I got bitten by a wasp and became philosophical

 

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.

Going home to what and who matter more

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. 

Ayah & Mak

 

Tak pernah bosan saya menceritakan dan menulis tentang Mak dan Ayah. Setiap kali memikirkan mereka, saya adalah Ainun yang sedang siap-siap berangkat sekolah, memasang tali sepatu dan melihat Ayah menghangatkan vespa tuanya. Asapnya memenuhi seluruh ruangan rumah kami yang mungil, membuat pedih mata. Lalu saya akan berdiri di depan, Ayah mengendarai vespa, adik saya Hafiz di tengah, dan Mak di belakang. Merasakan dinginnya pagi di pulau kecil yang panas di Kepulauan Riau. Memasuki kelas yang seringkali masih kosong, duduk di belakang, menunggu teman kelas satu per satu datang dengan rambut basah sehabis keramas dan bedak yang dipakai terburu-buru. 

Entah kenapa penggalan memori tersebut sangat jelas di kepala saya. Bukan hari istimewa. Pagi yang monoton, yang terjadi setiap Senin-Sabtu selama 3 tahun, dari saya kelas 3 hingga 6 SD. Selain itu, tak banyak yang saya ingat kecuali beberapa kejadian penting. Karena setelah lulus SD, saya merantau seorang diri hingga lulus kuliah. Ingatan saya tentang hidup bersama Mak dan Ayah hanya itu saja. Tiga tahun.

Life in between

1 January 2024, and I’m home.

This morning, I could already feel the warmth of Allah’s blessings. I woke up to my mom calling everyone to pray Fajr. Wherever she is, there’s no such thing as a slow morning. Wake up at 5 am. Tea ready at 6. Prepare breakfast together, eat at 7. Then some morning walks. No holiday could stop her.

Amid the noise of Subuh at home, I feel content. Stepping outside, I hear my neighbor’s chickens, the mountain breeze, the somewhat cool air. Even the trees seemed patient, just standing there and waiting for what comes next. And isn’t that what we all wonder in life? What comes next?

I’ve reached the halfway point of my first year with my daughter in Medan. I love our evenings together, when she shares her stories from school and opens up about her feelings. But it hurts when I can’t leave work early to spend that time with her. When she said that I was too busy, I felt like a failure. A flood of “what-ifs” came to mind. It reminded me how much I still need to trust myself in the choices I make. This is something both of us need to keep working on, finding a balance.

Because to be honest, my life in recent years have changed quickly. Work, goals, self-beliefs, even my hobbies look different compared to a few years ago. My daughter keeps growing, the idea of “home” keeps shifting, and family roles and traditions don’t feel the same anymore. It’s like I’m stuck in a gray zone, somewhere between what was and what’s next.

In that in-between, my heart often says “at least you have this” while my mind argues “you could do better.” It feels like slow motion in the middle of timelapse. A glitch. I believe there’s a steady ground in this “in between” season. I just haven’t found it yet.

Turning 33

Last week, I turned thirty-three. I wish I could sing Taylor Swift's 22 at the top of my lungs and even though I could change the numbers and it would still rhyme (I'm kinda desperate, here), I have mixed feelings about my age. I will try to describe how it feels.

Thirty-three.

I want to say yes to everything that broadens my horizon. Most time, I feel like there's so much to see and do, with too little time left in the world. Yet sometimes, I’m left with too little options to choose. I feel I am at my bravest most days, but some days it feels like I'm getting closer to my expiration date.

Thirty-three.

I'm stepping into the unknown and it's up to my lame self-control to navigate my life. Sometimes I'm still questioning if I have made the best decisions and wondering if my actions and words come from good faith.

Thirty-three.

I gave up trying to be perfect. I now could look in the mirror and see I am so much beyond my skin freckles and wrinkles. I don't wanna miss the best parts of this life because I'm tied down by my own insecurities. I'm not forever. No one is. I'm not trying to reinvent myself. I want to trust my instincts and see what happens.

I'm ready and I'm not. 

I'm learning that I can be both.