About Unwritten

How did it ever occur to anyone that time seems to move faster and faster each year? It is strange, especially when every year is still made up of the same number of days and hours. Nothing has changed on the calendar, yet everything feels more compressed.

Maybe time itself is not speeding up. Maybe our lives are. The fuller our days become, the more we stack commitments on top of one another, the less space there is between moments. Weeks blur into months, months slip quietly into years, and suddenly we are asking where the time went.

For the last four to five years, I have been deeply involved in the local volunteering and charity space. When people asked why, I often said it was a calling. And it was, in many ways. But over time, I also realised that part of me was filling a void. Filling extra time. Responding to an increasing awareness of the very real and pressing situations around us. Once you see certain realities, it is hard to look away.

Doing life more purposefully, I am learning, is not always about adding meaning. Sometimes it is about choosing where to place it. Not every moment needs to be optimised. Not every capacity needs to be filled. Purpose can be quiet. It can be intentional.

As I move into the next chapter of my life, I know I need to step back and recalibrate. To ask what I really want to achieve, who truly matters, and what deserves my energy. To silence the noise, both external and self imposed.

Perhaps time only feels fast when we lose authorship over how we live. And maybe purpose is less about keeping up, and more about choosing, again and again, how we want our days to feel.

Life has been so brutally administrative that I’ve started smelling papery or Eau de Photocopy if I’m pushing it. I feel like I have been filed, stamped, and processed all at once.

First came the EU Blue Talent visa application, with over seventeen documents to be assembled by me, global HR, immigration lawyer and a handful of people who probably never expected to feature in my immigration journey. I was skeptical from the start, especially after doom scrolling Reddit threads declaring you will almost never get it right the first time and that French processing will take ages. And yet, my approval came within a day or two. Singapore efficiency really is a performance enhancing drug for administration (P.S. my application was processed in Singapore through the French Consulate).

In hindsight, I think the trifecta helped: being Singaporean, holding a Singapore passport, and being hired directly by a French company. Plus my unspoken superpower, which is labeling every document, printing them in order, and submitting everything on the same day. I saw the processing officer’s appreciative/admiring eyes when she noticed the tabs. Her love language got to be act of service.

I also renewed my passport recently and, of course, it was ready the same day. Spoiled? Yes. Grateful? Absolutely.

Then came the question of relocating Xia, my five year old rabbit. I never imagined having to choose whether she should follow me to Paris. Rabbits are delicate, and one good scare can put them in danger, so I genuinely was not sure what was best for her. I even paid a pet medium to hear her thoughts lol. Long story short, the answer was yes, bring her, and so I began yet another round of admin.

Julian has taken on most of the research, saving us what would easily have been thousands in pet relocation fees. From rabies vaccination to microchipping, I felt awful putting her through things she did not ask for, all for my selfish desire to keep her close. But Xia handled everything like a champ, A plus patient as always.

Temporary housing was next. That was thankfully one of the quick wins, a nice place just twenty minutes from both our offices, sorted without too much drama.

Now that the dust has settled, at least for this week, I can finally breathe a little. There is still more paperwork waiting for me in the coming weeks, because France will never run out, but getting through this round feels like crawling out from under a mountain of forms. Sitting down and writing my thoughts, marking this tiny victory for myself, feels like a small but necessary celebration. So I took Julian out for a quick errand, ending the day with an iced matcha latte and aapple pie crumble cheesecake. I can already feel the holiday vibe nearing.

There are words that leave our mouths too quickly (sharp, unfiltered, sometimes louder than they should be). We say them because we’re tired, defensive, or hurt. And then, when silence returns, we wish we could gather them back. But words, once released, have their own afterlife.

Today, I supported a case that reminded me just how heavy unspoken words can become. The patient had less than 48 hours left. His final wish was simple – to watch his favourite Ultraman movie from the hospital bed he could no longer leave. But his siblings wanted something more. They asked if they could share a meal together, one last family dinner with longevity noodles, chilli crab, sweet and sour pork, pork ribs, and durian chendol.

It would have been an ordinary meal, if not for the years of silence that came before it. Their father had passed away only three months ago. Their mother, long before that. Out of six siblings, one had already left the world, and another refused to come, unable to bridge the distance that past quarrels had built. Even among those who gathered, disagreements surfaced: about what to serve, how to proceed, who should speak. At one point, emotions ran high enough to fracture the room again.

In the end, they chose to move forward anyway with a birthday cake for his upcoming 54th, a family photoshoot, dinner, and an Ultraman marathon playing softly in the background.

When the food arrived, the patient began to eat slowly, tasting each dish that reminded him of better times. Halfway through the meal, his tears slipping down without a word. The rest of the family noticed but stayed silent, afraid that anything they said might make things worse. Yet in that silence, something shifted. It was heavy, but it was gentle too.

While eating the chilli crab, the younger brother began peeling the shell for him. He smiled faintly and said, “We used to sit together like this, all of us sharing chilli crab as a family.” The room softened. No one replied, but no one needed to. The memory did what words could not.

As I picked off the dishes and fed the patient until he was done, I couldn’t help but think about my own siblings , about the times I’ve spoken too sharply, even when my heart meant well. Watching Ultraman Leo play in the background, episodes one to three, Sink of Japan brought me back to our own childhood, when my siblings and I would sit side by side watching Ultraman too. We are still close, still bound by laughter and habit, but moments like this remind me how fragile togetherness can be if we stop choosing it.

Later, the patient told the social worker that he was deeply touched by the arrangement, but also scared.. scared of what was coming, and of leaving while there were still things left unsaid.

Regret, I’ve learned, isn’t always born of what we didn’t achieve. It often comes from the things we couldn’t unsay. I’ve seen tears fall from both love and remorse: two emotions that, in the end, often share the same roots.

Perhaps that’s what compassion really is not perfection, but repair. The choice to show up, even after words have failed. To listen without defending. To offer warmth, not explanation.

I’m still learning to pause. To breathe before speaking. To let silence carry the weight instead of my temper. Because sometimes, kindness is not in the words we use but in the ones we choose to withhold.

In exactly twelve hours, I’ll be getting married right here, in my childhood home.

No ballroom, no aisle, no string quartet. Just the same living room where I once did my homework, argued with my siblings, and spent weekends half-watching TV. It feels strange, sacred even, that the place that raised me will also witness this next chapter.

The decorations are simple a mix of red and white, a truce between my mother’s traditions and my minimalist heart. Xia’s hopping around somewhere, probably unimpressed by the whole thing. My gown’s hanging quietly in the corner, still in its garment bag, waiting for the morning.

There’s a calm in the air that I didn’t expect. I thought I’d feel nervous jittery, emotional, overwhelmed. But instead, it feels… full. Like everything that was supposed to happen, did.

I’m here, typing this in the same room where my younger self used to dream about what love would look like. It’s not the fairytale I imagined, but it’s better quieter, truer, built on small things that feel big when you look closely.

Twelve hours from now, we’ll exchange vows in front of the people who matter most. My parents, my siblings, my grandmother. The ones who’ve seen me grow, fall, rebuild, and love again.

And maybe that’s what marriage really is not the grand beginning of something new, but a quiet continuation of everything that’s led you here.