What Mea Writes

My name is Mea, and once, this blog was where I shared everything about my little family. Life has changed — and so have I. Now, this space holds my thoughts, feelings, heartbreaks, healings, and the small moments that remind me I am still becoming. Writing here is my way of breathing deeper — a kind of personal meditation through words. If you are reading this, thank you for meeting me here, exactly as I am.

[whatmeawrites]

You Were Right to Dream Big

Dear Older Me,

I don’t know how to explain this without sounding arrogant, but…

Even as a girl, I knew. I always felt like I was meant to live a bigger life.

Not bigger as in richer. Not grand in the way magazines or movies showed it. Just… wider. I could feel it in my bones. That I was meant to go further than the borders of my childhood, that something out there had my name on it — even if I didn’t know what it looked like yet.

We weren’t wealthy. Our life was humble, simple. Holidays were for Eid — roadtripping to Solo in Central Java , or the occasional drive to nearby towns. The idea of traveling the world felt faraway, reserved for someone else. Still, I carried that ache. That quiet voice saying: There’s more.

So I need to ask you:

Did I ever make it out of that life? Did I go farther? Did I live that “big” life I once believed was waiting for me?

Love, Younger Me

---

Dear Younger Me,

Yes. You lived that big life you always believed was meant for you.

And no — it didn’t arrive wrapped in a bow. No one handed it to you. You built it. Quietly. Grittily. Piece by piece.

You knew the way to go big was to step out of your comfort zone. You saw English as a door to somewhere wider, freer. That’s why you taught yourself the language long before school made it mandatory. You weren’t fluent, but you were obsessed. You read secondhand English books your older sister left behind when she moved abroad — even when you barely understood them. You’d sound out words alone in your bedroom, copy phrases into notebooks, pretend they were yours. You watched Sesame Street like your life depended on it, mouthing every skit until it stuck. You didn’t just want to speak the language — you wanted to live in the world it belonged to.

At the same time, you watched your mother wear herself thin to keep your world intact. She didn’t have much, but she gave you everything she could. Even when your stepfather tore her down — mocking her, hitting her, refusing to help — she kept showing up. For you. For your siblings. For the quiet belief that education mattered. That you mattered.

You didn’t realize it then, but her determination became your compass. She planted the ethic in you: Be better. Go farther. Don’t shrink. And you didn’t.

When college started, most of your friends focused on school. You did too — but you also worked. Weekdays. Weekends. First as a kindergarten assistant, then as an English tutor. You taught children their first words in the language you had once wrestled with alone. Not because it was fun, but because you needed the money — to pay for meals, for movie tickets, for the freedom to say yes when your friends asked you out. To feel like you belonged. To enjoy something without guilt.

Then came your first trip abroad — Singapore. You flew on a plane for the first time. Scared, but too proud to admit it. You smiled like it was nothing, even though your stomach turned during takeoff. And when you landed, something in you cracked open. You stood there looking at the skyline, the people, the pace — and something in you cracked open. So this is what else is out there, you thought.

And you were right. There was more.

Because later — through tenacity, instinct, and quiet, persistent brilliance — you went farther. You worked in multinational companies, in rooms you once dreamed of. You exchanged ideas with people from all over the world. You spoke English with clarity and confidence. You traveled to the Middle East, Southeast Asia, Europe, Australia, North and South America — not as a tourist, but as a woman representing her mind, her work, her worth.

You built a home — stable, warm, and full of love — for your children. You became their sole provider, especially after the divorce. You enrolled them in good schools, found tutors, and drove them to soccer, basketball, dance, guitar, and singing lessons. You poured everything you had into giving them access, exposure, safety, and joy. Because you were committed to giving them a life far bigger than the one you had.

You took them to beaches, temples, theme parks, and countries you once only saw in magazines — and let them feel the awe for themselves. You gave them a view of the world that started higher, wider, and softer than yours ever did.

You let them dream from a higher place.

And you did it not because life was easy — but because you never stopped believing that it could be more.

So yes, my love. You lived big. Not just because of the miles you traveled or the rooms you entered — but because you honored the dream you held long before anyone else saw it.

And I’m so, so proud of you.

With all my heart, Your Older Self

[whatmeawrites]

After the Storm, You

I gave dating apps one last try.

After so many dead-end conversations, broken promises, and men who didn’t know what they wanted—or maybe they did, just not the same things I was looking for—I was exhausted. Tired of starting over. Tired of opening up. Tired of hoping. The cycle of almosts and maybes, of emotional unavailability and careless behavior, had worn me down.

But for some reason, in the quiet few months of early 2024, I gave dating apps one last chance. Just one more swipe. No expectations.

And then I found you.

You were far away in Bali. I was in Jakarta, juggling work, motherhood, and everyday chaos. Long-distance wasn’t exactly in my plans. But there was something different about you. The way you spoke—warm, thoughtful, present—made me pause. You didn’t rush the conversation. You asked meaningful questions. You actually listened.

And slowly, I let you in.

I gave you space to show up. And you did—consistently, gently, fully. No games. No confusion. Just calm, open-hearted connection.

I still remember the day I decided to visit you. I wasn’t sure what I was walking into, but the moment we met in person, everything just… clicked. There was no awkwardness, no pretense. Just this quiet familiarity, like we’d known each other in a thousand lifetimes before.

You made love feel simple again. Peaceful. Kind. Thoughtful. Steady. After years of carrying the weight of relationships that felt one-sided or uncertain, you gave me the gift of something mutual. Something real.

And now, one year later, I still smile at how it all began—on an app I nearly deleted, in a year I almost gave up.

Sometimes love doesn’t arrive with fireworks. Sometimes it enters quietly, like a soft breeze on a heavy day. And when it does, it feels like coming home.

Happy anniversary, my love. Thank you for being my calm after the storm.

[whatmeawrites]

Muak

I’m so, so tired. Not of the fight — not of life, not of being a mother, not of the chaos. I’m tired of this. Of the endless loop I can’t seem to step out of. I’m tired of him — even when he’s not here.

There’s a word we use in my language: muak. It’s more than tired. More than annoyed. Muak is what you feel when you’ve swallowed too much for too long. When your body, heart, and mind all say: enough. It’s being emotionally saturated. Full to the brim with something you didn’t choose but kept enduring anyway.

That’s what I feel. Muak with the weight of someone else’s chaos spilling into my peace.

I didn’t sign up for this. Not for carrying the aftermath long after the ending. Not for still having to clean up, coordinate, explain, adjust — just because he won’t. I didn’t sign up to still be tangled in things I’ve already walked away from. And yet here I am, still having to deal with it. Still pulled back into it, again and again.

I want to be free. Truly free — not just on paper, not just for show. I want silence without suspense. Boundaries without backlash. I want my children to feel joy in our home without the shadow of the drama creeping in.

But I’m still here. Still in this murky space between obligation and resentment. Still doing what needs to be done, but every day wondering: why does it still feel like I’m not free?

I’m not writing this because I have the answers. I’m writing it because I don’t. Because tonight, muak is the only word that fits.

[whatmeawrites]

Uncontrollable Sadness

Dear Older Me,

I don’t know how to name this feeling, so I call it an uncontrollable sadness.

It comes in waves—quiet, uninvited. One moment I’m laughing with friends, feeling like everything is in its place. The next, I’m swallowed by something I can’t explain. A heaviness. A mellow kind of ache that just settles in me. Not because anything went wrong. Not because I’m lonely. But because… it’s just there.

I first noticed it in college, when life was supposedly good. I had close friends. I was in relationships I thought were real. I felt young, skinny, alive, even thriving. But sometimes, in the middle of joy—at a café, in a car ride, during a party—I’d feel suddenly out of place.

Disconnected. Like I was watching myself from a distance, wondering why I couldn’t stay inside the happiness everyone else seemed to hold so easily.

I didn’t talk about it much. I didn’t want to seem ungrateful or dramatic. But I’ve always felt a little too soft for this world. Mellow, introspective, easily moved—by music, by other people’s pain, by silence.

So I guess what I’m asking is… Is this normal? Does it ever go away? Did we ever figure out what it meant?

Best, Younger Me

-------------

Dear Younger Me,

Oh, sweet girl. I remember exactly what you mean.

That uncontrollable sadness—I still feel it sometimes. But I’ve learned to stop fearing it, or labeling it as wrong. What you’re describing isn’t weakness or brokenness. It’s sensitivity. It’s your heart being tuned to the quiet frequencies most people drown out.

You’ve always been someone who feels deeply. You absorb the moods of a room, the unspoken pain of others, the weight of beauty and loss—sometimes all at once. That’s not something you need to fix. That’s your gift. And yes, it can feel like a burden when you’re young, when the world seems to demand loudness and certainty and cheerfulness on cue. But in time, you’ll learn to honor that softness instead of fighting it.

The truth is, you didn’t just become sensitive—you were shaped that way. By life. By survival.

When everything changed after your mother's first divorce, and you found yourself being pulled back and forth, you started paying attention. You had to. Then came your stepfather—charming to some, terrifying to others. You learned quickly that safety meant observation. You noticed his tone before he spoke, the tension in his shoulders, the shift in air pressure when anger was near. You knew when to speak, when to disappear, when to smile just enough to keep peace.

Even though you were the youngest—his “favorite,” the one who could “steal his heart”—you carried the weight of everyone else’s emotional safety. You tried not to make waves. You didn’t want to be another reason for anyone to hurt. So you became quiet. Perceptive. Good.

And somewhere in all that carefulness, sadness started growing roots. Not loud or obvious—but lingering. Even when you were happy. Even when you were thriving. In a room full of laughter, you could still feel apart, still sense a shadow moving inside you.

After college, you moved away for a couple of years—to Malaysia. It wasn’t oceans away, but it was far enough. Far from the tension. Far from the noise. And in that space, you began to learn something unfamiliar but beautiful: peace. You had to face your loneliness without distraction. You learned to navigate silence, manage your own emotions, and slowly unlearn the idea that your value came from pleasing others.

You gave that uncontrollable sadness a seat at the table. You didn’t exile it—you let it speak, and in return, it softened.

And then one day, years later, you heard that Mom had finally left him. Her second divorce. And instead of despair, you felt something else: relief. Not joy, not celebration—just a quiet, steady release. Like something inside you could finally exhale.

That moment didn’t undo the past. But it gave closure to a story that shaped you. And in its place, you began writing your own.

So here’s what I want you to know—clearly, honestly:

Yes, it’s normal. Maybe not for everyone, but for people like us—the ones who feel everything all at once—it absolutely is. You’re not the only one who’s ever sat in a room full of laughter and felt a quiet ache swell up inside. You’re not strange. You’re just deeply attuned to the world, and that comes with its own weight.

Does it ever go away? Not completely. But it changes. It loses its grip. With time, and distance, and healing—you’ll learn how to live with it without letting it define you. It won't catch you off guard the way it used to. You’ll learn when to rest, when to reach out, and when to sit quietly with it like an old friend passing through.

Did we ever figure out what it meant? Yes. We did. It meant that you were carrying more than your own sadness. It meant you were feeling the ripple of years spent bracing, adapting, surviving. It meant you were human—sensitive, aware, and aching for peace.

And it meant you had work to do—not to fix yourself, but to come home to yourself.

And you did.

And I’m so, so proud of you.

With all my heart, Your Older Self

[whatmeawrites]

Tiny, Beautiful Things: Why Cheryl Strayed's Words Moved Me

Some books speak to your mind. Others—like Tiny Beautiful Things—speak directly to your soul. At least it did to mine.

I discovered Cheryl Strayed through the movie Wild. Reese Witherspoon happened to be one of my favorite actresses, and though she moved me to watch the film, it was the story—the raw, honest, quietly devastating story—that stayed with me long after the credits rolled. Wild wasn’t just a tale of a woman hiking the Pacific Crest Trail. It was a story of unraveling and remaking. Of losing everything and choosing, step by step, to begin again.

The grief Cheryl carried in Wild—grief for her mother, for her former self, for the life that spiraled out of control—was familiar. Not always in detail, but in emotion. Her pain felt true. Her choices—some reckless, some desperate, all human—were not written to impress or justify. They were laid bare, and in that bareness, I saw pieces of my own life.

After watching Wild, I was drawn to Tiny Beautiful Things. It felt like a natural next step—to hear Cheryl, now as Sugar, offering solace and insight to others who were also navigating the chaos of life. The book, a collection of her Dear Sugar advice columns, stunned me. Not because of perfectly packaged answers, but because she didn’t offer any. Instead, she gave truth. Vulnerability. The courage to say, “Me too. I’ve been there.” And from that place of knowing, she wrote letters that could crack you open and then wrap you in warmth.

What moved me most was how Cheryl answered pain with personal stories. She didn’t prescribe. She related. Whether someone was dealing with loss, infidelity, confusion, shame, or the ache of not knowing what comes next, Cheryl wrote with both grit and grace. She reminded us that there’s no tidy ending, no singular path forward. But there is beauty in showing up, broken and brave, and trying again.

Both Wild and Tiny Beautiful Things remind me that grief doesn’t go away—it transforms. That choices, even the messy ones, define not just where we go but who we become. And that sometimes, all we need is a voice—honest and tender—to walk beside us and say, “You’re not alone.”

Cheryl Strayed, as weirdly as it sounds, gave me that voice.

And now, I feel inspired to do something similar. I don’t have letters to answer or strangers asking for advice. But I do have questions I used to carry—the ones I asked silently when I was younger, lost, confuse, or afraid. So I’m going to write to her: to my younger self. I’ll answer those questions with the clarity I have now, the scars I’ve earned, and the love I wish I had then. Not to fix her—but to stand beside her. To say: I see you. I remember. And we made it through.

[whatmeawrites]

Let Fear Sit Beside You

(but don’t let it speak for you)

Let fear sit beside you— but don’t let it speak for you. Let it watch, but not steer. Let it ache, but not decide.

It can hold your hand in the dark, but it cannot hold the pen. It cannot write your story in the voice of someone who never tried.

Fear will tell you to wait. To soften. To shrink. To build smaller dreams so they hurt less if they break.

But you are not here to be untouched. You are not here to get through life unbruised.

You are here to risk being seen. To love so deeply it echoes. To stand so fully in yourself that even your shaking is holy.

Fear will try to bargain. It will show you every version of what could go wrong— not out of cruelty, but because it thinks protection looks like hesitation.

It will not ask What if you fail? It will ask quieter things, more believable lies— Are you sure? Are you enough? Isn't it too late?

And your answer doesn’t need to be loud. You don’t need to roar. You just need to keep moving, one honest, trembling step at a time. Because nothing true ever came from standing still.

Let fear witness your rising— but never let it edit your light.

You can be afraid and still go on.

You can tremble and still be brave.

Let fear sit beside you. But don’t ever— not even once— let it speak for you.

[whatmeawrites]

First Post (After Many, Many Years)

It’s been a long time since I wrote here.

Not because I had nothing to say— but because life got loud. Loud with changes, with choices, with moments that demanded presence over reflection.

In the years between posts, life stretched, cracked, softened, and reshaped me. I went through a divorce— not just the end of a marriage, but the quiet unraveling of who I thought I was supposed to be.

I changed jobs— learned to speak new languages in boardrooms, stood taller in rooms I once shrank myself in.

I raised my children— watched them grow into their own edges, watched myself grow beside them.

I let myself fall in love again— not just once. I dared to open. I dared to hope. Some endings came with heartbreak, but not the kind that shatters— the kind that teaches. And somewhere in the quiet after, something (hopefully) real started to take shape.

And somehow— quietly, stubbornly, with more grace than before— I began again.

Not because I had it all figured out. Not because I wasn’t afraid. But because something deep inside me always knew: I’m not done becoming. Not yet.

This blog is different now.

It’s no longer just a space for family snapshots or curated reflections. It’s a room of my own, where I lay down the words I carry— unpolished, true, and still in progress.

It’s where I write for no one and everyone. For the version of me that needed to hear it five years ago. And maybe, for someone out there who needs it now.

I’m not here to impress. I’m here to witness. To notice. To put language to the in-between.

If you’re reading this—thank you. You’ve met me at the edge of something. Maybe the edge of something in yourself, too.

Welcome back to whatmeawrites. The stories will come soon. But for now, let’s sit here— in this return. In the still-becoming.

[whatmeawrites]

today (23/07/2017)

i feel bleugh today. i ate too many carbs, stephan freaking slept the whole day (he said he might be feeling down and sucessfully transferred the down-ness to me) and i spent most of the day either alone or with my two screaming kids. it’s just been one lousy sunday. and it’s such a pity because it drowns me in sorrow as i know next working week will be tough. eugh

[whatmeawrites]

the world doesn’t stop just because you decide to sleep for the whole day. and it certainly just doesn’t start when you finally decide to wake up. most of the times it’s already too late. my mood has been destroyed and you arrived too late to repair it.

meawrites, 23/07/2017

[whatmeawrites]

The closer you get, the less magical you become.

Lala Bohang

[whatmeawrites]

paid a visit to my old blog, reading how my younger self describes her days and feelings and thinking "wow, how different i was to i am now". i think i was crazily happy back then, my smile seems to be so sincere. it's funny yet odd to see the dramatic changes, in terms of what you can see physically (cough cough, 20kgs weight gain) and what i feel emotionally, but nonetheless i am happy that i have evolved, hopefully for the better.

[whatmeawrites]

today (20/07/2017)

numa went for her second soccer practice today. imah sent me some pictures and she’s looking so tomboy-y cute 😍

today i listen to this modern love podcast titled “I need to woman up”, about a woman meeting and marrying someone who’s serving his sentence in jail, getting pregnant and eventually choosing her daughter over her husband as she couldn’t cope with the emotional issues of being a single parent and having to take care of them both, emotionally. i really like the podcast and i actually feel for her, especially when she says during the post script “the guilt never leaves you, you just learn to live with it”. some of my fav sentence from the script:

“But mostly I worried whether I would be able to raise a black girl safely in a world that seems to expand in its ability to hate and destroy.”

“So somewhere among potty training, play dates, bylines and balancing the household books, I lost pieces of myself I'm only now trying to reclaim.”

"I can't play at house or marriage anymore" is what I finally said. "I love you. But I need to woman up and do this on my own."

i also posted someting on my instagram, about my reflection “meeting” this blog again and reading my old post. someting on my instagram, about my reflection “meeting” this blog again and reading my old post. i’ll share it as a next post. 

[whatmeawrites]

while I was away..

..I posted a few entries on meawrites.blosgpot.com (still learning how to migrate the posts to this blog, bear with me). 

[whatmeawrites]

the thing about this blog

I've been contemplating about closing this blog. 

I don't know what to make of this blog. I hate the thought of having a blog and see it un-updated. Reading other people's blog, though makes me happy, makes me think of my blog and the thought just hangs there. I know I can never compete with those mommy blogs, but I want to be able to write like them. I want to be able to look back at these webpages and reminisce what me and my family used to be like, what we did, how we did it and what were our feelings like. Writing used to elevate me, made me feel fresh and an activity where I gained back my insanity, but it no longer is. I don't know why. Maybe I was trying too hard. Maybe because I was trying to make this family "look" interesting. Maybe because my goal is to have a lot of people read this blog and someday be in the same standards of those mommy bloggers. Maybe because I keep trying and pushing to write in English and sometimes I couldn't just find the words to express exactly what I want to say. 

I still have a lot to think about, but one thing I know is I want to keep this blog. I don't know what's in future for this blog, maybe I'll write in Bahasa, maybe I'll write in English, maybe a little bit of both. I erased the feature of google stats in this blog because I want this blog to be about me, I don't want to know about the numbers, how many people reading and where they are from. I want to focus on me and my family and I don't want to be bothered with anything else. 

So cheers to me, and long live this blog (hopefully)..

[whatmeawrites]

Jaudan's 1st birthday

Jaudan turned one year old last month. No longer a baby. Officially a toddler. 

On his birthday, nothing special was arranged. Mommy had to go to work and couldn't spend the day with him. So we light up a candle when he woke up and let him eat his first mini cupcake (which he didn't seem to enjoy, by the way). 

Two weekends after that, we organized a small ball-themed birthday party inviting a few kids from the neighborhood and some relatives. Nothing fancy. We prepared cakes, jellies and popcorn for the kids. Oma decorated the house with balloons, which made Jaudan go ballistic for two whole days. The kids seemed to enjoy the party because it was filled with presents and goodies. And most importantly, the birthday boy was happy and got so many presents for the whole three months! Blocks and books and toys. Yeay!

Happy birthday, little man. We have big hopes for you, but mainly is for you to be blessed with happiness and healthiness always..

[whatmeawrites]

days i am away from my family

1. friday, january 11 2. saturday, january 12 3. sunday, january 13 4. monday, january 14 5. tuesday, january 15 6. wednesday, january 16 7. thursday, january 17 8. friday, january 18 9. saturday, january 19

[whatmeawrites]

first time leaving jaudan for a loooong busines trip

well here i am. on some lounge in the airport, waiting for my flight to be called to board. i am leaving to houston. my first time ever visiting the land of america. my first (long) business trip in two years. the last business trip was to buenos airea in january 2011 and now here i am. i am somehow so thankful for the opportunity my job gives me to be able to travel to countries i have never been before. even though for this time around i have yet to take a 25 hours flight minus the transit time, i am happy and i am excited. but of course i am sad. the thought of leaving jaudan. eugh. it took me a long time to be able to come to the state of where i am, to letting go, to trust that everything will be okay. i struggled in finding an inner peace for a while. i worried for days and weeks, thinking how i could cope with being away from him for so long, thinking how he would cope with being away from me for so long (well it's not exactly that long, it is infact only for 10 days), and suddenly the sense of calmness and acceptance just sets in. i know he is going to be okay. i trust Allah to be with him while i am away. he will be at home with his papa whom he is crazy about, his nanny and my maid. he will be surrounded with familiar, loving people and he will be just fine. i know that... :)