The first thing they teach you before bouldering is how to fall—what to do when the worst case scenario happens where your hand slips or you lose your footing. My current sprained ankle, torn ligament, and pair of crutches are a testament that I’m not the star student when it comes to sports. For the moment, I am semi-bed-bound. Moving around proves to be an annoyance in spite of the crutches, and staying horizontal is the fastest way to recover.

It’s the last day of 2023 as I am penning this and I can’t help but think about how I’m meant to be out exchanging life updates with friends I haven’t seen in a while, reuniting for our annual New Year’s Eve dinner that has been put on hold for two years now due to the busyness that comes with university. Funny how life doesn’t always work out the way you want it to; for the first half of this year, it did—everything on my vision board came true (although credit has to go to hard work and meticulous planning instead of sheer luck), and it wasn’t until the latter half of the year when everything went horribly wrong. When my fingers failed to grip onto the next handhold, my knees buckled, and I fell. Hard. Unendingly.

I’d like to try something new in this yearly reflection—something slightly more irregular and potentially off-putting, as the end of this year had presented itself to me. Perhaps what I am about to attempt might not make much sense, but I would like to try regardless. After all, sometimes the words that come out of me are meant only for me to understand.

Part 1: January and October

For the most part of my life, I couldn’t help but wish I were born in January. I’ve come to love October with every fallen leaf and inch of my being, but something buried between the gaps of my ribs still longs for otherwise.

I expect my explanation for this longing to earn a few giggles and sneers, but I shall indulge nonetheless: Where a shadow trails behind every person, the idea of being number one is something I drag by my feet and cannot shake off. I was born the eldest child (elder if you consider there are only two of us), on the first of a month, and on a Monday (which is to me the first day of the week). You can see how being born in January would add to the list of ones.

I’ve been raised to be number one or, at the very least, to constantly aspire for it. To be number one is to have a clear vision of the life I wanted ahead of me, to know the precise shade of the meadows that flank the path I am meant to walk on. To be number one is to play by the rules, to never test the bending or breaking limits of the rules.

It made sense that working part-time with Reader’s Digest’s editorial team, interning with HSBC in the buzzing city of London, writing a script for Manchester’s Malaysian Night, and surpassing what was constitutionally required of me as VC Catalyst were all stepping stones in my journey to eventually being number one, never mind whether the end goal is truly measurable or attainable. I was on my way; the air was fresher on cloud nine, and I had fun every step of the way.

But perhaps it was greed. Perhaps it was carelessness. Perhaps I had misled myself to believe that I was deserving of things that were never mine to begin with.

In all my years, I believed that so long as I did the right things, followed the correct steps, and stayed within chalked lines, I would get where I needed to be in life. I didn’t account, not for a minute, for the fact that I might need to be in the depths of rock bottom at the ripe age of twenty-two.

It’s dark in rock bottom not due to the absence of light but because my doubts and fears have a way of clouding the surroundings. It’s lonely because rock bottom isn’t a universally available location to which anyone could unfortunately visit at anytime; everyone has their customized rock bottom, no two are the same.

What everyone kept repeating to me was the adage “The only way from hereon out is up.” They often let themselves forget that the scarier alternative is simply staying put. And so, I ask you: Which is worse? The prospect of falling perpetually or the prospect of falling and staying there? I haven’t quite figured that one out.

I suppose everybody gets hit with mistakes and hard times. No matter what sickened voice speaks in our head, the reality is that it eventually gets better (note: eventually can mean very different things to different people). But there comes an age where we stop being able to wash our hands of certain mistakes.

I can’t say “I am only 22” the same way I said “I am only 18”. Not with the same nonchalance or the same shrug that accompanies the statement. I should say “I am 22 now” the way I should know when the pasta is al dente. The way I should know fabric softener is damaging in the long run. The way I should know the various concoctions for how to rid a stain. Where to find my tax information when asked for it. How to end unhealthy friendships. How to walk away from uncomfortable situations. What cheese pairs well with what wine.

It does nobody good to dwell on what exactly hit me like a tour bus in the latter half of the year, but at some point, it became difficult to believe that every heartbreak and rejection was meant to bring me closer to where I am supposed to be. It didn’t take long for self-sabotage to manifest into my religion; at least this way, I was able to predict the outcomes of my actions and react politely.

In begging everything around me to stop changing for the worse, I failed to catch a glimpse of who was truly changing for the worse in the mirror. In witnessing my reflection, I did not feel like I existed.

Part 2: Pears and Oranges

Pears and oranges sit on the counter, fitting for the season. They are continental and mandarin respectively; even fruits have adjectives now. When an object is preceded by a non-negative adjective, its value seems to increase, contingent on the non-negativity of the word, of course. I say non-negative instead of positive because “continental” and “mandarin” do not carry inherent positive connotations, but they certainly are not negative. Claiming them to be neutral doesn’t sit quite right either, so we’ll just leave it at that. The same aforementioned rule can be applied to humans. When we attribute positive adjectives to human beings, we are projecting a higher perception of them. And what of the negative adjectives?

The return of autumn and subsequently friends to university invited inquiries around my state of being. Answering is a task more difficult than most believe it to be. As a writer, it is child’s play to describe another’s state of being—be it an old friend, a new acquaintance, a former paramour, or current colleague; for the writer to describe her own state of being, however, is a task that surmounts to the cumulative difficulty of all the Sunday crosswords ever in print. In response to their meaning well, I shrugged and affirmed that I am fine, or simply commented that I have been better in a tone that did not invite further investigation.

But when I unfolded into my bed at the end of the day, I could not help but reflect on the question like a journal prompt. Since there was no one around to lie to, I tried to be precise with the words I used in an effort to understand my unfortunate circumstance. I could’ve said I was tired, fatigued, exhausted, burnt out, miserable, devastated, sad, but instead I was unwell. I was, simply, not in a well state. To put in another manner, I was not myself—my usual state of wellness. This was the answer that somersaulted off my lips if I purged the truth out of myself.

To say that one is tired, fatigued, exhausted, burnt out, miserable, devastated, or sad is to also say that one can nip the root cause in the bud, or that one is feeling a specific way. However, to be unwell is to be vague, as the cause of ailment is not one that is easy to be tracked down, and one could be plagued by multiple feelings.

At some point, calling home did not help. Nor did speaking with friends or going on long walks, nor doing the daily crossword or standing in scalding showers. All I could muster the desire for was to sulk in bed with a book; for it is easier to process the pain of others—even fictional characters—than our own.

I was staring right in the face of a greater terror: the fear of standing still. I worried that my friends have found “the one” and that I will be swaying at their weddings in a few short years; I worried that my parents are growing older by the day; I worried I will only live on in yearbooks and childhood albums. My initial problems sprouted into these dire worries that even the brightest sun could not pierce through and dissipate.

All that helplessness sent me clutching at the feet of horoscope predictions on the back of magazines and senseless astrology readings. I had half a mind to embark on a journey of crystal collections to keep negative energies at bay. I scraped up the remaining pieces of my sanity and confidence with a cobwebbed brush and dustpan, on my bleeding knees, as the wind kept blowing the pieces out of the pan. I stayed there, kneeled, perpetually—because every passerby thought that I am pulling myself together and did not linger long enough to see the wind knock me over again.

I was devoid of reactions and detached from my age. I had no way to act and no words to say. My waking moments were split between a combination of operating on routine autopilot or trying to decipher the maze that is my head and heart (mind you, they are separate mazes). There are two pivotal puzzles I sought to solve: The first, whether I am enough; the second, if the answer to the former is a resounding “no”, whereabouts do I fall short?

Pears and oranges sit on the counter, fitting for the season. No one so much as bats an eye at them or yearns to cut them open.

Part 3: Grocery Aisles

The groceries in my basket are growing heavier without my adding to it. I am standing too long before the frozen foods aisle and staring too hard into the window. So hard that I see my own reflection. No one notices, but a sheet of dullness had creeped under my skin and I had lost a little weight in my face and my heart.

It is not until a patron bumps into me that I am recalled to reality. I amble from aisle to aisle without much rhyme or reason, only to squander time. I search the shelves intently for nothing in particular, for I know the remedy I seek cannot be purchased. But humor me: Do you think they sell unorthodox ingredients in supermarkets? Do you think I could find closure pickled in a jar, plastered with some shiny label that guarantees moving on the same way fruit stickers guarantee product freshness? Do you think they have a section designated for forgiveness for varying sins, the way different canned fishes can be added to your cart? Or do you think I could wander into the health and wellness unit and discover they sell acceptance of reality by the bottle—thirty tough pills to swallow, effective within the hour? 

How pitiful but easier life would be if it functioned like a grocery store? That you could pick out the things you want and need, and return them should they not work the way they are promised or satisfy your taste. The problem about this would-be-world is that even if it were reality, it is often a strenuous exercise to figure out what you want.

One of the books I had read earlier this year was Really Good, Actually by Monica Heisey, which follows a “surprisingly young divorcee” who tries to reclaim her mess of a life. In the last few chapters of the read, the protagonist attempts a journaling exercise:

Sit somewhere quiet with a blank notebook or sheet of paper. Try to answer (or at least think about) the following question: What do I want? If this is difficult, consider the opposite: What don’t I want?

At the lowest point of my year, coming across this prompt seemed like a sign. I decided to take out a loose leaf of paper and have a go at it. Here’s the partial response that I’m willing to let pay rent on the internet:

I want a good life. A peaceful life. I don’t want to think about what a good life is, I just want to have it. I don’t want my face to breakout. I don’t want to breakdown in public spaces or, worse, alone in my bedroom. I want better-fitting clothes. I don’t want to worry about how I look, I want to be confident about it. I don’t want to be reminded of the embarrassing things I did in high school or the one bad choice I made in college. I want to be given exactly the right amount of respect. I want my friends to know I care about them even if I don’t text often. I want to want to gossip less. I want to be fluent in French and Mandarin. I want a fulfilling job. I want to be recognized for my writing. I want to be the subject of someone’s poetry. I want to spend less time on my devices. I want to start a podcast. I want to know what is medically wrong with me without having a needle come near me. I want a signature scent. I want to be the kind of person who hosts fun dinner parties and bakes effortlessly. I don’t want to be shamed for owning too many pink things. I don’t want to be criticized for my every decision. I want to be good at sports, or maybe just tennis. I want to be easy to love. I want to be gentler, softer, but still taken seriously. I want a bed by a big window where I can put all my trinkets and candles on display, where the wind makes the curtains billow slightly. I want to be useful. I want to know I am missed. I don’t want to spite. I don’t want to spend so much time convincing myself that I am enough, I want to just be enough. I want women pants with men trouser pockets. I want to remember and intellectually discuss the things I’ve read. I want to be able to take firmer stances on political issues, backed with evidence and reason. I want to feel like an academic weapon again. I want to finish that first draft. I want to know what it’s like to be religious without being religious. I want to talk to my brother more. I want to write something so sharp that no one could ever forget it. I want to want these things enough to go out and get them.

Part 4: Rigid Definitions

Last year’s reflection was titled rigid definitions and, funnily enough, it wasn’t until this year that I truly grappled with definitions. I’ll keep this final part succinct.

Come October, I had freshly stepped into the shoes of twenty-two, passed on my title of VC Catalyst, and did not hold any job positions. I had decided then to dedicate the entirety of my final year to figuring out who I am without these positions and titles. If removed, am I just a writer? And who am I then, when removed from being a writer?

It is strange to unshackle oneself from the past. When that is said and done, I do not seem to know who I am. Does that then mean we are our pasts? Yet people often quote that we should not let our past define us. Does that mean we are defined by our futures? By the uncertainty that has yet to exist? Does that mean we cease to exist if we do not know what our future holds or what we want it to look like?

So many questions, so little answers. The great thing is, I have so much time ahead of me to figure it out. I can’t say “I am only 22” the same way I said “I am only 18”. But I can say, in a way I couldn’t at eighteen, that I am enough. That I am no longer looking for happiness or trying to be number one. I’m looking for peace. I’m making the best out of the situation I am in, be it on a stage with a microphone or in bed with a broken ankle.

I will fall some more in this life, but I will fall better. I will look at the scenery as I fall. Instead of thinking where I’m going to land, I’m going to think about what I fell from, and remember that it was once mine to hold onto.