I had a moment of quiet insight as I closed my laptop on Friday, wrapping up a long work week in a place that feels a world away from everything I love. My first week of living in Singapore.

There’s lightning nearly every day here. I can’t really get outside. My apartment is sealed in with air conditioning and no fresh air. My office lighting is harsh and artificial, and I spend my days speaking to just one colleague. That’s it. There’s no community. No nature. No barefoot walks. And I’ve struggled to find ways to move my body in a way that feels good or freeing.

Every single trigger that would usually send me spinning is here—every one of them.

And yet… somehow, I’m still smiling at the end of the week.

(I also recently discovered you have to watch out for crocodiles in the local park—so if the triggers don’t get me, maybe the crocs will. LOL.)

But here’s the thing: despite the discomfort, the disconnection, the sensory overload, I noticed something else.

My mind has gone quiet.

The voices that used to pipe up—prove yourself, do more, be better—are gently sitting down.

It feels like, for the first time in a long time, the adult in me has entered the room.

On Friday, I challenged a system they’ve been running here for two months. I called up one of the managers above me and said, “I have an idea that might make things flow more easily—are you open to hearing it?” He told me to send it through, and ten minutes later, he responded: “Let’s run with it.”

No resistance. No defensiveness. Just respect. And, on my side, no shaking voice.

I didn’t crumble. I didn’t spiral. I felt confident, even open to being wrong.

It felt so healthy. So clean. So different.

And I realised… maybe this is the beginning of what I’ve been praying for:

Self-worth. Confidence. Self-love.

And not just as a concept. But as an embodied experience. One that shows up in moments like this.

Of course, I still have dips.

I still think of him.

Of the boat. Of him choosing a new person so soon.

And yes, I’ve had moments this week where I wanted to share all the exciting things I’m doing here, with him, because that used to be the bond we shared—building something together, dreaming something into being.

But the pain isn’t deep anymore. It’s no longer sitting in my bones. It rests gently on the surface of my heart, like a soft bruise. I can feel the ache of wanting to be chosen, for being cared for. And then, slowly, it passes.

And when the mind tries to grab hold and write its stories again, I’m learning how to breathe it back into my heart.

To ask God: replace this with something else, something more true.

These new feelings I’m having? They feel like trying on a new pair of shoes.

I love how they look. I love how they feel.

But they still need wearing in.

And sometimes, I reach for my old shoes, the ones that are stretched out, familiar, easy for long distances, but they’re not the ones I want to walk forward in.

I’m learning how to choose differently.

So, have I arrived?

No, not yet.

But I like the path I’m walking now.

I can see the light up ahead. And for the first time in a while, I’m not scared to walk towards it.