Today was difficult, but I stood strong. Well, sat strong.
I’ve been interviewing at least 20 people every day since Monday. For someone who could go days without seeing another soul and not feel lonely, being surrounded by this many faces daily has drained every last drop of my social battery.
This morning, I woke up completely empty. No energy, no spark, not even enough willpower for a light workout. I just lay there, staring at the ceiling. But I had to get up and get ready. So I did.
I took a cold shower to jolt my mind awake, trying to look at least somewhat presentable, knowing I'd be doing another marathon of conversations today.
On the way to the office, my supervisor casually brought up a few things I hadn’t done, plus how I should conduct my interviews differently. Apparently, I need to steer them a certain way to get better outcomes. He wasn’t wrong. But man, how timing can make even the most well-meaning feedback taste bitter.
This evening, my team and I went to catch the sunset. On the way, I was on a video call with my daughter. It was her first day back at school after a whole month off. Our call was the usual circus: weird faces, random stories, zero logic. But beneath the silliness, I was bracing myself. These long field calls with her usually end with tears and the dreaded question, “When are you coming home?”
Last night, for the first time in my life, I got bitten by a wasp. On my right palm, right under my pointer finger. And let me tell you, no amount of pain metaphor I can think of will ever do it justice. It wasn’t just a sting; it was a full-body betrayal. My nerves were on fire, my mind spiraled. I actually stood there wondering, “Is this venomous? What if my hand goes numb and I can’t use it again? How do I audit with one hand - left hand?”
So of course, in true small-town audit fieldwork fashion, my team took me to an orang pintar nearby. He cleaned the sting, gave me five different types of mystery pills (which I didn't take because, no thank you, random unlabeled substances). By the time I got back to the hotel, the pain had eased a little. And by morning, it was like it never happened. And maybe because I’m perpetually tired and slightly philosophical these days, I started thinking about how much this whole thing reminds me of my life in the last 3 years.
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Going home each year is never just about the flights back, road trip, gifts, or family gatherings. It’s a moment to breathe deeper, to let go of the weight I’ve been carrying.
It’s a major shift in perspective, a reminder of what my heart has always known: that beyond the daily rush of Medan, there are things that matter more that I should take care more and ones that I've been neglecting.
The rhythm of office life is relentless, always convincing me that what I do is significant, or at the very least, it will be, someday. In many ways, I am grateful. I take comfort in knowing I’m supporting my husband as we build a life for our family. Medan, despite its noise and chaos, offers a future for my child that my hometown simply cannot.
But then, I go home twice a year. And home is different. It is slower, softer. It is where life feels less like a battle and more like a gentle flow.
