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The day began with tension — a family member started the vacuum before I left, saying they wouldn’t wait. On the bus, the driver yelled for people to move in, and memories of past workplace incidents made my body tremble. As I got off the bus, someone unexpectedly hit me from behind — I wiped it off and hurried away, still shaken.

At the toilet, one cubicle was dirty, another had no paper. Thankfully, the third was usable. I dropped a 10-cent coin but picked it back up — a small recovery. I...

Today was heavy.
Emotions collided like waves — too much, too fast, too loud.
I didn’t mean to hurt anyone.
I think I was hurting too.
Maybe I wanted to be heard...
Maybe I just wanted someone to see how overwhelmed I’ve been.

But I’m not proud of the pushing or the shouting.
That wasn’t who I want to be.
I want to learn how to stay calm, even when I’m afraid.
I want to speak, not scream.
To be firm, not harsh.
To be understood, not feared.

In this quiet moment, I choose to breathe.
To be honest with...

She says she’ll bathe and come out.
I nod. I say okay.
But I’m still not sure what “okay” means anymore.
Maybe it means don’t make trouble,
Or maybe it means I hope you’re really alright.

I stay still. I wait.
There’s a show waiting for me
A quiet moment, a slice of calm,
Where I don’t have to answer anyone.
Just sit. Just feel.
Just breathe.

I’m told to wait, to focus,
To not wish for what they don’t allow.
But my heart doesn’t wait the way clocks do
It beats quietly for what it hopes,
Even when I try to silence it.

I smile, I work, I write,
But somewhere, I still dream.
Not foolishly
Just softly, in the background,
Like a melody only I can hear.

Maybe one day,
I’ll choose love on my own terms,
Not in rebellion,
But in quiet strength
Knowing I am worthy,
Even if I have to wait.

Today was noisy — not from sound, but from feelings.
Moments of quiet rejection brushed against quiet kindness.
One person turned away, another reached out.
A small pizza outing. A missed chicken drumlet.
A kind word from a mentor who feels both near and distant.

I kept walking — through buses, through hospital blocks, through conversations half held.
I tried. I showed up. Even when I was silent inside.
And somehow, I’m still here. Breathing through it all.
One small heartbeat at a time.

Even in the...

This morning, I prepared everything quietly, trying to start the day right. But my stomach ached so badly I had to put medicated oil, hoping it would settle. I mentioned that I only had a single $2 note left for lunch — and that was when I got scolded, told that I had already received over $20 for the week. The voice was firm, the presence withdrawn. “Don’t let me catch you spending on food again,” they said. No one stayed to see me off today.

At work, I simply ordered lunch. One step forward,...

Today, I faced moments that tested my emotions — from unexpected teasing to tense silence and awkwardness. I felt the weight of others’ words and silence. I made a small mistake, but someone reminded me gently: "It’s not your fault." And maybe I needed to hear that — not just for today, but for all the times I’ve blamed myself too quickly.

A quiet comment came later — meant to comfort me, even if I wasn’t sure how to receive it. It reminded me that not everything has to be solved right away....

Today felt like a whirlwind
comments tossed, chairs moved,
teases that stung, and silences that echoed.

But there were also moments
A kind word from someone,
a compliment on my phone cover,
a Pikachu coloring effort,
a friend sharing their ideas.

Even when people don’t respond,
or when others act distant,
I remind myself:
Not every moment defines me.
Some people just pass through the frame
but I stay, I grow, I keep my light.

This morning, I didn’t sleep well,
but I got up anyway.
I moved through the routine
breakfast, a dropped spectacles case,
a splash of water,
and my mother tending to the plants.

I took the bus, ran a little,
sat in front as the vehicle bumped along,
trying to steady my thoughts.

At the toilet, someone banged on the door
too sudden, too loud
and I walked across the overhead bridge
with a strange feeling in my chest.
Someone looked at me, then looked away
like I wasn’t worth seeing.
It stung a little.

I sat...

I made a choice —
not to rebel, not to defy,
but to listen quietly
to a part of me that’s often unheard.

Not everyone will understand.
Not everyone needs to.
But I am learning
to trust the voice inside
that says:
“You matter, too.”

Even when the world says no,
Even when love feels sharp,
I hold my heart with quiet hands
and whisper,
“You were only trying to care.”

She raised her voice,
but mine was trembling—
not because I was wrong,
but because I’ve been silenced too long.

I wanted something small,
a choice, a care, a breath—
but thunder came instead
and wrapped my heart in dread.

I am not a threat
for asking to feel whole.
My wish was not rebellion—
just the tending of my soul.

Even when they don’t hear me,
even when fear is loud,
I hold a quiet knowing:
I am allowed.

Someday I’ll walk freely,
without needing to explain,
and the soft yes I whispered
will echo after...

Even when the world rushes ahead, I remind myself that true leadership begins with stillness. Today, I showed up — even in small ways — and that matters.
Being unwell doesn’t make me weak. Rest is not the absence of effort; it’s the quiet courage to pause, reflect, and realign.
Leadership means listening — to others, but also to my own body and heart.
I’m learning to lead with gentleness. I’m learning to trust that even slow days hold strength.

Today was full — of messages, tasks, and tangled feelings.

My book The Sky Belongs to Misfits Too finally went live. A milestone I should be proud of. Yet, amidst the celebration, life kept tugging at my sleeve — misunderstandings with Sherman, my mum’s sharp words, and the familiar ache of not being fully seen.

She scolded me for wasting food, for not waking up fast enough, for snoring — little things, but they stacked up like quiet weights on my shoulders. I wanted to explain, to be...

Book 30 by Celine Ong Jie Ying
A gentle, poetic journey for those who don’t quite fit in — pastel-toned reflections and dreamlike entries for the soft souls of the world.
You don’t have to change to belong. The sky is already yours.

It's out

I was once a class monitor for two weeks —
not long,
but long enough to learn that watching over others
is also watching over yourself.

In Chinese class, I helped the teacher,
speaking softly,
hoping my quiet hands could carry meaning
even when my voice was unsure.

I stood once as an environmental ambassador,
hoping to plant change —
but not all seeds take root in the soil we’re given.
And that’s okay.
Some lessons grow later.

I tried to join the student council.
I became a Sergeant-at-Arms in...

Some memories fade, but the feeling remains.
This is for anyone who ever served quietly, felt forgotten, or needed a gentle reminder that their presence mattered.
A poem for my St. John chapter—
still a part of me, even in silence.

I remember the uniform,
crisp sleeves folded with care—
the way you stood in still lines,
even when your heart wavered.

I remember the weight of moments,
lessons held in folded hands,
the pulse beneath your gloves,
how you listened, how you stayed.

The page is gone,
the faces...

Today was full.

I carried more than just a heavy bag —
I carried the weight of eyes watching,
voices raised,
and feelings I couldn't quite name.

A cough in the silence.
A coloring done with care.
A whisper of kindness,
and advice wrapped in gentle words —
“Smile through it. Breathe.”

I did not scream.
I did not cry.
But something inside me folded, like paper in the rain.

Still,
I smiled a little when someone said thank you.
Still,
I listened. I adjusted.
I tried.

Maybe tomorrow will be softer.
Maybe the weight...

Even when the world begins in a storm —
when voices clash,
when your throat aches,
when coffee doesn’t stay —
you are still here.

You stood up.
You caught the bus.
You noticed the Milo.
You saw someone fall,
and you stayed aware.

Your presence matters,
even in silence.
Even if no one says thank you.
Even when the chair just says your name.

Take one breath.
Then another.
Not every moment has to be strong.
Some can just be soft.

Lately, rest has felt like something I have to fight for. This piece is a reminder — for myself and anyone else who feels overwhelmed — that healing takes time, and softness is not weakness.

You do not need to explain
why your hands are tired,
or why your breath feels like
it carries the weight of silence.

Tonight, rest does not ask for permission.
It simply arrives,
like a quiet moon through the curtains,
gathering your sorrow
and humming lullabies
only your heart can hear.

You are not lazy for being...

It did not roar,
nor demand to be seen.
It did not arrive with applause
or the shine of medals.

It was in the way I rose again,
after a night of ache and silence.
In the moment I chose
not to shout back,
but breathe,
and let the words fall away.

It was in my stillness—
the quiet refusal to break
even when misunderstood,
even when unseen.

A strength that whispered,
“You are still here.
You are still whole.”

And maybe that’s enough.
Maybe quiet strength
is the loudest kind after all.