It has been a long time since I last blogged. So much has happened since then— universities, trips, mental crises—that have left me exhausted and gasping for air. I have decided to write today as I am unable to get past a deep irrational fear of mine, and it has been weighing down on my life. A website said that it gets worse if I don’t write out my feelings, so I am doing so. This post is about death. If you don’t want to read it, please don’t. I know I should make this post private but somehow I think knowing that there is an “invisible audience” out there can make this attempt at catharsis a bit more effective. But it doesn’t mean you should read it. I don’t want my problems to become your problems.


I have a fear of death. There, I’ve said it. Initially, I was scared of my own death, the feeling of nothingness, of not existing. My fear came as a surprise to me as I have always thought that I was beyond that; I had rationalised early on that since I didn’t enjoy life much, I would hardly miss it when I go.

But, I realised my fear of death runs much deeper than that. It is not my own death which I fear, but the death of my loved ones. My mother. My father. This is how I spend my Sunday nights: I lie down on the sofa on my mother’s lap while scrolling Instagram or whatever, while she caresses my hair and uses WeChat or talks to my father. Contentment. Bliss. When it gets late, I reach forward for a hug, while she counts the kisses she gives to me. I get so much love from my family, that it hurts me to think that one day this would be gone. I’ve been increasingly accustomed to thinking life as a bubble—precariously fragile—but knowledge that what I consider bliss would one day cease to exist. A day in the distant future, but one day. I care less for my own death, because I know I won’t even be conscious to mourn or worry, but I know there will come a day I will no longer get to enjoy what I enjoy. Family dinners. Jokes. Hugs. Kisses. Love. It hurts me so much as as I write this, I am sobbing uncontrollably. But I must write on, as writing is therapeutic.

I suppose this fear was triggered a month ago on my birthday. I was in Beijing and I met up with a wonderful woman, a former professor of English Literature who’s a friend of my mother. She was going through a period of immense pain; her mother constantly tells her how much she fears death, to the extent that she was spending way too much time counselling her mother, whilst trying to ignore her own grief. It was heartbreaking; her expression cracked in the most painful way and she started crying. It brought out a lot of fear in me, and this was worsened when I found out that my estranged grandmother is sick. Apparently, she has Alzheimer’s, a sudden development a mere couple of weeks ago. It reminded me of the transience of life, and since then, I have (unhealthily) viewed life as almost a film, a bubble, that is so contrived, and would break in a very “matrix” style once I put my finger on it. It doesn’t help that my parents like to talk about grandkids; I think I am just over-sensitive given my already fragile mental state.

I’ve talked to my parents about it; they reckon that because I am now faced with a vast amount of time with nothing to do, my mind is too free and is constantly wandering in directions which make me unhappy. I feel that these few months with nothing to do have given me mild depression and anxiety. It sucks. Hopefully, it would get better when I go back to university, where I actually have a goal to strive towards, and really enjoy the moment, and not think about eventual loss and grief.

I have to be strong. Nobody can help me, besides myself. My father has a theory—that life is full of pain and grief and stress and is basically shit—and thus we should at least try to enjoy life a bit to make it a bit better. In a way this is a good theory to have as since life sucks, one shouldn’t think about “missing life” when we’re gone. I also had a theory, that life is theme park and the hurdles in our lives are roller coasters and we have to make sure we enjoy our lives in the theme park as we are in for the experience and that’s the point of theme parks but since theme parks get boring we would one day come to a point that we would be glad to leave. Most importantly, one shouldn’t always think about death as it’s a complete waste of time to think about leaving the theme park when you’re in it. They are similar theories, except my dad’s is more cynical.

I feel a bit more positive now. Life is painful, but we owe it to ourselves to take a deep breath to keep living, through stress, pain, sadness and all the bad times. I’m packing my schedule full to put myself constantly on the move, so at least I can be a bit excited about life. Tomorrow, I’m doing a massage with my TCM therapist, followed by driving lessons and maybe night study with my sisters. It’s going to a brilliant day.



Love and other things: I need a man who…

Recently, my TCM therapist asked me if I had a boyfriend. I scoffed at her question, but this really put me in a state of cogitation: of my seemingly-distant JC life, of my various “crushes”, of who I hope to be with.

It seems like another life: writing confession letters, feeling the flutter of my heart as I walk past a crush, wasting time on aimless texting for that 2 seconds of attention. As I reminisce, I realise I do not really know what I was thinking at the time. My desire must have been driven by stress, my mind’s feeble attempt at finding a refuge. I can’t remember our friendship, or if we even had a friendship in the first place, or any interaction. It’s all gone, and I really can’t remember at all.I don’t think people will believe when when I write this, but it’s true. Gone, nothing. No feelings, no empty void, no memory. That’s the worst part. Thank God I did alright for IB, or I would have felt regretful that I spent so much time on something that I can’t even remember. I’m so different now.  I feel more grounded, more calm, more directed. I have a lot more clarity in my life. I know better what it is that I want, what kind of person I’m looking for. When I feel myself on verge on fancying someone, I stop and reflect: what attribute of his attracts me? His maturity? His levelness? It’s important to be introspective and learn about your preferences. Then, you can make wise decisions on the type of person who would get along well with you, whom you don’t mind falling in love with.

I wasn’t planning to put this post up (in fact I stopped writing a few days ago) but a conversation with Matthew spurred me to continue with my endeavours (i.e blogging). So here’s a fun, reflective post:

I want a man who’s loud, rambunctious.

Someone to match my huge laughter, my incessant jokes

someone who accepts my enthusiasm

who reflects my zeal for life

who laughs and sings with me

someone glamorous maybe

well-dressed, knowledgeable, passionate

someone who isn’t reserved

But still enjoys time with just two of us together

someone who takes me, and takes us seriously

someone who doesn’t mind spending mornings lazying about

sipping coffees, nibbling muffins, just reading

someone whom I can be at total ease with without talking

yet someone who keeps the conversation alive

someone who likes going out and having a little fun

only with me though, obviously!

someone who sees me as a best friend

a best friend

someone who likes classical music, yet also loud, dancey music

someone who doesn’t like texting

texting stresses me out

someone smart who prevents me from engaging in superficial discourse

when I am perfectly able to make meaningful ones

someone who brings out my best self

someone mild-mannered but no milquetoast.

someone more dominant than I am


A leo is who I want 😉



My first heartbreak took place at a secluded corner next to a loading bay.

It was not because of a boy. Nothing I have felt ever since could match up to the pure anger, desolation and raw pain that ravaged my soul on that fateful day. Not even when I was jilted by a boy I fancied, or when I received the horrid letter that went “…unsuccessful…”.

It was truth that tore me into tiny little pieces, one that still brings tears to my eyes.

They say you are your own greatest enemy. I can attest to that.

The most painful thing on earth isn’t childbirth or even death. It is the knowledge of oneself. It is the aftermath of decoloring one’s rose-tinted glasses. It is to be confronted with your greatest insecurities and beliefs, and have them proven correct right in front of your bullish face. It is then that you know that you have hit rock bottom.


I spent the last hour sipping English Breakfast Tea at Coffee Bean while attempting to converse with my friend on phone. Tea calms me, and eases my nerves. I rotate the thin stalk of rose between my fingers, while observing, in dismay, that it has turned yellow due to my attempt at perfuming it. This is my second and final shot. It has to be perfect.


In a girlish voice, she told me her name: Melody. I told her that her voice sounds absolutely melodious. She was from Choir after all. So was I. We made small talk as we waited next to the eerily empty loading bay, collector to collector. Talking eases nerves too, just like tea. In our hands, we clutch blue books: the programme. We fretted whether he would emerge. The alternative was too terrible to even think.


My hands are shaking. He is even more perfect in real life. Perfectly chiselled nose, long eye-lashes, a full mouth. He smells heavenly, the scent my love potion would take on if I had one. He smiles, showing perfect teeth. Perfect.


I ask for Melody’s help for taking a picture. As he leaves, I go to my camera roll. Yet, all I see is a blur. F***. Frantically, I call him back. The picture is shaky, I say. He’s in a rush, and I shake even more. I wonder if he noticed. I must look like a fool, an 18 year old acting like her 15-year-old self. Anyhow, he obliges. He’s in a rush. Melody takes another one for me.


Fortunately, my parents wanted to go for a spin in my mom’s car while waiting so I could still get a ride back home. How was it, they ask. My voice wobbles, and the brilliantly-lighted Singapore skyline swims in front of me. I shove my phone in front of their faces. Hunched, fat, four-eyed. Ugly.


Hunched, fat, four-eyed. Ugly.


Hunched, fat, four-eyed. Ugly.


(I can write that a million times and still have energy to write more)


A shrill cry pierces the air. Not a wail, but a sound of anger. Pain. The sound of my heart breaking into a billion pieces, irreparably damaged. Anger, rage then pain. Then rage again. I was so angry, angry at how I look, angry at my fats, angry at my myopia, so angry. Above all, I was so angry at myself for even thinking that I was at least average.

I was angry at being confronted by the truth, of having all my suspicions confirmed, of knowing how I has mislead myself to think that I was passably-constructed.


I have nothing. I have nothing in terms of looks. There is no quality there.

I will never be the woman a man desires. I will never turn a head. I will never get a job that is somewhat dependent on my looks. I will never be the protagonist of a love-at-first-sight story. I will never be the one. If it’s someone, if it’s someone who gets noticed at a simple retail job, if it’s someone who gets to be the recipient of a crush, if it’s someone who gets to date someone good-looking, it is not me.

It is not as if I never knew that as truth. I knew it, but I just didn’t have the courage to confront it, to come to terms with it, to admit it, officially, to myself. Can’t a girl hold out a little hope? Can’t a girl dream? Can’t a girl try ignore reality for a second?

To hell with those stories of someone for everyone. I don’t just want someone. I want someone I want. But what choice do we hideously-fashioned girls have? Sure, we can desire, we can dream, hope, fantasize even, but we will never be desired back.

I won’t ever be the one.


In the car, I rage and grieve, over all my unfulfilled dreams, over my disillusionment, over my inadequacy. I still find it difficult to describe these emotions in greater detail. It is too painful for me to write.

My parents remind me that I had better not let this incident affect my IB grades.


I scoff at that. Grades. Grades? That’s all I have. The only thing that I am decently ok at. (Forgive my colloquiality at this point as this post of is morphing into a rant). Since I do not have the looks to achieve any fulfilment whatsoever, I better be good at something else. Like becoming intellectual. Knowledgeable. Something academic. If I don’t have some brains or achievement, then I truly have nothing.

Nobody is going to admire me, or like me, or give me opportunities for my looks. The only way of getting any darned bit of respect is becoming respectable through hard work and my work.


Soon after, I cut my calories. I did well. But it’s not f******** enough, is it? Still, time and again, I am reminded by my inadequacy, of how I will never be the one, of how it’s still not enough. It doesn’t matter that I enjoy reading the New York Times and the New Yorker. It doesn’t matter that I know how and why South America is split into portuguese-speaking and spanish-speaking regions. It doesn’t matter that I can speak a third language fairly well and carry out daily activities in France while on holiday. It doesn’t matter that I’ve got a witty tongue, or that I can code, or that I can read morse, or that I can play the piano, or that I read a lot, or that I know about patronymic naming or that I can name the capitals of the US states, or that I’ve got a good sense of direction.

I still lose out to people every day. I am still inadequate, not good enough to be liked, not good enough to even inch towards self-actualization.


I hate my life.

An ESTJ Blog

Hello readers!

I have started a new ESTJ blog titled “Life of an ESTJ girl”. It can be found at: lifeofanestjgirl.wordpress.com. I created this blog in part to support other ESTJ girls who find themselves unable to fit into the “desirable girl” archetype due to the dominance of our personality, which is something that has traditionally been considered masculine. It also serves as a way to chronicle my journey to self-discovery, as I am not very introspective, and I hope that through understanding muself better, I can strengthen my Fe.

Anyway do check out this blog if interested! There will be other MBTI stuff too!
Sophia xoxoxo

I should have listened

I knew.

I already knew it was stupid to like someone who was more desirable than I am. I knew. I should have listened to my rationality. It’s so stupid that I didn’t listen. God. That’s the whole point of rationality. It protects you. It tells you what the best course of action is. I should have used my rationality to my advantage.

I should have listened to my father when he told me the only kind of men who would like me back are older ones. Their priorities match mine. They have the type of politeness that I value/find important. Their topics of interest match mine. They are past the age of “discovery” and it’s a phase of my life that I plan to skip anyway. To hell with drinking/partying/experimenting. Being wild. Never was that kind of person, neither was I ever interested in becoming one. I need someone who is already past that. I need someone who is steady, courageous, can do stuff. Someone Jared Kushner-esque.

I should have listened to those people who told me it is futile. But boy am I stubborn, turning the clock back won’t change anything anyhow.

I knew it all along that it was a bad choice. How I wish to yell at myself: I knew, I knew, I knew!



Rational love

I believe in rational love.

In fact, what is love, but the body’s chemical response when it sees a potential mate?

I believe in rational love, because I honestly don’t see how love is truly romantic/irrational/by chance. I think that we get this chemical response because this “mate” possesses the attributes that make one desirable. We tend to think that love is unexpected. The “oh my gosh I slowly fell in love with this girl/boy”. but honestly, think about it. You fell in “love” because you realised how pretty/funny/smart/principled/talented/suitable a person is, and thus your body, feeling that perhaps this person would be a good mate, releases the chemicals that make love, love.

When someone likes somebody else, this is because that someone believes whoever he/she likes possess the traits that he/she can appreciate. If someone doesn’t like another person back, it means that their expectations/criteria (I’m talking about the subconscious here) do not match.

So, I believe in rational love.