

- mentally reorganise your sentence structure

- question your logic (silently, most of the time)

- and try to find a cleaner way to say something

It's just how my brain works now.

What might really be happening

(using the biological lens)

Perimenopause isn't just physical; it often comes with subtle cognitive and emotional shifts:

- Lower tolerance for nonsense

- Clearer prioritisation (what matters vs what doesn't)

- Less people-pleasing, more self-trust

- More reflective thinking (pattern-seeing, connecting dots)

This combination does look a lot like Ravenclaw traits emerging more strongly.

Apparently there's also a name for this combination: Ravenpuff

A thinking-first, people-aware hybrid.

I once came across a line that described it quite well:

 

"A good head and a good heart are always a formidable combination."

I wish Ravenpuff sounded as cool as that sentence, but I'll take it.

As a Ravenpuff...

I have significantly less patience for things that don't quite make sense.

- Less tolerance for overcomplication

- Less interest in explaining myself five different ways just to soften the message

- More trust in my own judgement

I did have a moment where I thought, "Am I becoming too self-centred?"

But no. I think I've just upgraded from:

“let me adjust for everyone”

to

“let me make sure this actually makes sense first.”

It's not a dramatic change. Just… a clearer one.

Final thoughts (nothing too deep, I promise)

Maybe nothing really changed.

Maybe this part of me was always there, just quieter before.

Or maybe this is just what happens when you start trusting how you think a little more, and stop second-guessing it.

Either way, I guess I'm a Ravenpuff hybrid now.

And honestly?

It fits.

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Preparing for the Care We Rarely Talk About

I registered for the "The First Step in Caregiving: Chaperone & Companionship" course at Care Concierge Academy with no particular expectations. I assumed it would be practical and instructional. I thought I would simply learn some guidelines on caring for elderly family members and understanding when something constitutes a medical emergency.

What I did not expect was how personal the experience would feel.

More Than Just Technical Skills

The course was not limited to caring for older adults. It covered anyone who might be bedridden or dependent on others for daily needs, including stroke patients.

We learnt the basics of handwashing; how to wear surgical masks and gloves properly; how to perform perineal care, change urine bags, and change adult nappies; and how to safely transfer someone from a bed to a wheelchair and into a car. We were taught how to use a gait belt during mobility transfers and what it means to chaperone someone during hospital visits and medical appointments.

These were technical skills. Necessary ones.

But somewhere in between the demonstrations and instructions, something shifted in me.

The Moment It Became Personal

During the session on perineal care, I felt an unexpected sense of helplessness. It was not because the procedure was difficult to understand. It was because I suddenly imagined myself in that position one day.

If I were old and bedridden, how would I allow myself to be cleaned and handled by someone else? How would I accept being touched by strangers? How far could I hold on to my dignity without feeling shitty?

I realised how much I dislike asking for help from strangers. The thought of depending entirely on someone else for basic hygiene unsettled me more than I expected. It made me confront a version of vulnerability that I had not fully considered before.

Understanding Dementia Differently

The course also touched on dementia. We learned that patients may refuse to eat, may behave unpredictably, and can deteriorate in ways that are painful to witness. They are not difficult because they choose to be. Dementia is a disease that gradually eats away at the brain. The behaviour is not personality; it is pathology.

That reframing matters. It shifts frustration into compassion. It shifts judgement into understanding.

Why I Signed Up in the First Place

I attended this course because I wanted to be the first in my family to know what to look out for. I wanted to be able to recognise when something is a medical emergency and when it is not. I wanted to understand how to care for my loved ones before immediately turning to external professional caregivers. I wanted to feel prepared.

A geriatric specialist once told me that in an emergency, I should just go to the hospital. That advice is correct. Hospitals are for emergencies.

The Part No One Talks About: After the Hospital

But what happens after the hospital is what concerns me most.

The discharge summary is handed over. The medication list is explained. The follow-up appointment is scheduled. Then the patient goes home.

Home is where the real care begins.

Who helps with toileting?

Who ensures proper hygiene?

Who notices subtle changes?

Who handles mobility transfers?

Who sits through the waiting at medical appointments?

Who understands when agitation is part of dementia and not defiance?

That "after" is rarely discussed openly.

Yet it is the reality many families quietly navigate.

Working closely with hospitals over the years has given me insight into patient journeys, discharge processes, and continuity of care from a systems perspective.

But sitting in this caregiving class made me feel the emotional weight of what those transitions actually mean at home. It moved the concept of "post-discharge care" from professional understanding to personal responsibility.

What Shifted in Me

What shifted in me was not fear, although there was some of that. It was a deeper awareness of responsibility.

When the time comes, how ready will I be for my family? How ready will I be for myself?

Caregiving is not only about physical tasks. It is about preserving dignity when independence is no longer possible. It is about balancing clinical necessity with emotional sensitivity. It is about being steady when someone else feels vulnerable.

Preparedness is not only medical knowledge. It is emotional readiness. It is the willingness to step into uncomfortable spaces. It is acknowledging that one day, roles may reverse.

Midlife, Readiness, and Contribution

Perhaps this is also what midlife begins to look like. It is not only about career growth or personal ambition. It is about contribution. It is about quietly preparing for responsibilities that may not yet have arrived but eventually will.

We often prepare for promotions, investments, and milestones. We rarely prepare for frailty, dependency, or decline. Yet these are just as much a part of life.

I do not know what the future holds for my parents, my loved ones, or myself. But I know this: when the time comes, I want to contribute meaningfully. I want to respond with knowledge instead of panic. I want to act with steadiness instead of avoidance.

The hospital may handle the emergency.

But the care after that, the quiet, daily, intimate care, is what truly sustains a person.

And that is what I am learning to take seriously.

Part of the #CareAndCalling series

#CareAndCalling is a series about preparing for the responsibilities we rarely talk about, and recognising that care is not a detour but a calling.

– Finding My Way Back to Healthcare

– Learning to Care, Before We Have To

– This Was Never a Detour

– What Healthcare Has Quietly Taught Me

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This Was Never a Detour

Once Upon A Time in Secondary School

After SPM, I applied to nursing school in USM and was accepted.

I remember that moment clearly. It felt right. It felt certain. But my mother said NO, and that was the end of that path, at least for then.

So I stayed. I did my STPM. I continued studying pure science subjects. It wasn't easy. Life wasn't exactly great at home, but that's another story to tell.

Graduated from University of Malaya (UM)

I entered University of Malaya and graduated with a Bachelor of Science in Education (Honours) with Distinction, majoring in Biology with a minor in Chemistry. I was very proud that I did well.

My Career Path Throughout the Years

Somewhere along the way, my career took me into marketing.

To an outsider, it might look like a sharp turn. To me, it felt more like translation. I learned how to communicate, influence, build systems, and tell stories. These are skills that later found their way back into healthcare in unexpected forms. I worked closely with medical institutions, health services, and patient-facing platforms. For a long time, that felt like home.

Before enrolling in my Master of Marketing, I almost chose a Master of Public Health instead. I remember hesitating. Not because I lacked interest, but because I questioned legitimacy. I wasn't a doctor. My professional experience lived elsewhere. So I chose the path that aligned most neatly with my resume.

That choice made sense. And yet, the question never fully went away.

My Recent Outlook

More recently, I noticed myself looking again. This time at micro-credentials, short courses, certification programmes, anything that would allow me to re-enter the healthcare landscape without uprooting my life. Not to start over, but to reconnect.

That was how I found myself enrolling in a chaperone and companionship course focused on ageing and caregiving. And later, being accepted into a formal programme on ageing and geriatric rehabilitation, a course I will take in a later season, when timing allows.

Am I Complicating Things?

For a while, I wondered if I was complicating things.

But then I realised something important:

This was never a detour.

From nursing school to science education, from public health curiosity to healthcare work, from caregiving to geriatric learning: the thread has always been there. What changed were the forms, shaped by family, feasibility, responsibility, and season of life.

I am no longer trying to become who I wanted to be at eighteen.

I am becoming who I can be now, with clarity, maturity, and intention.

Some callings do not disappear when they are deferred. They wait patiently until we are ready to hold them properly.

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Learning to Care, Before We Have To

The following reflection builds on an earlier piece about finding my way back to healthcare; not by changing careers, but by integrating care into how I live.

Malaysia, an ageing nation.

Malaysia is changing quietly, steadily, and in ways that will touch almost every family. We are now considered an ageing nation, and alongside that shift comes a reality many of us are only beginning to confront: caregiving is no longer optional, distant, or theoretical.

After reflecting on my own relationship with healthcare and why I've been drawn back to it, this post moves from reflection to action, and why I chose to start learning how to care, before circumstances force us to.

Conversations around me.

Lately, when I speak to friends with ageing parents, the same sentence keeps appearing in different forms: "It's not easy to find a caretaker who can take care of my parents well."

Good and trusted caretakers and home nurses who can come to the house are not only difficult to find; they can be costly in the long run. Many families are navigating dementia, Parkinson's, mobility loss, post-stroke recovery, or the slow erosion of independence that comes with age. Almost everyone I know has some version of this story unfolding in their home.

It is not only my friends. Many of my in-laws' peers are living with some form of cancer, diabetes, heart disease, relapses, and chronic conditions - whether being actively treated or quietly endured.

A quiet realisation.

And slowly, it becomes impossible to ignore the truth:

My in-laws are ageing.

One day, my husband will age too.

And so will I.

This awareness has shifted something in me.

I am not a doctor, and at this stage of life, I don't need to be. What I do need is the ability to respond calmly, competently, and compassionately; someone who does not freeze when an elderly parent falls, forgets, weakens, or needs help with the most basic human tasks.

I want at least one person in the household who understands ageing, who can respond with calm, knowledge, and compassion.

Taking action.

That desire led me to register for the "Chaperone & Companionship Course: The First Step in Caregiving" by Care Concierge Malaysia. It's a practical programme that introduces essential skills such as basic health assessment, patient communication, observation, mobility support, and personal care.

Around the same time, I was accepted into a formal programme on Ageing & Geriatric Rehabilitation. Although I had to decline the intake due to timing, the decision to return in the later part of the year felt intentional rather than disappointing. Some learning needs space. Some knowledge deserves readiness. This is one of them.

Getting myself ready.

2026 will be a year of grounding - finishing my Master of Marketing, deepening my work, and continuing to learn through hands-on caregiving exposure.

By 2027, I shall be ready to step into structured geriatric training with clarity, intention, and emotional maturity. Not because I am certain this will become my full-time path, but because I believe some knowledge is too important to postpone.

Caregiving, to me, is not a career move or a credential chase. It is a form of readiness for my family and for the realities that will arrive whether we plan for them or not.

In a society that is growing older, choosing to learn how to care is not dramatic. It is practical, humane, and something I would rather do early, calmly, and with intention before we have to.

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Finding My Way Back to Healthcare

I have always wanted to be a doctor.

Some of you might know that I have always wanted to be a medical doctor. Not casually. Not as a childhood phase.

It was a quiet, persistent knowing that followed me into adulthood, you know, the pull towards medicine, care, understanding the human body, and being present in moments that matter most.

Life, of course, took me elsewhere. That particular path is no longer feasible, and I have made my peace with that, or so I thought.

Over the years...

I built a meaningful career in marketing, eventually finding myself working closely within healthcare organisations. For a long time, that felt like enough. I was still in the industry I loved. Still learning. Still close to care, even if not at the bedside.

Then, gradually, some of those containers disappeared.

Roles changed. Chapters ended. A venture I believed in came to an abrupt close.

And suddenly, I realised something that unsettled me more than I expected. I no longer felt inside the healthcare world. I was adjacent to it, serving it, speaking about it, but no longer held by it.

Grieving is necessary.

That realisation triggered a quiet grief. Not because I wanted to change careers. Not because I was unhappy with what I do. But because I had lost proximity to something that once felt like home.

Healthcare, for me, has never been about titles or prestige. It has always been about care, dignity, vulnerability, and being useful when things are fragile.

Somewhere along the way, I began to miss that deeply human dimension, the kind that cannot be fully accessed through strategy decks or analytics dashboards.

Looking for my way back in.

I started looking for ways back in. Not dramatic ones. Not radical pivots. But honest, age-appropriate, sustainable ones.

And so, I enrolled in a one-day caregiving-related course; it's practical, grounded, human.

I will blog about this after completing it.

I was also accepted into a professional certificate programme focused on ageing and rehabilitation. Even though I had to decline the intake due to timing, the decision to return in a later part of the year felt right; it's unrushed, intentional.

I know I am not trying to become a doctor anymore.

But I am also not willing to let that part of me disappear.

My next blog post (Learning to Care, Before We Have To) explores why I focus on ageing care.

When growth requires intentional integration.

What I am doing now is something quieter. It's called integrating.

Integrating who I have become with who I once wanted to be. Integrating knowledge with care. Integrating work with life, family, ageing, and the realities that are already knocking at our doors.

I don't know yet what this will lead to. And for once, I'm okay with not knowing.

Some learning is not about outcomes. It's about belonging and returning, differently.

And maybe this is what growing older with intention looks like: not chasing old dreams, but finding new ways to honour them.

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Choosing Closure Without Agreement

This reflection is about a personal season of growth and discernment. It is not written in reference to any individual relationship or organisation.

After writing my previous post, I was somewhat shocked that the story wasn't quite over yet.

Because apparently there was still one more decision to make to formally close the door even though the ending still didn't feel quite fair.

And seriously, that was harder than I expected.

I said I wanted peace of mind, but honestly, I didn't want to lie to myself. I didn't want to pretend that what happened was okay, or that it didn't matter. Because it did and still does.

For a while, I thought closure meant I had to agree with the outcome. That I had to make sense of it, or accept it fully, before moving on. But I'm learning that this isn't true.

Closure Doesn't Require Agreement

I arrive at a new level of comprehension that closure doesn't require agreement.

Signing off on an ending doesn't mean I approve of how things were handled. It doesn't mean I've forgotten the effort, the care, or the sacrifices that went into that chapter. It simply means I no longer want to stay connected to something that no longer aligns with who I am.

I'm not trying to erase the experience. I'm choosing not to stay stuck in it. There's a stark difference.

Stepping Away Graciously

Holding on to the feeling of injustice was costing me more than letting go. Not just in time or energy, but in peace of mind.

So in the end, I chose to agree to step away without needing everything to feel resolved.

Some chapters don't end with fairness or closure in the way we hope for. They end when we decide that staying no longer serves us.

No bitterness, just self-respect.

Let me carry the lesson forward and leave the weight behind.

And that feels like the right place to end this chapter.

Here's to the Year of the Fiery Horse.

No more looking back.

Let's gallop forward! Lighter, braver, and ready for success.

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When a Chapter Ends Without Apology

This reflection is about a personal season of growth and discernment. It is not written in reference to any individual relationship or organisation.

Some endings don't come with shouting or drama.

They come with silence, paperwork, and a sudden shift in the story you thought you were building.

Just very recently, I walked away from something I had invested deeply in, not just with time and work, but with belief.

I stayed longer than my instincts suggested I should. I saw the red flags. I acknowledged them. But I chose to hope, to commit, and to honour the version of the future I thought we were building together.

And when it had to come to an end, it felt like an inconvenient ultimatum; like I was being discarded because there was no other choice. That part hurt more than I expected.

But healing has a way of softening the narrative.

What I now see is this: I didn't ignore my instincts. I simply allowed my values to lead.

I stayed because I believe in loyalty. In building things with care. In not abandoning people or projects the moment things become complicated.

That is not foolishness. That is character.

The ending forced me to face this difficult truth: sometimes, people are not building the same kind of thing you are. Some are creating a future. Others are protecting an income. And when those two visions collide, something has to give.

This time, it was the story I thought I belonged to.

I recently came across a line from Ejae that stayed with me.

Rejection is redirection.

At first, it sounded too philosophical. But the more I sit with it, the more it feels true. Not every closed door is a loss. Some are quiet course corrections, i.e., life intervening before your integrity is slowly worn down by compromises you were never meant to make.

I didn't lose a chapter. I was released from a version of the future that could no longer hold who I am becoming.

And I'm choosing to carry that lesson forward, not with bitterness, but with clarity, self-respect, and a deeper trust in my own voice.

Sometimes, the bravest thing you do isn't staying. It's knowing when to leave without apology.

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A Quiet Promise to Myself for 2026

For 2026, I find myself thinking less about resolutions and more about direction. Not what I want to achieve but who I want to be while I'm achieving it.

The older I get, the clearer it becomes:

Success without peace is empty. Achievement without alignment is exhausting. And ambition without joy is not the life I want.

 

So here's my mantra for 2026, not as a list of goals, but as how I want to show up in 2026.

Wake up early. Drink coffee.

Not because productivity culture demands it, but because there is something grounding about starting the day with intention, in quiet, before the world asks anything of me.

Work hard. Be ambitious.

I still care deeply about building meaningful work. I'm not done growing.

There are still opportunities to do more as I head into midlife; not from a place of proving myself, but from building, creating, and contributing in ways that feel deeply aligned with who I am now, not who I used to be.

Keep your priorities straight, your mind right, and your head up.

Because life will always throw curveballs, but how I respond, that's my responsibility.

Protect your peace. Honour your energy. Choose calm as much as you choose success.

I do not want to glorify burnout and confuse exhaustion with importance. I want a life that feels steady, spacious, and kind to myself.

Don't ever give up.

But know the difference between giving up on yourself and giving up on what no longer serves you.

Some days, persistence looks like pushing forward. Other days, it looks like resting. Or changing direction. Or choosing something kinder for your body, your mind, your life.

Do well, live well, and dress really well.

Because how I show up matters. Not just in meetings and milestones, but in the quiet moments too. Self-respect is a daily practice.

Do what you love. Love what you do.

This used to sound idealistic to me. Now I see it as essential.

Photo taken at The Coffee Department, Level 4, Pantai Hospital Kuala Lumpur.

2026, I'm ready.

Happy New Year.

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Things That Stayed With Me in 2025

When I take a look back at 2025, it was indeed a year made up of both extraordinary and ordinary things. There were inspirations, conversations, decisions, and pauses that stayed.

They may not be highlights. They were not incredible milestones.

But they are things that lingered and became part of how the year felt.

1. Reflections on Resilience: Inspired by Ejae's Journey

Source: Threads

Have you heard of Ejae's story? 12 years of training, multiple near-misses, and the heartbreak of not debuting in a K-pop group; all before finally releasing Golden. What resonated with me most wasn't her eventual success, but her profound resilience during the wait.

She stayed in the music industry despite the heartbreaking experience of not debuting after 12 years of hard work. Before the eventual success of Golden and Huntrix, she refused to give up; instead, she sharpened her production skills, wrote tirelessly, and strategically leaned into her strengths. Ejae's journey is proof that talent and grit eventually shine and her current impact is only the beginning.

There is something deeply human about that kind of patience. You can feel the vindication and triumph in every record Golden has broken across the globe.

I'm letting her story sit with me as a form of quiet motivation.

2. Rose's "You've Got You"

Source: Facebook

Rosé's MTV VMAs Award acceptance speech crossed my feed at some point, and one line stuck: "you've got you." It wasn't delivered dramatically. It didn't feel rehearsed.

That sentence surfaced quietly throughout the year, especially during moments when decisions felt personal rather than strategic. It wasn't about hype or confidence. It was about self-trust, in a very understated way.

3. Leaving Corporate, Returning to Digital Agency Life

This year, I resigned from corporate and went back into digital agency life while continuing my Master's.

It wasn't a bold leap or a dramatic exit. It felt more like choosing an environment that fit who I am now: how I think, how I work, how I show up. There was relief in that, and also a sense of familiarity. Like returning to a room I already knew how to breathe in.

4. Continuing my Master's Quietly

I didn't talk much about my Master's this year. I just kept showing up. I met up with my lecturers to thank them for their continuous support.

Reading, writing, submitting. Sometimes tired, sometimes motivated, sometimes simply consistent. It wasn't hustle. It wasn't grind. It was something I carried alongside everything else, without needing it to define me.

I guess I did the right thing, as I was recognised as the most active student representative for my intake (March 2024) in Sunway University's MMKT ODL programme.

5. Making a Personal Choice for Myself

I signed up for the Curas Hybrid Laser treatment at Pure Touch Clinic this year. Not as a statement, not as a transformation story, just as a choice.

It felt less about appearance and more about the decision to listen to my body. Deciding without overexplaining. There was something quietly affirming about that.

6. Travelling My Heart Out

I travelled a fair bit this year, so if there's a recurring theme from 2025, it's me travelling with people who matter. And here's the list:

Anniversary trip to South Korea & Macau with my husband.

Trip to Taipei with my sister.

Work trips (Jakarta and Guangzhou) that blended into shared routines.

Family trips (Club Med Phuket, Ipoh, Kuantan & Pulau Kapas, Muar & Melaka, Legoland Malaysia) that moved at a gentler pace.

The places were different, but the presence mattered more than the destination. Travel became less about seeing and more about being with.

And instead of overplanning, the snippets that I could remember go like this:

By a pool. In a lounge. At a hotel bar. In a mini mart aisle. Eating noodles. Drinking coffee. Holding a cocktail. Watching the sky change. Doing nothing.

I wasn't planning of capturing scroll-stopping content angles. I was collecting moments that didn't ask for performance.

That pattern of sitting, eating, drinking, noticing... felt totally ME. Unforced. Enough.

7. The Tone of the Year

If I had to describe 2025, it would be:  Not empty. Not dull. Just… unhurried.

 

The year didn't push me forward aggressively. It allowed me to settle into myself a little more.

And that, strangely, felt like plenty.

I don't know yet what 2026 will bring. I'm not setting intentions or naming themes.

For now, I'm just carrying these things with me, the ones that stayed.

And I'm okay with that.

8. Mantra for 2026

Wake up early. Drink coffee.

Work hard. Be ambitious.

Keep your priorities straight, your mind right, and your head up.

Don't ever give up.

Do well, live well, and dress really well.

Do what you love, love what you do.

It is time to start living.

Happy New Year!

P.S.: Check out my compilation of annual posts since 2007.

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