About Unwritten

I believe life is a collection of quiet moments; the ones we often rush past, yet remember the most. This is my space to pause, reflect, and write about the things that shape me: leaving one home to build another, learning to carry family love across borders, and finding beauty in everyday rituals. I write the way I live with curiosity, gratitude, and an openness to change. Welcome to my corner of the internet. I hope you find something here that makes you pause, too.

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  • On Words That Cannot Be Taken Back

    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 Between Sushi

    During a recent trip to Japan, I found myself noticing small details I might have overlooked before: the local servers who moved with politeness but carried a hint of exhaustion; the shop owners who smiled patiently through conversations half-lost in translation; the effort it takes, every day, to serve a constant wave of outsiders while trying to preserve one’s own rhythm of life.

    There was empathy in watching it and discomfort too. Because tourism and migration are cousins. Both bring movement, exchange, and opportunity. But they also test a society’s limits of patience, identity, and belonging.

    That observation stayed with me, especially now as I prepare to relocate to Paris in the months ahead. I’m not just changing countries; I’m crossing into a different culture, a new language, a slower cadence of understanding. And while my move is planned and somewhat supported, it still requires the same internal negotiation that every migrant faces: how much of myself to adapt, and how much to protect.

    Immigration today sits at a crossroads between necessity and fear. Nations need new talent, new energy, new hands. But politically, immigration remains framed as a loss of jobs, of security, of identity for locals. The irony is that modern economies rely on what their politics often resist.

    Administrations should design systems that welcome contribution without erasing individuality. They should invest in integration, not assimilation. Perhaps the first step would be to raise awareness and tell the truth: no modern economy functions without migrants.

    Immigration is not a charity, nor is it a threat. It’s the ongoing story of how humanity moves forward one crossing, one conversation, and one compromise at a time.

    And perhaps that’s what my time in Japan reminded me: every interaction, every shared moment across language or culture, is an act of coexistence. It’s messy, tiring, and profoundly human. The world isn’t getting smaller; it’s getting closer. And the challenge isn’t how to stop it but how to meet it with grace.

  • Twelve Hours

    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.

  • The Rush to Judge

    We live in a world that judges fast and forgives slow. One headline, one post, one wrong sentence taken out of context and the verdict is in before the story even begins.

    I’ve caught myself doing it too. Forming opinions too quickly, convinced I’ve seen enough to know the whole truth. It’s easy to feel righteous when you’re sitting behind a screen, watching other people’s lives unfold like a highlight reel of mistakes.

    But judgment is cheap. It doesn’t cost much to point fingers from a distance. What’s hard is to pause, to sit in the discomfort of not knowing, to admit that there might be more to the story than what’s visible.

    Cancel culture has turned that impulse into a sport. We call it accountability, but too often it’s entertainment dressed as morality. Someone messes up, and we gather not to understand, but to burn. The line between consequence and cruelty gets blurrier every year.

    I think about how, not long ago, mistakes used to stay small. You said something you shouldn’t have, hurt someone you didn’t mean to, learned, changed. Now, one bad moment can follow you forever, permanent scar in a world that preaches growth but rarely allows it.

    Maybe that’s why I’ve started slowing down my reactions. When someone disappoints me, I try to look for patterns, not moments. Intent, not perfection. The truth is, everyone’s capable of being both the hero and the villain, depending on the day.

    I’ve been misjudged before by people who caught a glimpse of me in a moment I wasn’t proud of. And if I’m honest, it still stings. It’s humbling to realise how fragile reputation is, and how quickly empathy disappears when someone else’s downfall makes us feel better about our own.

    So now, before I judge, I pause. Before I comment, I breathe. Because the world doesn’t need more noise, it needs more people willing to understand that being human means being messy.

    Maybe compassion isn’t about excusing what people do wrong, but about remembering that none of us are ever just one version of ourselves.

  • My Firsts

    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.

  • On Forgiveness

    Forgiveness is one of those words people (like me lol) like to romanticize, as if it’s a soft, graceful act. But it’s brutal work. Forgiving someone means accepting that you won’t get the apology you wanted, or the closure you rehearsed a hundred times in your head.

    Learning to stop replaying the same moment of betrayal, the disappointment.. the thing they said and you can’t unsay.

    I’ve learned that forgiveness isn’t for them. It’s for you, the version of you that’s been stuck, bitter, exhausted from dragging that weight around. I’ve carried some for months. The irony is, the longer you hold on, the more it becomes yours. The pain stops belonging to the person who caused it and starts belonging to the person who keeps it alive.

    But self-forgiveness? That’s harder. It’s one thing to forgive others for what they did. It’s another to forgive yourself for what you allowed and ignored. Sometimes, it’s not even a single moment you regret, it’s the person you were back then.

    I’ve had to learn to be kinder to those earlier versions of myself, the one who stayed too long, who spoke too soon, who didn’t stand up for herself. She didn’t have what I know now. She did what she could with what she had. If only she knew and did.

    Forgiveness isn’t a one-time act. It’s a process. Some days you think you’ve let go, and then something small like a song, a scent.. pulls the wound open again. That’s okay. Healing isn’t linear.

    In the end, forgiveness isn’t about pretending it never happened. It’s about accepting that it did and choosing not to let it define what comes next.

  • Two Sides to Everyone

    Everyone has two sides. The good and the bad. The version they show to the world, and the one that slips out when no one’s watching.

    It’s easy to love someone’s best self. Their confidence, their warmth, the way they make you feel seen. But you only really know a person when you’ve witnessed their worst. How they handle anger. How they behave when things don’t go their way. That’s when character stops being theory and starts being evidence.

    I used to think goodness was about being pleasant. Agreeable. Predictable. But that kind of goodness is brittle. One hard truth away from cracking. Real goodness isn’t about never losing your temper or making mistakes. It’s about what you do after.

    We live in a world that worships perfection and punishes imperfection. Cancel culture thrives on this illusion that people are either good or bad, worthy or disposable. But the truth is, most of us live somewhere in the middle which is messy, trying, contradicting ourselves daily. Growth doesn’t happen in purity. It happens in discomfort.

    I’ve seen both sides in myself. The calm and the combative. The empathetic and the impatient. The version that forgives, and the one that quietly keeps score.

    Because pretending to be all light doesn’t make you pure; it just makes you dishonest.

    The trick isn’t to erase one: it’s to own both, and to know which one’s driving when it matters. And maybe that’s what adulthood really is: learning to hold yourself accountable without hating yourself for being human.

  • Lessons From Traveling in China

    I’m typing this reflection on my notepad as I sit in the airport lounge. Julian flew back to Singapore a few days ago to resume work, and I already miss his presence beside me. Traveling together has a way of making the world feel lighter; traveling alone, even for a short stretch, feels different. So here I am, waiting for my flight, trying to put these thoughts down before they slip away.

    My recent trips back from China left me with more than just photos and souvenirs. They reminded me what it means to step into another world: as a tourist, a guest, and sometimes an outsider.

    The first thing that struck me was the scale. China doesn’t move, it surges. Cities stretch endlessly, high speed trains blur across provinces, towers rise almost overnight. Lithium reserves fuel the future, manufacturing hums like a heartbeat, and growth feels less like a strategy and more like momentum that refuses to slow down. But behind the speed and abundance, I noticed something else: the unconsciousness in how waste builds up. The disposable cups, the single-use plastics, the trash tucked into corners of breathtaking places. A country can build at lightning speed, but if it treats what it discards as invisible, the cost doesn’t disappear, it only waits.

    That thought followed me into Zhangjiajie National Park, easily one of the most extraordinary sceneries I’ve ever seen in my life. Towering sandstone pillars that seem to pierce the clouds, a landscape that feels almost otherworldly. And yet, at the foot of those wonders, I saw litter. Not from tourists, but from locals. It was the same contradiction I’d noticed in the cities: building quickly, consuming endlessly, and forgetting to care for what’s already yours. I couldn’t hold back. I spoke up. Some looked embarrassed, others annoyed. But to stay silent would have been to agree that it was okay.

    And then there were the more personal moments. People assumed I couldn’t understand Mandarin, and I’d overhear their murmurs about Julian and me, usually kind, sometimes sweet, occasionally sharp. In those moments, I’d step in. Not to shame, but to remind them that words carry weight, even when you think no one is listening.

    But on my final days in Shanghai, the sharp edges softened. My colleagues welcomed me with a hospitality that was unmatched: warm, effortless, grounding.

    Travel teaches you two things at once: the enormity of a place, and the smallness of your role within it. China, with all its speed and contradictions, showed me both. Growth without sustainability is wasteful. Words without care wound. And kindness, when it shows up, leaves a mark that lingers far beyond the trip.

    Now, as I prepare for my relocation, that lesson feels heavier. I won’t just be a visitor anymore; I’ll be building a life in another country. Still, in many ways, a guest. And maybe that’s the point: to move with respect, to root myself carefully, and to never forget that every place we enter whether a country, an office, or a relationship.. leaves its mark on us. The question is: what mark will we leave in return?

  • Where You Sit Shapes Your Day

    On my first day in the office, I was the first to arrive. Open office concept. “Sit anywhere you like,” they said.

    Back then, IT was still on the 47th floor. Anyway, I went straight for the corner seat. Coat hanger, plenty of space and perfect view of the entire floor. I unpacked my things, settled in, and thought, This is great. I can see everything, everyone can see me.

    Turns out… everyone except me knew that seat was reserved for the highest in command, lol and it wasn’t even my department. The throne. The spot where you watch the whole game play out and control the room without saying a word. Sometimes it’s earned. Sometimes it’s claimed by the one bold enough to plant themselves there and stay put.

    Over time, I realised every seat in the office comes with its own rhythm. Sit next to decision-makers, and you’ll hear things before they’re announced. Tone shifts, side comments.. and the little signals that never make it into emails. Sit next to your teammates, and collaboration flows without the need for scheduled meetings. Ideas get tossed around casually, and small problems get solved before they turn into big ones.

    The middle tables are always buzzing with energy and snacks close by. They also make you the office greeter whether you signed up for it or not. The aisle seats are for those who thrive on conversation, but also the ones who end up interrupted the most.

    I like to circle around, depending on my mood and the kind of day I’m aiming for. Some days I want to be in the thick of it, catching the chatter and energy. Other days, I need to be invisible and tucked away so I can get things done quickly.

    But my favourite will always be the seat near the window. The sun comes through the panel, warming my side of the desk. Every so often, I pause, look out, and see the world moving without me. It’s actually pretty damn therapeutic. People walking, cars passing… a gentle reminder that there’s life outside these walls. And it makes me want to finish my work, pack my bag, and step back into it.

    In the office, your seat isn’t just about where you work. It’s about how you work, who you’re with, and sometimes, the reminder of what you want to get back to.

  • Sunday Recipe: Julian’s Mussels in White Wine

    We often cook at home. We both enjoy a good seafood meal, and with fresh seafood so affordable at the market, it almost feels like a waste not to make it ourselves.

    This mussels dish isn’t mine, it’s Julian’s. And after two years of… let’s say experimental cooking, he’s finally landed on something restaurant-worthy. It takes just 20 minutes, prep included. I didn’t trust him enough to leave him unsupervised, so I was looking over his shoulder the whole time.

    Here’s how he makes it:

    1. Heat a good amount of olive oil in a large pot.
    2. Add 3 finely chopped shallots and cook on medium-high heat until caramelised and golden brown. This is where the depth of flavour starts, so don’t rush it.
    3. Add 2 minced garlic cloves and stir until fragrant. Minced garlic cooks quickly, so keep an eye on it.
    4. Pour in 250ml of Sauvignon Blanc. Bring it to a boil so the alcohol cooks off, leaving a crisp, and surprisingly bright flavour.
    5. Add 2kg of fresh mussels (cleaned and de-bearded), give them a quick stir, then cover the pot.
    6. Steam for about 4 minutes, just until the shells open.
    7. Turn off the heat, add a generous handful of finely chopped parsley, and season with pepper and a little salt if needed.
    8. Serve immediately with toasted bread. The garlicky, wine-soaked broth is too good to waste.

    I told him this one’s a keeper. The recipe… and him.