Humble walls, full hearts

 I woke up late today. With a sip of mango juice — the one Angah bought yesterday that left me confused and realise that I forget how it tastes — I started my morning with a small DIY painting, a canvas even smaller than A5. A bee, a flower, a sun. Yuna’s Camaraderie played softly in the background.

It’s the first painting I’ve completed in a year, even though it’s far from the first painting set I’ve impulsively bought online. Maybe there’s really no such thing as the instant result I always expect in everything I do. Maybe I just needed to start small.

It’s been a while since I last had a genuinely good day. Yesterday was one of those rare ones; siblings day out. Everything flowed smoothly. After picking up my brother from his university, we went to the nearest mall, performed our prayer, and caught a local horror film — surprisingly good, actually. Then we had dinner; I ordered a chicken chop. This is probably my comfort food at this age - out of so many food, who thought it would be meal created by Hainanese migrants that cooks for British families and military personnel, Balqis? - And before his curfew, I managed to send him back.

No pictures were taken. I simply lived it.

Working for three years now, especially in SME, has taught me one big lesson: the biggest challenge will always be people. Managing expectations that are often too high, navigating personalities, carrying stress that stretches you thin. You can love your job wholeheartedly, give your weekends to it, but if these two things aren’t addressed, it won’t work. ‘How the things you love don’t last’ line from Minefield hit different.

Anyway.

Painting in a room that brings me comfort feels like a gift from God. This is actually just an extra room in my parents’ house — we cleaned it up, added a new carpet and a bed, and somehow it transformed into a little sanctuary. I wouldn’t say it’s perfect or complete, but it’s enough. Minimalist. Calm.

I use it as my reading space until my brothers come home. It doubles as a proper guest room when we have visitors. From here, I can hear birds chirping outside.

What is your definition of home?

Mine is simple: the safest place to be.

I’ve always admired houses — any house — regardless of size, layout, colour, or design. Every one of them has its own charm, its own story. One of my favourite neighbourhoods is the stretch from Benut to Pontian; those little houses quietly carrying decades of family moments.

And now, finally, I can say that I love my own house too.

The tiny butterfly landing on the grass.

The wardrobe room with a stool where I sometimes sit in the dark, staring out the window, lost in thought.

Spaces with purpose.

A shining-yellow-mango tree.

My parents’ room, designed with the 2:3 rule, complete with L-shaped sofas and a small aquarium. If we forget to close the door, guests will only see the lounge — a happy coincidence.

Yes, it sounds boujee. But it’s not.

It’s just a small terrace house in town.

The gate is old and worn.

The fence is mismatched.

The porch ceiling clashes with the exterior.

The windows look tired.

The roofline is messy.

It took me five whole years to accept that this house is a part of me — to welcome guests without feeling insecure. Maybe “home” holds a bigger meaning for me than I ever realised. Saying “welcome to my house” feels like offering a piece of my heart: emotional, heavy, proud, fragile.

But I’ve learned this — if someone loves you as you are, they’ll accept the whole package. The real question is: am I accepting myself?

I spend so much time at home, rearranging furniture, trying new layouts, changing things again and again. Sometimes it looks better, sometimes it doesn’t. If you visit this week, it won’t look the same next week — unless life gets rough and I need time to heal haha.

As I grow older, I believe more and more that a house reflects the family living in it. If it looks dull, scattered, messy, chances are the family feels the same. We just need to look after them more.

Maybe happiness really does come from within.

Maybe we just keep improving, giving our best, creating a safe place even if it gets broken again and again.

I just want to fall in love with my safe place — over and over.

So, welcome to my house. :)