What Lingers

A few weeks ago, a friend interviewed me about what happens to our online data after we pass away. In that article, I shared that I sometimes visit a late friend’s Facebook account whenever I miss her. Her final days are still there: messages from her at the hospital bed, her moments of hope, and her quiet sorrow that her husband had to put his life on hold to stay by her side through it all.

She was my husband's friend, and we weren’t that close. But we met a few times, and I could tell she was warm and easygoing. I found myself liking her more each time we crossed paths.

It’s not just her page I visit. Sometimes I find myself scrolling through other accounts too, including one belonging to a friend I used to write with. I see snapshots of his home renovations, memories from when he had just bought the house. He was so proud of it. I’d been there a few times. In fact, years ago I helped get that house featured in a magazine by introducing him to a reporter.

I still remember what he said to me the day he showed it off: “This house may be far from the city center, but let’s see ... maybe your next house will be even further out.”

He said many hurtful things to me: about my appearance, about my family. I won’t go into detail because in Islam, we are encouraged to remember the good of those who have passed, not to speak ill of them after they’re gone.

Still, some of his words stay with me. They echo from time to time, leaving behind something I can’t quite name. Not rage, but something quieter. Something heavier. Resentment, maybe. It lingers in the background, like a song I can’t turn off.

But I don’t want that resentment to disturb whatever peace he may have found. And I don’t want it to keep weighing me down either.

So I’m learning to let go. Not because he asked for forgiveness, or even deserved it, but because I need to be free.

And maybe that brings me back to the first question — about our online presence, and what remains of us when we're gone. I don’t want people to hold a grudge against me either, or feel anger when they scroll past a photo of me after I’m no longer here. So if I’ve ever hurt you (knowingly or not), I hope you’ll forgive me.

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Photo by Annie Spratt on Unsplash

Going Stealth

I started blogging back in 2008. At the time, my blog was like an open book. I shared everything. My friends’ names, my own photos, little daily stories… nothing felt too private. Before that, I wrote in a diary, so blogging felt like the natural next step. It was even more fun because people could read it. Sometimes they’d laugh, sometimes they’d say, “I feel the same way.” It felt like connection.

But a few years ago,  I came across a news article that made me pause. It talked about how easily our personal data can be misused. How people with bad intentions could track us down just from what we post online. That really got to me.

Since then, I’ve started archiving anything that felt too personal. My child’s name, her photos, the hospital where she was born, my husband’s name—all of it. I even set my YouTube videos to private and locked all my social media accounts (even LinkedIn where I could get a job opportunity). Now, I only accept friend requests from people I know in real life.

If you search my name online today, you won’t find much. Maybe a few photos, mostly from book launches or interviews—things I can’t really take back.

A few weeks ago, a friend asked me, “What if you died? Wouldn’t you want people to still find you online when they miss you?”

I’ve thought about that a lot. Social media could be like an “online cemetery”—a place where friends can visit, remember me, or look back on the life I once lived. Maybe close friends would still have access to my social media. But those who are far away? Maybe not. And that’s okay. 

If people want to remember me, they can read my words here—through this blog or my other blog. And that’s enough.

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Photo by Ian Keefe on Unsplash

Life is Fragile. Cherish Every Moment.

My daughter and I

At the office, I usually have an early dinner with my colleagues. We talk about everything: work, family, and whatever else comes up.

One afternoon, a colleague mentioned that his eldest son visited him in Jakarta. His wife, he said, always cried whenever their son returned to Balikpapan. But for him, the distance wasn’t really a problem.

“My wife is sad because she and our son are really close, they love joking around. Meanwhile, my son and I aren’t that tight. But what gets me is seeing him become independent and can buy whatever he wants. He even wanted to buy me a Green Day merch with his own money,” he said.

That made me think. My colleague may have been used to being the provider. And now that his son no longer relies on him financially, a different kind of sadness is creeping in.

I can’t fully relate yet. My daughter is only seven and still depends on me for everything. But as the breadwinner and the main provider for my family, I can imagine feeling the same way someday.

And honestly, it stings a little when I see friends buying concert tickets, purchasing expensive things, or traveling overseas while I’m here paying mortgage and school fees. But I remind myself that this is the life I chose, and it won’t be forever. One day, the mortgage will be paid off. One day, my daughter will no longer need my support. She will move out and build a life with her husband. Eventually, she might not need my help at all.

And that will be even harder to accept.

Watching our children grow up in the blink of an eye is a stark reminder of how fragile life is. Time slips away so quickly, and we have to treasure every moment.

So, I won’t complain about feeling emotionally burdened anymore. Instead, I want to make time for what truly matters and be fully present, appreciating my surroundings and those around me.

How Kendrick Lamar Taught Me About Storytelling

 

Being a writer doesn’t feel complete without learning from Kendrick Lamar.

I first got into Kendrick’s music when I heard that DAMN. (2017) became the first hip-hop album to win the Pulitzer Prize for Music. That’s a huge award in the world of journalism, literature, and music—especially since the award usually goes to classical or jazz compositions. Kendrick’s album earned this recognition because of its exceptional storytelling.

The Pulitzer committee described DAMN. as “a virtuosic song collection unified by its vernacular authenticity and rhythmic dynamism that offers affecting vignettes capturing the complexity of modern African American life.” In other words, it wasn’t just an album. It was a cultural statement.

In DAMN., Kendrick talks about race, identity, faith, and the struggles of being Black American. He reflects on how he can’t save others before facing his own demons. But at the same time, he’s painfully aware that he has a lot of unresolved issues himself.

Then, in Mr. Morale & The Big Steppers (2022), he gets even more vulnerable. He opens up about generational trauma, sexual abuse, and his struggles with loyalty. He repeatedly tells us he’s not a savior and people shouldn’t expect too much from him. He stressed that he’s just another human being, still learning—just like us.

What sets Kendrick apart from other rappers is the way he tells stories. He makes us feel his experiences, and that’s what makes his music stick.

Here are a few storytelling lessons we can learn from Kendrick:

1. Make it personal. If you're writing about mental health, don’t just throw in statistics. Share a real person’s journey—how they struggled, fell, and got back up. That’s what makes a story come alive.

2. Go beyond ‘what happened’ by asking ‘why.’ Don’t just report the facts. Dig into the emotions and motivations behind them. If you’re writing about a public figure, explore what they were truly feeling or thinking beneath the surface.

3. Don’t be afraid to be vulnerable. If you’re writing a personal essay, opening up makes your story stronger. Sometimes, writing about our own struggles helps us grow and understand ourselves better.

"At 27 years old, my biggest fear was bein’ judged. How they look at me reflect on myself, my family, my city. What they say ‘bout me reveal if my reputation would miss me. What they see from me would trickle down generations in time. What they hear from me would make ‘em highlight my simplest lines." – Kendrick Lamar, FEAR.

Through Kendrick Lamar, I’ve come to realize that storytelling isn’t just about writing technique. It’s about connection. It’s about sparking curiosity. And most importantly, it’s about making sure our stories stick—long after they’ve been told.

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• This essay is a translation of my original piece, which I already posted on my LinkedIn.
• Photo by Dorel Gnatiuc on Unsplash

Living Small Lives

Photo by Sergiu Nista on Unsplash

I spotted a tiny creature sitting on the cool tiles in my bathroom.

It was a little frog, no larger than the tip of my thumb. Its brown body stayed perfectly still, but its eyes gleamed with quiet alertness. I could’ve splashed some water to guide it down the drain. Instead, I let it stay, even entertaining the idea of naming it. Disgusting, I know.

It struck me how small the frog’s world must be. The bathroom might have felt like an expansive wilderness to it. And yet, the frog didn’t seem burdened by its smallness. It wasn’t planning to return to the drain, go to the front yard, or leap across the street to a larger pond (I know there’s a big puddle behind my housing boundary wall because I often hear frogs singing there after the rain). It was simply being, doing what frogs do.

I found myself envying the frog. Strange, I know.

Life, for so many of us, feels like a relentless climb, like a pursuit of bigger things: bigger achievements, bigger homes, bigger reputations. We are constantly told to reach for the stars, to chase our dreams. But what if we didn’t? What if we allowed ourselves to breathe out and live small lives, like the frog in my bathroom?

Living small doesn’t mean abandoning dreams or ambitions. It means embracing the idea that our worth isn’t tied to how much we achieve or how far we go. It’s about finding joy in the simple moments like coming home early enough to enjoy a quiet evening with a loved one, or a stress-free weekend without dreading Monday. These moments make life rich, even if they don’t make headlines.

I used to think of chasing a higher career ladder. But now, I’ve started to believe that climbing the career ladder isn’t for me anymore, especially when I observed my coworker staying in the same position for years, and he seemed perfectly fine. He didn’t need to attend meetings to present concepts or take responsibility for the work because his leader handled all that.

The higher the position, the greater the responsibility and stress—things that could easily take over my life. Where I am now feels enough. Honestly, the thought has crossed my mind that I no longer want to be a leader.

And so, I’ve begun to approach life with the same quiet simplicity as the little frog. I no longer need to fill every moment with action or every space with noise. 

Perhaps, like the frog, we are all just navigating our own small worlds. And perhaps that’s enough.

P.S. I have a small pond in my garden, home to a frog we’ve named Toto the Toad. Maybe the tiny frog in my bathroom is Toto’s child, going through the drain to pay us a visit. 😁

When the Senses Trigger Memories

Lately, my husband and I have been enjoying instant coffee with creamer. We used to drink only black coffee, coarsely ground, without any sugar. But ever since I started making my own iced coffee at home (using Nescafe, fiber creme, sweetener, and milk), I’ve been keeping creamer stocked in the house, and now my husband has joined in.

“I prefer coffee with just creamer, no milk,” he said one evening as we chatted on the terrace after I got home from work.

He continued, “It reminds me of when Dad used to keep creamer stocked when we lived in Tangerang. The coffee was always Nescafe in a glass jar, and the creamer came in a bottle.”

The visual of Nescafe and creamer in bottles, along with the taste of coffee mixed with creamer, instantly took my husband back to memories with his late father. It touched me to hear this, especially knowing that his father passed away a long time ago (I had the chance to meet him before we got married), so he never got to see my husband as a family man with kids.

My husband’s relationship with his father was bittersweet. His father was a respected school principal, even by his own children, so they weren’t particularly close. But over time, my husband tried to get closer and often had discussions with his dad, which warmed their relationship.

Senses as time machines

Have you ever seen, felt, or smelled something and suddenly been transported back to your childhood?

I experience this all the time. For instance, one of my coworkers, Rara, wears Zara perfume that always reminds me of my relative’s house in Cianjur, which I often visited as a child. The perfume has a soft, jasmine-like, powdery scent. I’m not sure exactly what made the house smell like that—maybe it was the floor cleaner or room freshener.

Or more recently, when I was sitting next to someone on the train. Their perfume had a fresh, soapy scent, just like the smell of someone who’s just stepped out of the shower or freshly laundered clothes. It immediately brought back memories of warm baths and soapy bubbles from my childhood home.

"Even another coworker of mine, Itsna, has had similar experiences. Once, when eating a stir-fried tofu dish cooked with candlenut and melinjo (or Gnetum gnemon) leaves, she exclaimed, “This is so good! I used to eat this all the time when I was little.” Her excitement made me curious, so I tried it too, but honestly, I didn’t quite get what she loved about it—the taste of stir-fried melinjo leaves was unfamiliar to me.

We rely on our eyes, but our noses hold the memories

It’s strange but true: the sense we rely on the most—our sight—turns out to be the one that stores the fewest memories. Scientists estimate that we remember only about 5% of what we see but up to 35% of what we smell.

This is because our sense of smell is closely linked to the hippocampus, the part of the brain responsible for memory storage. It’s also tied to the limbic system, which plays a role in forming memories and recognizing scents. In fact, recent studies show that 83% of participants admitted that certain smells reminded them of pleasant memories.

It makes sense when I think about it—I rarely recall distant childhood memories just from seeing something. But when it comes to smells, my mind is instantly transported back in time. For example, the scent of tofu pudding immediately brings to mind a childhood evening on Jl. Taman Pramuka, surrounded by lush banyan trees. I can vividly picture the tofu pudding seller stopping in front of our garage, slicing the tofu with a spoon, and the warm, silky texture sliding down my throat.

It can be trained

They say that the ability to recall memories through taste and smell can be trained with simple exercises. For example, when enjoying a cup of coffee in the morning, try to really focus on the aroma, the taste on your tongue, and even the sound of hot water splashing into the cup.

You can then jot down these experiences in a journal. By practicing this regularly, not only will you enjoy everyday moments more, but you’ll also sharpen your senses.

This exercise could be particularly useful for writers looking to enhance their fiction or for people working in coffee or tea industries.

Speaking of smells, I can’t help but wonder what scents my child’s senses are recording now—what aromas of home or food will bring her back to her childhood when she’s all grown up?

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Photo by Daniele D'Andreti on Unsplash

So, I Broke My Toe

 

Lately, I’ve been really into badminton. Friday evenings spent smashing birdies with my neighbors had become my post-work highlight. That night, everything seemed normal—laughter, friendly competition, the usual. But in the middle of a heated rally, I landed weirdly and heard the dreaded “crack”.

At first, I figured it was just a minor injury. You know, the kind you can walk off after a couple of days. But after seeing the orthopedic and getting the confirmation that my toe was indeed broken, I realized I was in for the long haul.

Now, here I am, three weeks later, still hobbling around. Honestly, it’s not that painful—until I have to navigate broken sidewalks or hop on public transportation. And to make it worse, I’ve had to miss out on the regular workout sessions with my friends, which has been a major bummer. 🥲 

Walking, something I never gave a second thought to, has suddenly become an ordeal. Every step feels like a reminder of what I’ve lost—mobility, freedom, the basic ability to get from point A to point B without wincing. It’s funny, isn’t it? You don’t realize how amazing it is to walk pain-free until it’s taken away from you.

I guess that’s the thing about life—we take the little things for granted. The ease of walking, the ability to work out, just having a body that cooperates. I never thought much about it when everything was fine, but this whole toe debacle has been a big wake-up call to not overlook a healthy body. 

In the end, my broken toe taught me a pretty valuable lesson: sometimes it takes losing the smallest things to remind you just how much they matter.