GlitterDimples

I believe that education and social expectations have always coexisted, especially in a today’s society, where academic achievements are closely associated with success and opportunities. I do not necessarily think that is wrong. I’m not saying life experience can replace formal training either, because some professions genuinely need it.

Education has played an important role in shaping us and I firmly believe in lifelong learning. Learning should never stop at graduation or stay within the four walls of a classroom. As we grow older, our mistakes, responsibilities, life experiences and encounters with people from different walks of life continue to teach us things that no textbook can fully prepare us for.

Yet I find it rather ironic that while we encourage lifelong learning, yet stay so quick to judge people by the qualifications they obtained, or did not obtain. Does learning become less meaningful simply because it does not lead to a certificate? Does someone who never went to university, but never stopped learning, really count as less educated?

For me, education was never just about the certificates we display. It’s about staying curious, being willing to question ourselves, learn from others and recognise that there will always be something we do not know. There’s an invisible checklist we all seem to carry a degree in your 20s, family in your 30s, top earner by your 40s. As though that could tell the whole story of who we are.

A person is so much more than the first twenty years of their story. Some of us bloom late, some of us change direction, and some of us only find our strength after life has tested us. None of that shows up on a certificate.

So the next time we’re tempted to measure someone by where they started. Let’s ask a kinder question; who have they become?

We are all still learning. No one should be defined by just the first chapter of their life.

It all began when I was just 9 years old.

One day, my dad brought me to a tiny craft shop besides his medical hall and left me there for the whole day. Little did I know that this little shop would be the beginning of something I would love for the rest of my life.

I still remember quietly walking around the shop, looking at all the colourful yarns neatly arranged on the shelves. There were packets of knitting needles hanging nicely on display, while the crochet hooks were kept inside a glass cabinet in front of the lady who owned the shop. Everything looked so interesting to me. I was just a little girl, curious about all the colours, yarns and needles around me.

The lady gently asked, “What art craft would you like to learn?”

With my soft little voice, I pointed my tiny fingers towards the knitting needles and asked, “What are those?”

She smiled and took out some knitting pattern books to show me. I remember looking through the pages, fascinated by all the beautiful sweaters that could be made with just yarn and two needles.

And that was how my knitting journey began.

Looking back, I never imagined that a simple visit to a tiny craft shop would leave such a lasting memory. I was only nine years old and all I did was point at something that caught my eye.

Many years have passed, but my love for knitting has never really left me. Even today, I still get excited whenever I see beautiful yarns or a new set of knitting needles. My room is filled with different sets of knitting needles and colourful yarns. I’ve collected quite a lot over the years, but somehow,

“Too many knitting needles? I don’t think so. There’s always room for one more set! Haha!

Sometimes I wonder if my dad knew what he was getting me into that day. What started as a little girl’s curiosity became a hobby that has stayed with me all these years. And whenever I pick up my knitting needles, a little part of me still remembers that tiny craft shop and the kind lady who first introduced me to the world of knitting.

I grew up being told who I needed to be.

My mum said it once, plainly we come from a disadvantaged family. As the firstborn, my role was clear. Be a good daughter. Be a good sister. Stay honest and humble. Make no mistakes.

So I did.

I carried that quietly for years. Smiling at relatives who looked through me as if I was invisible. Staying connected to people who blamed me first, questioned me always and celebrated me never. I showed up every family gatherings, festive seasons, milestone moments hoping that perhaps this time, things would feel different. They never did.

Their impression of me was fixed. Uneducated, Scheming and Untalented. Words that were never said to my face but somehow always found their way back to me. No one asked who I really was. I was a conclusion they reached without ever knowing the full story.

And the most painful part? I kept showing up anyway for my mum. Hoping to be seen. Hoping to be proven wrong. Hoping that one day, someone in that room would say: “I see you.” And you are more than what they say.

That day never came.

So I smiled. And I carried it quietly, for many years.

The hardest part? The impression I left on others was never really mine, not for who I was, but for whose daughter I happened to be.

It was built on gossip. On assumptions passed around like facts. On those carefree housewives who never asked, never checked, never gave me the chance to speak for myself. Yet somehow, they all had an opinion. As if they are living with me everyday and they even knew me better than I knew myself.

Nobody questioned it. The whole story was narrated in their liking and passed on without a single thought of the damage it left behind.

It just… stuck.

I started carrying their labels for decades. Quietly dragging the weight of who they decided I was, yet…… not who I actually am.

That’s the cruelest kind of burden. One you never agreed to carry.

My mum wanted to stay close to her family. I understood why. After leaving my dad, she needed to belong somewhere. I respected that. But it meant I had to keep showing up for people who had already decided I wasn’t worth much.

I did it for her anyway.

As the years passed, I noticed something shift. When mistakes were made by others, they were quickly forgiven and moved on easily, never brought up again. Yet mine remained. The stories they made up for me casually brought up constantly over their afternoon tea.

The relationships that never once felt warm became… surface. The people you thought might truly see you, slowly, quietly and stopped showing up. Then one day you look around and wonder:

Who am I, outside of all of this?

Not the firstborn. Not the blamed one. Not my father’s shadow.

Just… me.

That question took me so long to ask.

And maybe I’m here because something in me is quietly asking it too.

If so, let this be the moment I give myself permission.

Permission to stop carrying what was never mine. Permission to question the story they wrote about me. Permission to finally start writing my own experiences.

I am not their words. I am not their assumptions. I am definitely not who they needed me to be.

I am still here. And that means it’s not too late.

I dreamt of my grandparents last night. In the dream, we were back in their old home, the one where I spent so many weekends and school holidays as a preschooler. When I woke up, all these childhood memories came flooding back.

My grandparents weren’t rich, but they built a happy life together. They taught me that even a simple meal could feel special, as long as you shared it with someone you loved. Their kitchen was always filled with the smell of home cooking. Grandma had this way of turning the simplest ingredients into a feast – her pork belly with “mei cai” was my favourite growing up and honestly, I still miss that dish so much. No one’s ever made it quite the same since.

My grandpa loved watching wrestling. I’d sit next to him while he explained the moves and gave me his honest opinions on which fighters were good and which were overrated. Meanwhile, grandma would be just outside the kitchen, quietly getting the ingredients ready for dinner. Every afternoon, grandpa would walk down to the opposite minimarket with me to buy food. He’d almost always come back with a magazine for grandma too, just a small thing, but I loved watching how they looked after each other in all these little, ordinary ways.

There were times I didn’t want to go home. My dad would always force me to go for swimming training and I hated it. My grandparents never asked too many questions, they’d just let me stay over, and for those few days, I didn’t have to think about it at all.

Their love was simple, but real, and the warmth of it has stayed with me all these years. I miss them so much.

The Wedding I Dreamed Of vs. The One I Got

Most of us had the wedding planned in our heads long before we had a partner. The white gown, the flowers, the slow-motion walk down the aisle like a movie trailer. I was no different. My dream had a church. Sunshine through stained glass, a hushed crowd, me clutching a bouquet with shaky hands and God right there as a witness to our vows.

But….. Reality had other plans.

I did not get the church wedding. The ceremony felt norm to me, and I spent the day smiling for the guests, posing for photos, and looking like a woman who had it all together. The event lasts a day. The marriage lasts… well, that’s the part that takes hard work.

Lots of it are….

Patience (more than you think you have). Communication (yes, actual words, not just sighing loudly or silent). Disappointment (it visits, so make it a cup of coffee and move on). Forgiveness (daily, sometimes hourly. Bible mentioned to forgive the same person 77 times.). Love (the choice you keep making long after the flowers wilt). Some dreams don’t come true the way we picture them, and that’s okay. The story isn’t over just because the setting changed.