About Unwritten

I’ve always had a good memory. Sometimes it works in my favour, other times, it clings to things I wish it wouldn’t. But that’s what makes “firsts” so powerful. They stay with you, even when you think you’ve outgrown them.

I remember my grandma and mom’s dumpling soup, how the kitchen smelled like warmth and home. My first family picnic by the beach, sand sticking to wet feet and watermelon juice running down our hands. My first tuition teacher, Miss Yap, who looked across her desk and probably thought I was going to be an academic genius like my sister. She was also the first teacher I admired, and the first who punished me for something I didn’t do.

There was my first star-pupil badge. The first time I carried books for my favourite Chinese teacher to the staff room. The first boy I had a crush on I was seven, and he had a pencil case with built-in buttons. Technology at its peak. My first best friend. My first defender. My first small win that made the world feel suddenly wide. And my first time going to the movies proudly booking the front row, thinking it was the best seat in the house, spending two hours staring up at the screen with a sore neck and zero regrets.

Then came the firsts that shaped me differently. My first part-time job. My first solo trip which led to the start of ten more. My first relationship. My first heartbreak. My first time having sex, and how I absolutely hated it. Lol years later came my first time enjoying sex, realising, oh, so this is what it’s meant to feel like.

My first venture. My first full-time job. My first appraisal that made me feel seen.

Some firsts were joyful, others quietly brutal. But all of them taught me something. My first heartbreak taught me boundaries. My first betrayal taught me dignity. My first encounter with death standing before a body that would never move again taught me how fragile everything truly is. Not every first is meant to be cherished, but each one leaves its mark.

There was my first relocation,Taiwan, and the first time I cried from homesickness. My first long-distance relationship, my first betrayal, my first pet rabbit Xia. My first club night that left my heart pounding louder than the bass. My first hospital stay. My first surgery. My first wish-granting experience, watching someone smile through pain and understanding, finally, what purpose feels like.

Then came the quieter firsts. The first time I looked at my newborn nephew in the hospital, tiny fingers wrapped around mine. The first time I carried my niece in my arms, her heartbeat resting against my chest, realising love can expand in ways you never plan for.

The first time I chased after someone across air miles. The first time I gave up on love. The first time I found it again, when I least believed I would. The first time I was proposed to.

And now, as I look back on all these firsts, I can’t help but wonder what the next one will be my first major relocation, this time to Europe. A new rhythm. A new life. Another beginning that will one day be a memory too.

Firsts have a way of reminding us that every “new” is just another version of ourselves being born again.

And maybe that’s what makes life worth living: the courage to keep showing up for our next first.