Blog

Sometimes I wonder if I am petty — if the little things I notice, the moments I react, make me small.
But truth whispers softly: I am not petty. I am human.

It is not wrong to want respect, to hope others see my care,
to feel a sting when I am overlooked or laughed at.
What rises in me is not pettiness, but sensitivity
a quiet longing to be valued, a wish to be understood.

Strength is not in pretending the small things don’t matter.
Strength is in pausing, asking myself gently:
Is this my value, or...

This morning, prayers came after reminders, a quiet duty before breakfast. The clock ticked gently as I prepared tissue and lozenges, wiped my shoes from a stranger’s spit, and faced small scoldings about keeping the floor clean. In the lift, the door closed and opened again — a forgotten phone, a quick return, a reunion.

At the course, a slip of scanning the wrong code turned into laughter from the teacher, lightening the mood. Messages came, calling me “dear friend,” with playful images of...

This morning began with pau on the table, though I was a little late. My request for seaweed sparked scolding, a sharp word—“parrot”—and warnings not to make her angry. I thought it was scolding, she insisted it was “just talking.” She reminded me about my Ezlink card, about my dad being too skinny, about telling him in a harsher way than I would choose.

I took bus 293, uneasy beside a stranger, then stepped off, crossed by the overhead bridge, and carried on. A flashback stirred—a memory of...

I woke before dawn, the world still heavy with silence. Honey touched my tongue, though my stomach turned uneasy. A tablet eased the ache, and I carried myself into the waking streets.

The bus came, the road hummed, and a bicycle brushed past with a fleeting warning. A car’s horn startled the air, reminding me of how fragile we are when crossing between places.

Familiar faces moved like pieces of a daily puzzle—waves, signals, laughter, quiet gestures asking for silence. A mother guided her...

The morning began with echoes of voices
a reminder repeated too many times,
a parent’s sharp word calling me troublesome
when I spoke of pain.
I brushed, bathed, folded, prepared,
two hours to step into the day,
yet already it felt heavy.

Whispers of feelings surfaced through questions
a game of truths and half-truths,
about mentors, about crushes,
about things I do not wish to believe.
One answer stood clear:
“Trainer and guide, nothing more.”
I nodded, yet still carried the weight of wondering.

At the...

Flashes of light on the roadside,
crowded steps and accidental touches.
A coin of kindness in my palm,
even wrapped in sharper words.

A biscuit passed, a fist bump shared,
small warmth in the in-between.
My arm aches, my elbow hums,
but I keep tying, keep breathing.
Even when the world moves too fast,
I move with it —
quietly, steadily,
still here.

Breakfast was warm, but the air between us felt a little sharp. I was told to use the kitchen toilet before the vacuum began, though it stayed silent for a while. A small coin of kindness — $1.40 for lunch — was pressed into my palm, wrapped in the word “troublesome.”

Outside, vehicles flashed their lights at me as I waited for the bus. The ride was crowded — a soft bump against a stranger, a misstep onto another’s shoe as I alighted, regret flickering through me. A man dropped something on...

The morning began with voices — sharp, impatient, laced with criticism.
I kept my answers short, my steps steady, even when bags flew and tempers stirred.
Hands reached for what wasn’t theirs,
and a small, sweet drink vanished without my knowing.
It became a story everyone seemed to repeat,
each version weaving its own thread of suspicion, teasing, or advice.

Somewhere in the midst of tying strings and avoiding collisions,
I learned that even simple things need guarding
not just from others, but...

This morning began with tension. I said I’d pray later, as I was busy, but Mum snapped — saying I never help, even with small things. She scolded me for sleeping late again and called me stubborn. When I did pray, I placed the joss stick wrongly. She corrected me — said it should go in the middle — that I never listen.

She asked about my throat, told me again that I always refuse to drink the aloe juice. I ate my breakfast quietly. She stood there, silently watching. I took the lift down.

...

This morning, someone reminded me not to push in a chair.
Another quietly moved her funds to support something I needed—
an act of care hidden in numbers.

I took the same bus.
Someone made noise,
but I smiled through it.
Not for them—
but to keep my own peace intact.

I noticed two women holding hands as I passed.
Then bumped into a row of bicycles,
my own clumsiness making me laugh inside.

I greeted someone.
She nodded, said good morning.
Her warmth felt reserved for another—
and maybe that’s okay.

Nearby,...

The morning began with quiet conversation. She spoke about her past work, and though my mind wandered, I listened. I mentioned how someone once told me — to separate work and personal life — and she nodded, said that was good. I shared about an outing by the sea, and she said she might call to check on it.

The vacuum cleaner started before I was ready. She told me to go behind the toilet. It was abrupt, but she still stood there to send me off. I carried the recycling down to the lift.

Later,...

The rain came down softly, but the world still felt loud.
A bag bump, a glance too long, a quiet “hi” that meant something.
My arm ached, my flu lingered, my thoughts stirred.
Even so, I walked on — towel washed, shuttle caught, card topped up.
I did what I had to. I showed up.
Not just at work, but for myself.
Even when the blues crept in quietly.
Even when the room felt watchful.
I am learning to stay soft, even in the noise.

This morning was stormy with emotions.
Mum lectured me — again.
About spending, about the sink being wet,
About the plastic bag I accidentally threw.
She said I made her pants wet.
She wanted me to do things properly.
She brought up my award money —
$2,000 given, and now I’ve spent over $700.
She reminded me how others save for a year.
She wants me to save $3,000 to go to Japan.
Maybe she’s right. Maybe I’m reckless.
I banged the toilet door.
She said I could use the kitchen toilet next time.

Then came...

The day started with a sudden rush — a voice urging to hurry, a routine of tea, essence, and quiet preparation. Emotions stirred early, and the world already felt a little heavy.

At work, someone special said goodbye. There were photos, laughter, soft goodbyes. But also tasks and missed moments, as duties pulled me away. I managed to return for the photo, but not without feeling a little unseen.

There were difficult encounters. A colleague reminded me of the rules. Another kept a distance....

This morning began with care — a gentle nudge to wake someone else, a forgotten pair of pyjamas tossed into the wash, lights flickering off by accident, then turned on again by someone who still quietly notices.

Out the door, the sky felt heavier than usual. The bus was crowded, and I stood the whole way, surrounded yet apart. A girl pointed me out to her mother, maybe annoyed that I was in her path. I didn’t mean to be in the way.

At the overhead bridge, I sat alone for a moment. A Malay lady...

I woke with a tilt in my breath,
the room spinning slightly
a quiet kind of unsteadiness
that only I could feel.

There were words again about control,
about phones,
about rules that sound like protection
but feel like walls.
Still, there was honey on the spoon,
and I took it without protest.

The bus I meant to catch left me behind.
I didn’t chase.
Another route appeared, and I followed it,
slow feet on worn ground.

A name echoed behind me
was it mine?
The air brushed past
as a stranger’s hand grazed mine by...

Today, the world slowed down.

The clinic lights felt distant, and the doctor’s voice was calm—“Rest two days.” I nodded, my eyes heavy with more than sleep.

In the payment queue, a Malay lady nearby smiled and said, “Can use any machine.” Then, with a hint of warmth and humour, she asked, “Hello—have you wake up?”

I blinked, half-dazed, and nodded. We both laughed quietly.

Sometimes strangers hold softness too.

Back home, I had porridge and upside-down siew mai. I napped through the early...

Hi everyone, this is Celine. Welcome to another episode of Juliet’s Life.

Today, I want to talk about something we all go through — challenges.
This morning, I woke up tired. I dropped a few things… the goji berry container, my pads, some plastic.
I had stomach issues and felt anxious. I rushed to bathe because I was afraid my mum would come back and scold me.
She did come back — right after I finished everything.

These small moments — they add up. And sometimes, they weigh more than we expect.

But...

I’ve stumbled, fallen, flunked,
gotten lost and tried again.
I’ve overthought and overfelt,
been told I was too much — or not enough.

But I’m still here.
Still breathing.
Still creating small pockets of light
in a world that rarely slows down.

My story isn’t a straight road.
It’s full of curves, corners,
pauses and pivots.

But every step I take
even the quiet, hidden ones
means I haven’t given up.

And that is strength,
soft and real.

This morning, I felt tired and behind time. Mum handed me honey before leaving for work — a brief gesture of care. I rushed through breakfast and squeezed onto Bus 29. The toilet wouldn’t flush easily — I tried several times. Outside, near the overhead bridge, someone tried to kick at my side again. I peeled something off and let it fall to the floor — my own way of brushing it off.

It wasn’t the first time. Even yesterday, at the outing, a boy tried to kick me. And today, another boy again. I...