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.
And home is different.
It is slower, softer. It is where life feels less like a battle and more like a gentle flow.
Here, the constant motion fades into the background. I wake up to quiet mornings, and it’s almost quiet anyway most of the days. Even time seems to move differently, as if stretching itself out, allowing me to breathe deeply again.
I find myself drawn to the simple things. Conversations that don’t feel rushed, moments that don’t need to be productive, prayers that feel fuller. Here, I can choose where my energy goes, away from the distractions that constantly demands more.
But I know that soon, I will pack my bags again.
I will return to Medan, to the deadlines, expectations, and the invisible pressure to always be doing more. I will rejoin the “pollution”, not just the one in the air, but the kind that seeps into the mind, clouding what truly matters.
And yet, I hope. I hope to carry a piece of home with me.
Hope to keep my heart uncluttered, to hold on to what is real and worthy.
I hope to walk through the noise without letting it settle in my soul.
And more than anything, I hope to remember that I do not need permission to prioritize what and who truly matter.