what a year

2025 has been a real rollercoaster. Imposter syndrome. Learning how to turn a house into a home. The many times my heart has been shattered. The gym-bro initiative. Countless dives in unfamiliar waters. A new haircut. Growth in all its messy, uneven forms.

I think about how and why God had plan my 28th year around the sun this way. Why am I always someone's lesson learned? Why does everything happen at the same time, overwhelming me? Why do I contemplate what's happened? Why do I question what has past? Why did I have to endure such experiences this year, forcing me to start and end the year with two of my most dramatic cries I can remember? What is it teaching me? The questions don't stop and I don't think it ever will.

This year my heart broke twice, one because of a person, another because of my thoughts of said person.

I also closed a chapter in the big house and moved into a homestay up in the hills.

It’s quiet and beautiful... Just two other neighbours, a shared kitchen and dining area, and a kind of stillness I didn’t know I needed. Leaving the house where I learned how to host, how to show up, how to hold space for my community was sad. But it also feels like a blessing in disguise.

The house itself is old and slowly falling apart. Holes in the roof. Termites. Rats. Fixing it all would have been possible... but exhausting. A constant negotiation with decay. And with that came another realisation.

I’ve probably cried more in that house, and in the smaller bungalow before it, than at any other point in my life on this island (I cried plenty in the States, so that doesn’t count, lol). I like to say I’m not a “symbols” person… though maybe I am, and just refuse to admit it (new hair, hello?). Still, it feels like that house existed for a purpose: a place for healing, for regaining peace and energy, for slowly becoming a community.

That house welcomed more people than I ever imagined letting into my personal space. It held laughter, warmth, and shared meals. Through it, I found community... in my neighbours, in my friends. I remember reading something along the lines of "To have a community, you have to become a community". This means taking time and space from your comfort zone to be present and available for another. To be there when it matters. To provide help, even when it isn't asked for. This house taught me to become a community. In exchange, I have a community I care about and willing to go out of my way for them when needed.

The house also taught me the difference between living spaces and resting spaces, two critical spaces that needs to be tended each in its own ways. The house became a sanctuary for me and Kiko, tucked away when Jibaku or Baliwood blasted music late into the night, or when fireworks turned the evenings into chaos (a nightmare).

And now, it’s time to move on. To expand.

The house of 2025 means so much to me, but it is merely a home of finding myself again. Moving to a new space symbolises a new start to whatever I need. Free of the cries that put me to sleep, and the insecurities that kept me up at night... Hopefully.

So here’s me and Kiko in the new place we’ll call home—for now. We have a proper kitchen and dining space, and I’ll still be making banoffee pies and chicken teriyaki on a regular basis. Our view looks out toward Ceningan. We’ll adjust just fine.